Kentucky Traveler

by Ricky Skaggs

  I often asked Mr. Monroe how to be a better musician. One time, I just sorta blurted out, “Mr. Bill, what does it take to be a good mandolin player?” At first, he just looked at me. I don’t think he’d ever been asked that question point-blank before by anyone. So I said it again, a little different this time. “I mean, what I was wanting to know was, how do you really get good on mandolin?”

  I really believed in my heart there was something he could tell me. Something beyond the usual advice of “practice, practice, practice.” I guess I was looking for that magic secret, and I figured if there was any person on earth who knew, it was Mr. Monroe. I asked the question with a sort of innocence that he must have appreciated, ’cause he didn’t brush me off.

  Instead, he got a faraway look in his eye. “Well, boy,” he said. “You just got to whip it like a mule.”

  Now that may sound like strange advice, but I knew exactly what he meant. Play hard. Play like your life depended on it.

  And I really took that advice to heart. Once in a while I’d borrow Jimmy Gaudreau’s mandolin to play. He was with the Country Gentlemen then, and he was one of the best young mandolin players around. Jimmy also had a real nice mandolin, a lot better than my Red Bomb. Playing Jimmy’s mandolin was like getting a chance to take a convertible out for a spin. I used it on stage a few times with Ralph, and when I’d hand it back over there’d be two or three strings broken.

  Jimmy was from up north in Rhode Island. He’d say to me in his New England accent, “You play too hard, pal!” I wasn’t trying to hurt his mandolin, just playing the way Mr. Monroe told me. Guess I was doin’ a little too much mule-whippin’!

  Chapter 9

  RULES OF THE ROAD

  Homesick and lonesome and feeling kinda blue I’m on my long journey home.

  —“Long Journey Home,” by the Stanley Brothers, 1963

  Ralph looked out for us as best he could. It was still the road, though, and he couldn’t shield us from everything. I was young to be traveling with a bunch of older men who were drinking and doing all the other sorts of foolishness that come with the territory. Sometimes I look back and I’m amazed Mom and Dad even let me get on the bus. But they trusted Ralph, and truth be told, Ralph and the band were good to me and watched over me and Keith both.

  Even so, my folks knew how exposed I was, and they knew there were all kinds of trouble waiting out there around the bend. Especially my mama. She was a seer. Sure, now I was a Clinch Mountain Boy, and I was proud to wear the gold suit. But I was still Dorothy Skaggs’s boy. She knew I was a teenager and there would be temptations, and she was right. Going on the road with Ralph was when I drank for the first time. But I came to realize that wasn’t what I wanted to do. And that was because of my mother. She had a hold on me that nobody could ever break.

  It was like she could read my mail. Not literally. I’m talking about my spiritual mail. I’d come back home from a weekend road trip, and she’d tell me she had seen me in a dream doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. So I knew that whatever I did, no matter when or where, the Lord was going to reveal it to my mom. Let me tell you, even when I was goin’ down a crooked road, knowing that helped keep me on the straight and narrow.

  Early on, I went out for a week with the band, the longest I’d ever been away from home. Ralph was coming through Kentucky on the way to a show in Ohio, so he stopped to pick us up. The bus was idling in the driveway, and my mom stopped me as I was headed out the door. She put her hands on me and prayed over me. She spoke a kind of blessing, only it wasn’t the usual type of blessing.

  “If you ever get out and start drinking whiskey,” she said, “I pray that you’ll get sick every time you drink that stuff!”

  That might sound more like a curse than a blessing, but it wasn’t. She spoke strong words because she knew our family history, and she’d seen what happened with Euless. She knew the power of the Devil’s snares. She knew a lot more than I did. I wasn’t worried about whiskey at all. All I knew was that her prayers had always kept me safe.

  Dad wasn’t one for big speeches. After my mom got through with me, he may have given his advice, but all I really remember him saying was this: “Son, you know how to act.” He was a man of few words. In that way, he was a lot like Ralph.

  Ralph was a quiet boss man off the stage and a quiet bandleader on the stage. He wasn’t one to lecture or scold you. He wasn’t one to compliment you, either. He didn’t say much one way or the other. He figured criticizing would just tear a man down, and flattering would puff him up. He mostly taught by example.

  I learned so much during my time with Ralph. He was easy to work for, and he was good about giving me direction when I needed it. Especially about music and what it means to be a musician. He taught me many lessons I still put into use today, leading a band of my own: Keep the music pure and simple and down-to-earth. Stay true to the song. It’s more than a bunch of notes; it’s a story you’re telling to the audience. Always play the melody before you try to get fancy. Don’t be a big shot or something you’re not: Play your instrument to put the song across, not to show off your picking. Make your instrument play what the singer is singing.

  When you’re a young musician, you’re constantly trying to get better at your instrument, to grow and stretch your boundaries as you learn new things. That’s fine, but you need limits, too, and Ralph was good at setting limits. On the festival circuit, I started hanging out with other mandolin players and trying to learn their licks. At a show one night, I played some of those new licks during our regular set. Ralph gave me some funny looks, like, Don’t believe that goes in there, Rick. After we were done, he pulled me aside backstage and said, “You know, Rick, some styles work together and some don’t. When you’re taking a break, I want the audience to know what the song is without me singing it.” He wasn’t angry, just serious. He was real gentle making his point, but he wanted me to know how important it was.

