by War;Bluegrass If Trouble Don't Kill Me: A Family's Story of Brotherhood
The object of cow pool was to see who could count the most cows that passed by on a player’s side of the car.
“I tell ya, I’m gonna win this time,” good old Bill Brown used to cackle as he tallied up points by the herdful.
A player lost all his points when the car passed a graveyard on his side. That often happened to Bill.
“Aw, I knew I was gonna lose all my points!”
Clayton was ready to ride in the front seat. For the first time, he was going to be independent. Music had just bought him a sleek new car. That old five-string banjo was worth its weight in quarters.
• • •
Saford bought a car, too, but he went the cheap route. He got a used 1938 Buick and drove it to the Pure Oil station to get it worked on. It was black, with whitewall tires and side mirrors and a big old trunk, but it never ran worth a lick. Saford fiddled with that car as much as he did with Roy Hall.
He didn’t go anywhere without Dot, mostly because he adored her but also because he never wanted her out of his sight. There were just too many pissant high school boys catting around.
Roy had never warmed up to Saford’s teenage lovebird. He even went out of his way to make Dot feel unwelcome. He was rude and cussed in her presence and said lots of lewd things about other women. He drank liquor in front of her after shows. He thought he could frighten her off, or at least scare her family into keeping her home, but it didn’t work. Dot was here to stay, which turned out to be a good thing.
• • •
By the fall of ’40, Roy was ready to record again. He hadn’t made any records in almost two years, not since he got burned during the “Orange Blossom Special” sessions with Tommy Magness down in Columbia, South Carolina. He should have been nationally famous after that. If he’d owned the rights, he could’ve sold tens of thousands of records and never have had to worry about money again, but instead, he slogged through the hills and hollers of Virginia and North Carolina, playing schoolhouses for nickels and dimes while people danced, hollered, and fought. Now, though, armed with a full band and a pair of twin brothers who sang like angels and played like devils, Roy Hall was going to make some damn fine records.
He worked up a good batch of songs, but one in particular was confounding his abilities. He had heard “Don’t Let Your Sweet Love Die” sung by a pair of North Carolina singers, Clarke Van Ness and Zeke Manners, and had liked it. Trouble was, it was more of a pop song than a hillbilly number. He got some sheet music for the song, but being musically illiterate (as were the rest of the boys), he couldn’t make sense out of the gnat-sized notes on the page. The songbooks Roy sold at show dates contained just the lyrics and maybe the chord changes. Hillbilly musicians all learned melodies by ear. This song, though, was all written out on a sheet of paper. That summer, Roy swallowed his pride and bad language and took the song to the one person he knew who could read music—Dot Wilbourne.
Dot knew her way around a piano and had even shown Saford a thing or two on the ivories. Roy asked her to help him figure out this elusive tune and show him how to play it. Dot easily tickled the song from the keys and sang a verse and a chorus, which relied upon the same melody.
Don’t let your sweet love die like flowers in the fall
Don’t take away the smile and leave the tears
My heart believes in you, please say you love me too
Don’t leave me here to face the lonely years
Unlike most songs she heard the Entertainers play, Dot actually liked this tune. It was a tender, almost slow piece; simple, but with a rising and falling melody that covered a range of notes. She thought it was pretty—until Roy Hall sang it. Roy figured out a chord pattern to accompany the melody. He gave it a little 4/4 swing and upped the tempo. Dot hated what he was doing to such a pretty song, and she hated the sound of his nasally voice, but it was his song. If he wanted to play it and sing it like that, then heaven help him and his career. She wrote out the music for his arrangement, which so impressed Roy he asked her if she would write out the music for all his songs. Always on the lookout for anything that would give him an edge, Roy figured that he could print the sheet music in his songbooks. People would be able to learn his songs, which increased the likelihood somebody else would record them, which, of course, would mean Roy would earn some royalties.
RCA Victor scheduled several days of sessions for its Bluebird label in Atlanta. Roy had recorded for Bluebird before, so he arranged to take his band to Georgia for a twelve-song set on October 9, 1940, a Wednesday. Leaving Roanoke midweek meant that the Entertainers would miss at least three days of radio programs, so they “transcribed” their shows on WDBJ’s record-cutting machines, which turned out sixteen-inch discs that could be played in the band’s absence. WDBJ was high-tech, all the way.
With a vault of programs stocked away, the Blue Ridge Entertainers made off for Atlanta in Roy’s brand-new 1940 Buick. No more Push-Model DeSotos for Roy. As a publicity stunt, somebody once took a photograph of the band pushing the DeSoto up Bent Mountain just outside of Roanoke. The boys might as well have shoved the old jalopy over the side. They had pushed their last semi-motorized automobile anywhere. They rode to Atlanta in style, jammed into Roy’s new Buick, everybody smoking unfiltered Camels, windows cracked, no air-conditioning, everybody well-fed on a road-food diet of hamburgers and fried potatoes.
The Blue Ridge Entertainers arrived at Atlanta’s Kimball House Hotel, armed with an arsenal of new and expensive instruments. They’d made enough money in Roanoke to buy first-rate Martin guitars from Kittinger’s music store on Church Avenue. Clayton picked up a Gibson banjo. The new instruments improved the band’s sound measurably. When they arrived in Atlanta, they did not have a lot of time to tune up, much less rehearse. The Kimball was packed with pickers.
Hotshot musicians roamed the hallways awaiting their turn to cut a record. Fiddlin’ Arthur Smith, the great fiddle player from Georgia, was there. Bill Monroe was there, too, with his own band, which included another Georgia fiddler the boys knew well—Tommy Magness. Roy was happy to see Tommy, but Tommy was even more thrilled to see his old boss. He told Roy he was miserable playing music with Monroe.
Monroe didn’t want to do anything but rehearse, Tommy said. They stayed cooped up in a house, playing songs over and over, until Monroe was satisfied. Tommy hated to practice. He liked performances where he could show off.
Tommy wanted to come back to Roy.
Roy told Tommy he already had a fiddle player. Tommy said he’d come back and play bass. Roy had a bass player. Tommy said he’d play guitar and sing baritone harmony, drive the car, carry guitar cases, anything to come back to Roy.
Roy considered it. Tommy Magness was the best fiddle player he had ever heard, but Saford Hall was the fiddler for the Blue Ridge Entertainers. Roy was loyal to his men. He wouldn’t force Saford aside, not even for Tommy Magness.
But maybe he would take Tommy up on that offer to play guitar and sing. Tommy was elated. He owed Monroe a series of upcoming show dates, but then he was going to tell his boss man he was moving to Virginia.
Saford didn’t know any of this. He was too distracted looking at fiddles at a music store near the hotel. In fact, he got so distracted by a dark Stainer violin with a lion’s head carved into the scroll that he almost missed the session. Tommy Magness was close to tuning up and playing on Roy’s records when Clayton went out and found Saford just minutes before the session started.
The recording took place in a hotel room with acoustic baffling covering the walls to reduce outside noise. A single microphone stood in the middle of the room on a carpet. The band gathered around the mike and played a few measures for the sound engineers, who then ordered the musicians to either step up to the mike or back away from it in order to achieve the proper sound mix. An engineer marked an X on the floor where he wanted each musician to stand for certain songs. Vocalists needed to be close to the mike, banjo players, not so much.
The first song was “New
San Antonio Rose,” which wasn’t so very different from Bob Wills’s Western-swing hit “San Antonio Rose” except that this one was “New” (probably to avoid any copyright issues. If only he’d thought to record “New Orange Blossom Special” in ’38). Saford kick-started the tune with a sweet fiddle melody. His playing was pretty, ornamented with long bowing, grace notes and little trills at the end of verses that sounded like someone whistling. Roy sang solo, flattening the Texas-bred number into a kind of loping mountain ballad that was the musical equivalent of tearing down the Alamo and rebuilding it in the Appalachians. The Blue Ridge Entertainers cut twelve sides in all, including the twins’ original, “Little Sweetheart, Come and Kiss Me,” in a couple of hours. The technology of the day did not allow for retakes—once the machine started cutting the record, there was no turning back. They played and sang together, five men making music, no overdubs, no do-overs, no chance to “clean it up in the edit.” Yet, this was not old-timey mountain music. This was contemporary country music, played by young men who were still country enough to remember the whine of a cotton mill and the smell of furniture stain.