  What Ralph said made a lot of sense, and I’ve carried that with me ever since. I’ve passed it on to the guys in my band. It’s something that good musicians have in common, and not just in bluegrass. Take Bob Wills, the King of Western Swing. He had his big swing band, the Texas Playboys, and they’d always establish the melody, then somebody would swing a solo—whether it was fiddle or steel guitar or piano—and then the band would all play the melody again. It’s fine to stretch out on a solo, but you always have to come back to the melody.

  I learned a lot from Ralph just by watching him do business. The way he handled the nitty-gritty stuff. He always had his trusty ol’ money rock at the record table to hold down all the loose bills so he could make change and keep close tabs on the sales. Later on, I found out the rock Ralph had was the same kind the old-timers used when they bought illegal whiskey. They’d leave the money under a rock and come back later, and there’d be a quart waiting. That was the old mountain way of doin’ business.

  I also admired the way he treated the promoters at the clubs and festivals. He was a straight shooter, and he was polite and kind to them; he was thankful for the job and always made sure they knew he was thankful for the job. He shook their hands and looked ’em in the eye.

  Now, Ralph also carried a pistol in his briefcase. But I think it was more out of habit, going back to the early days when he was on the road with Carter and they were playing the skull orchards, which is just an ol’ mountain way of saying beer joint—one of those rough bars in the rough sections on the outskirts of town, like Marlow’s in Pikeville, Kentucky. Ralph’s pistol wasn’t for show, it was for self-defense. Honestly, there were some bars that were so mean there was chicken wire around the stage. You’d just open the door, lock yourself in, start playing, and give ’em a little bit of music to gouge to!

  Ralph was a solid businessman in his dealings with his band, too. He was as good as his word, at least he was with me and Keith. He was fair, he didn’t fuss a lot, and he didn’t play favorites, though he did think the world of Curly Ray.r />
  And Ralph didn’t ask anybody to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He did a lot of the driving, and he carried his own luggage and banjo case. He never put himself above any man in the band. I’ll never forget when we had to get the grounds ready for the first festival Ralph had at the Stanley home place up on Smith Ridge in Dickenson County. The Carter Stanley Memorial Festival was what he called it then. Most festivals were at fairly accessible venues. Ralph’s site was as remote as you could get. There was a two-lane gravel road that went up to where the mountain hits the sky.

  Getting the site ready was a lot of real, hard labor. A hired man with a tractor mowed the hay, baled it, and hauled it off the property so people could have a place to park. That was about it for the paid help, though. Just about all the rest of the work was done by Ralph and the band and whoever he could get to come by. My dad and Keith’s dad, Elmer, came with their tool bags and helped build the stage down in the holler. We stayed in a little camper, just me and Dad.

  The wood framing for the stage didn’t look too stable. Ralph had had some neighborhood friends build a makeshift stage with what they had, and it was not a solid structure. It was as crooked as a dog’s leg. Dad was trying to figure out how in the world we could straighten the thing out. He and Elmer shored up the floor and the walls, and that was about all they could do. With everybody pitching in, we had it ready for the Memorial Day weekend.

  The festival setting on Smith Ridge was very primitive, and it was pretty as a picture, too. The stage was nestled in the holler below the family graveyard, and it made for a nice little natural amphitheater. But boy, if it rained, look out! Instant Mud Bowl. The first few years it rained like crazy, and it was a terrible mess. People would slide from the top of the hill all the way to the bottom, and there was nothing to grab hold of as you went down. If there was a big ol’ rock, you had better make sure you didn’t have your legs spread when you hit!

  The bad weather didn’t scare anybody away, though. The annual event drew some of the biggest crowds in the history of Dickenson County, and Ralph needed as many volunteers as he could get to help out. I worked all day playing music and worked the gate at night, taking money from the fans as they pulled through the entrance.

  Three years ago, I played at the festival for the first time since the late 1980s. The old stage was still standing and so was Ralph. He’s well into his ninth decade now, his seventh decade playing music, and he’s still on the road. He’s a national treasure and an American icon, and it’s so inspiring to see him out there working show dates. He has steel in his spine and iron in his constitution. I did a few duets with him, “Riding the Midnight Train,” and “White Dove,” just like old times. It was hard to believe it’d been forty years since me and Keith had come to Smith Ridge with our parents to map out our futures. Here I was, right back on the mountaintop where it all started!

  I was up there on stage, my shaggy gray hair long as Elijah’s, and Ralph looking frail behind the microphone but still singing solid as a rock of ages. It got me thinking about how many miles we’d ridden and how many rules of the road he’d taught me. Good rules to keep you going, so the road don’t do you in. Maybe that’s why we’d both made it through.