• • •
On the way back to Virginia, Roy broke the news about Tommy. He was going to play out a string of shows with Bill Monroe, then meet the group in Roanoke. Bill and Wayne couldn’t believe the news. They weren’t sure how to take it. Tommy was a great fiddle player, but the current lineup seemed to be gelling well, so why mess with a good thing? Besides, Tommy could be flakier than peach piecrust—especially if he was drinking.
Still, Roy knew that the one most surprised by Tommy’s return would be Saford. Poor, hypersensitive, paranoid Saford. Roy tried to make Saford understand that Tommy was not coming to Roanoke to take his job. Saford was the number one fiddle player for the Blue Ridge Entertainers, Roy assured him. If Tommy Magness didn’t care for the arrangement he could just go back to Bill Monroe or take the noon train to Georgia. Saford reacted to Roy’s sincere assurances the way you’d expect. He sulked and worried.
Their popularity was growing quickly. They were invited by many of the major country and western groups of that era to appear in shows all along the East Coast states. The band made two appearances on the “Grand Ole Opry.”
—MOM, WRITING IN THE CARROLL COUNTY GENEALOGICAL BOOK
The Blue Ridge Entertainers returned to Roanoke hotter than ever. WDBJ installed extra seats in the studio to accommodate the fans who weren’t satisfied just hearing the boys on the radio. Their show dates were standing-room-only affairs. WDBJ’s signal took the band to kitchens and living rooms all over southwest Virginia, southern West Virginia, and the Piedmont of North Carolina. Folks in the boonies loved ’em. One night down in Laurel Fork, not too far from where the twins grew up, every man, woman, child, grandmaw, grandpaw, horse, cow, pig, and chicken in the community showed up. The only way to make everybody happy was to play a doubleheader. So the boys performed back-to-back shows for a pair of packed houses.
Roy promoted the show dates during his radio program and by printing up dozens of promotional posters that could be mailed well in advance to the venue. The posters were dominated by a large photo of the band, with the name “ROY HALL” in big letters across the top and the description “With Music and Songs You Love” inscribed beneath. The band always promised “Fun for All” and “A Good Clean Show,” so you could take granny and the kids and not have to worry about any dirty jokes.
If none of that was worth the six nickels it cost to get in, there was this little enticement: “A bedspread for the prettiest girl. A cake of soap for the ugliest man.”
The prettiest and ugliest winners were both selected by audience vote, usually cast in the form of pennies collected by some band member or an associate. (Roy split the collection with the host, but he usually went home with a few extra dollars in his pocket. That guy didn’t miss a trick.) The girl was always pleased to win a lovely handcrafted bedspread or quilt. The dudes, though, were another story. One night in West Virginia, Clayton weaved through the crowd and awarded the ugliest man his bar of Ivory soap. The jug-eared, big-nosed galoot was laughing as Clayton approached, but it was because he thought he was getting a bedspread, too. The guy stopped laughing when Clayton handed him that bar of Ivory soap.
“Friend,” Clayton said, “it’s just a joke, a friendly joke.”
“I don’t appreciate being the laughing part of no joke,” Jug Ears said.
“Well, it could just as easily have been me as you,” Clayton said.
The dude spun and started to walk away, then pivoted back around and growled, “Well, it can be you,” as the bar of soap went whizzing past Clayton’s head.
• • •
By now, the twins could play just about anything made of wood and steel strings. They could switch off, with Saford playing banjo and Clayton the fiddle. Clayton got good enough on the fiddle to win ribbons at fiddlers conventions in Virginia and North Carolina.
As musically gifted as the twins were, they were known as much for their onstage zaniness as for their chops. On stage, Roy joshed with them, calling them “Sifford and Clifford, the Hall Twins” (which sure beat “Satan and Clayton” if you were Saford). He picked them up, one in each arm, like flour sacks, and carried them around the stage. For their part, the twins kept the laughs coming with the tried and true “Rat, Cat, Cheese, and All” routine. Another popular comedy sketch was the “womanless wedding,” during which Clayton threw on an old housedress and a wig, carried a bouquet of daisies, and prepared for his special day. Saford usually played the groom. The sketch was basically an update of their ridiculous high-school routines, only more polished and funnier (perhaps). Clayton rolled the hemline up above his knees, so he could show off his bowlegs. The audience howled. Roy played the role of the minister attempting to officiate the ceremony, while Clayton played the fool and did things like dump a sack of coffee onto the stage.
“What’s that for?” Reverend Roy demanded to know.
“Well, if this marriage don’t work out, the judge told me I’d need to show grounds for divorce. I’m showing my grounds!”
When it came time for Saford the groom to kiss Clayton the bride, Clayton spun toward the crowd and hollered, “I ain’t a-gonna do it! He’s got tobacco in his mouth!”
• • •
The dances were especially good for Saford’s ego. His fiddle carried the night and drove the dancers, proving that Roy needed him, even though Roy had never given him any reason to think otherwise. Then Tommy Magness showed up.
Tommy arrived in Roanoke before the end of the year. Playing with Bill Monroe’s Blue Grass Boys had been a tremendous learning experience—Monroe liked to play in different keys, he mixed up his tempos, and, above all, he liked to play fast. His style suited Tommy. His rehearsals did not. Saford acted cool toward Tommy at first. He didn’t want to get too cozy with the man who had come to steal his job. He was also a mite sheepish about playing fiddle in front of Tommy. Saford was good, but Tommy was the best he’d ever heard, the best anybody had ever heard. How do you play with a fellow like that looking over your shoulder, silently critiquing you, your style, the way you drag the bow, the way you finger your double stops, probably even the way you set your fiddle under your chin? The whole situation was unnerving.
But Saford soldiered ahead. Roy could tell he was nervous about Tommy’s presence. Roy pulled Saford aside and reaffirmed that he, not Tommy, was the number one fiddle player. Tommy knew it, too. It didn’t matter how good he was, Tommy was not booting Saford out of a job. Tommy would settle for guitar, bass, washboard, spoons—anything Roy wanted.
Clayton liked Tommy. He was a no-nonsense Georgia boy, who talked kind of slow but lived like Saford in overdrive—funny, quick with a compliment or a joke, the type of guy who enjoyed attention and often got it. He liked the girls and got a little mean when he drank, which, thankfully, he did only occasionally. Roy Hall would harbor no drunks in his band (even though Roy himself would take a nip now an
d again).
Tommy’s wild streak manifested itself in his driving. One night he “borrowed” Saford’s old jalopy so he could cruise a few downtown Roanoke joints. The next morning, Saford woke up and realized his car was missing. He caught the bus to the radio station, barely making it in time for the 6:30 a.m. broadcast, and as he rode down Campbell Avenue he saw his Buick—plowed into a streetcar, with one of the Buick’s front tires wedged underneath the trolley. Tommy had crashed sometime during the early morning hours. Alcohol was probably a factor.
That was the beginning of a sad chapter for automobiles owned by members of the Blue Ridge Entertainers. Most of the boys had their own rides by now. Freed from carpooling and the sardine-like atmosphere of the backseat, the boys took the wheel and drove like maniacs. They terrorized the streets of Roanoke, wrecking five separate cars in one week, and collecting speeding tickets like baseball cards. Roy Hall drove as fast as any of them. One evening while traveling north on Lee Highway, through the Shenandoah Valley, he was doing eighty to make it on time to a show date in Harrisonburg. The cops pulled him over, and not only did they not let Roy talk his way out of a ticket—the cops in the valley must not have listened to the radio—they hauled him in front of a magistrate. The guy charged him with speeding and fined him fifty dollars. Roy peeled off five twenties, laid them on the magistrate’s desk, and said, “I’ll be coming back this way at ten o’clock. Please don’t stop me.”
Roy drove like a daredevil, but he was always in control behind the wheel. After he got married to a pretty girl named Mattie he had met at a show in Franklin County, he’d play a game with the band whenever he hauled the boys to his new house on Shadeland Avenue. He took a shortcut through Eureka Park in northwest Roanoke, where two giant oaks stood at the park entrance, barely far enough apart to squeeze a car through. Roy always accelerated when he approached those trees, flying between them with just a couple of feet to spare on either side, like pitching the end of a thread through a needle’s eye. The boys saw their lives flash before their eyes many a night when Roy drove between those trees.