  Ralph always said, “Eat before you get hungry, rest before you get sleepy, and take a shower before you get dirty.” This was his way of saying be prepared and always try to stay a step ahead of what’s coming, because you never know when you’re going to get a good meal. At first, Keith and I would whine, “We ain’t hungry,” and he’d say, “Well, you’d better eat anyway, ’cause we don’t know if we’ll be able to get a meal till after show time.” At restaurants and diners, Ralph always made us order before we went to the bathroom. That was a big rule for him: Once we pull into the truck stop, go sit down at the table, open up your menus, and place your order right away. “You don’t have to have clean hands to open a menu,” he said. “While they’re cooking the food, everybody can go wash up.”

  There were a lot of unspoken rules when you traveled with Ralph. He wanted everybody to keep their minds on the job. He wasn’t much for guys listening to music on the bus, unless it was by Ralph Stanley or the Stanley Brothers. Once in a while we’d buy a cassette at a truck stop or whatnot and give it a listen. I remember one time we had a tape by Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton, and Ralph didn’t have a problem with it. I guess he had a soft spot for those great duets Porter and Dolly used to sing together, and who doesn’t?

  Probably the strictest rule Ralph had was about being late. He hated to be late, and he hated for anybody else to be late. He laid down the law when it came to tardiness. Many a Clinch Mountain Boy has been left behind and had to find his own way to the show, or sometimes back home from a show.

  Ralph left me once when I was late. My VW Beetle had engine trouble, and I had to get it fixed. I was at the mechanic’s, so there was no way to call and let Ralph know I was gonna be about an hour late. When I got to Coeburn, where Ralph kept the motor home parked, they’d already pulled out for Arkansas to play a festival the next day near the Ozarks. I knew it was Ralph teaching me a lesson, and I felt like I’d let him down. So I drove all the way back home, and I was really bummed out. When I told Dad what happened, he said that a neighbor, Charles Cordle, was heading to Arkansas that day to visit with his son, and that I could ride with him.

  Well, Charles’s son lived in Jacksonville, and the show date was about seventy miles away at the Petit Jean Mountain Bluegrass Festival near Morrilton. So we left Brushy Creek on Friday afternoon and made it to Jacksonville that night real late. On Saturday morning, we drove to Morrilton and pulled into the festival campgrounds just as Ralph and the boys were coming out of the motor home to head for the stage. Show time was minutes away. You can’t believe the surprised looks on their faces, and nobody was more surprised than Ralph to see me there, ready to play.

  I explained to him why I was late and told him I was sorry. He understood and said it was all right. I ran to the motor home, changed my clothes real quick, tuned up my mandolin and fiddle, and got to the stage right when the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please make welcome Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys.” I thought to myself, YES!!!!

  The road taught many kinds of lessons, especially lessons in what not to do. I saw things happen that I knew weren’t good, at least not for me. I saw things happen that I didn’t want to do, and things I knew I shouldn’t do. Keith and I were surrounded by much older men, drinking and whatnot. Sometimes I had to learn the hard way what not to do. That’s how it is when you’re sixteen and still wet behind the ears.

  Once we were playing a show in upstate New York. Friends of Ralph’s who lived in the area put us up at their place for the night. Sometimes we stayed with people on the road. It was sociable for Ralph, and it was good for the band, too. We got a home-cooked meal and some hospitality. After the show that night, the family fixed us a real nice dinner and stayed up talking with Ralph for a while after they cleared the table. He was the guest of honor, and he repaid the welcome by staying up as long as they wanted.

  It was close to midnight, and me and the boys were all tired out. We all went back in the big guest bedroom they’d prepared for us, with cots laid out and fresh towels. We were used to riding all night, pulling into a truck stop to wash up, and then getting on down the highway. This was a whole lot nicer.

  Roy Lee wasn’t ready for bed, though. He was looking for a nightcap, and not the kind you put on your head, either. He went over and opened the closet door. Then he wheeled around with a big smile. Up on the top shelf were whiskey bottles, lined up in a row like you’d see in a bar. Roy Lee didn’t waste a second. He reached up and grabbed a bottle, cracked the seal, and got right into it. He took a good long pull, wiped his lips, and said it was some of the best whiskey he’d ever had. Keith then said, “Give me a drink,” and it went around till it got to me.

  Well, I didn’t know what to do. It looked like they were having fun, so
I took a drink, too. I regretted it the second the liquor hit my tongue. This wasn’t for me. But it was too late. The bottle came around again. Then I watched while Roy Lee killed the rest of the fifth of whiskey in a single swallow. I saw it, but I could hardly believe it. He turned the bottle up and downed the whole thing to the last drop before he ever took it from his mouth. He wasn’t showing off. I think he’d done that before. Roy Lee was a big ol’ boy, about 220 pounds, and built solid as a hog. That much would have laid out most anybody else.

  Seeing Roy Lee kill the bottle really scared me. I’d never seen anybody do anything like that before. Not Euless, not anybody. I couldn’t even comprehend it. I was amazed, and I was afraid. Then I felt the whiskey kick in.

  As soon as I lay down on the cot, the room started spinning, and I knew I had to get to the bathroom quick. Here I was, sixteen years old and nothing on except for my underwear, and I was stumbling down the hallway trying to find the bathroom. The family and other friends of Ralph were still out there in the living room gathered around the table. They were talking their grown-up talk, and I was too ashamed to even ask directions.