by Ricky Skaggs
Brian then invited a musician named Bryan Bowers to bring in his autoharp, giving us a touch of the Carter Family sound.
We’d rehearse three or four days to get the arrangements down, and then we’d go in and record. Next we’d listen to the track and make a laundry list of things we were gonna add or take out—the exact spot in the track we wanted to put a fiddle or a Dobro. Every detail was a big deal to us. We all knew this was going to be a very special record.
It was during these sessions that I got a nickname that’s followed me around ever since. I was doing some overdubbing but wasn’t satisfied with my performance. Emmy said, “Picky Ricky’s at it again.” It just sorta flew out of her mouth. Sharon and Cheryl were standing there, and they got to giggling. “Emmy, we’ve been thinking that for a long time!” So Emmy sort of coined the nickname that I’d unknowingly had for years. My dad probably wanted to call me that many a time out of frustration, but he never did.
During the sessions, Emmylou was pregnant with her daughter Meghann. As we recorded, she just kept getting bigger. Sometimes she’d stand up while she sang, and sometimes she’d have to sit and try to lay down vocal tracks that way. She never complained, and it can’t have been easy. I really don’t know how she got enough air to sing at full strength, but somehow she managed it. I’ve always said that I think Roses in the Snow, as well as Light of the Stable, features some of the very best singing I’ve ever heard her do, and she’s had some beautiful performances through the years. To this day, she’s still a truly amazing singer.
There was one song I brought to Emmy that she really fell in love with. It was a Stanley Brothers gospel song, “The Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn,” and she always asked me to sing it for her. It’s one of Ralph’s best sacred numbers, and we wanted to get some bluegrass hymns onto Roses. We were working up the song in the living room on Lania Lane, getting the vocal arrangement together, and Emmy asked, “Why don’t you sing a verse?” That was the first time she featured my lead vocals on one of her songs, and my first lead vocal on a country record.
Working with Emmy got my name out beyond the bluegrass world, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. It was amazing hearing my voice come through the speakers all alone. You have to remember, I’d been singing harmony all my life, even in Boone Creek. I was not a lead singer and didn’t think of myself that way. Emmylou was introducing my voice to a new audience, and it was such a nice thing to do. When she was starting out, Gram Parsons invited her to sing solo on his records, “Return of the Grievous Angel” and “Love Hurts” to name a couple. He helped her step out, and she was giving me the same chance. It wasn’t only me. Emmy was willing to let all of her musicians step out on a solo and try new things. Some bandleaders aren’t as generous. She gave of herself when she didn’t have to. The great bandleaders, from Duke Ellington to Bill Monroe, love to see their musicians shine and take a solo and inspire the rest of the band. They didn’t want to hog the spotlight. They wanted to share it, and Emmylou did, too. Whenever we were introduced on stage, it was always “Emmylou Harris and the Hot Band.”
Now, Emmy’s record label wasn’t as excited about the bluegrass records we were making as we were. When Emmylou took the tapes for Roses to the execs at Warner Bros., they turned up their noses and pressured her not to release it. She stuck to her guns and told ’em that she was passionate about this music and really felt it was the direction she wanted to go. She was willing to put her career on the line. Luckily the label came around. Roses in the Snow went gold faster than any album of Emmylou’s career.
Another nice thing about Emmy as a boss: She had no problem letting us pursue solo projects, as long as it didn’t interfere with the Hot Band. So when I had some time off, I drove down to Nashville from Lexington and cut an album for an independent bluegrass label called Sugar Hill. Barry Poss was headman, and he rented out a basement studio called the Pond and hired Nashville pros like Buddy Emmons and Bobby Hicks, and I called on my buddies like Jerry Douglas and Albert Lee and Tony Rice and Marc Pruett, and we made Sweet Temptation. We cut the whole album in two days on a budget of ten thousand dollars, which for a small indie like Sugar Hill was a lot of money. But Barry had faith in me, and here was a chance to see what I could do on my own.
It was a freedom I’d never known in the studio, with no agenda other than to try to make a great record. Barry helped round up the musicians and let me go at it. I was only twenty-four, but I was ready to give it a fair shot. Brian Ahern showed me you could mix a bluegrass instrument like a mandolin as loud as an electric guitar if it was recorded properly. And I’d always felt that a lot of Flatt & Scruggs and Stanley Brothers songs were basically acoustic country. So I wanted to try to blend classic bluegrass and country, with the fiddle and mandolin working right alongside the drums and steel guitars, and some good ol’ mountain harmony. I wanted to do my own versions of favorites by the Carter Family and the Stanleys. And Merle Travis. Buck White’s piano added just the right touch of western swing for the Travis songs. I didn’t know if it’d work or not, but I was gonna have fun trying.
What a baptism it was! I was finally getting the chance to cut Carter Stanley’s “I’ll Take the Blame” the way I’d heard it in my head, with Buddy’s pedal steel guitar kicking the song off and leading the way. Radical for bluegrass purists’ ears, maybe. But to me, the sound of Buddy’s steel was exactly what you oughta hear when you think “country.” Emmylou was kind enough to sing harmony on another Stanley Brothers song, “Could You Love Me One More Time,” and two other tracks. I couldn’t believe that my boss even pitched in on my moonlighting project. But that was the camaraderie we all felt for each other. If only every album I’ve done since could have been as fun!
And the fun was only beginning. Sugar Hill released “I’ll Take the Blame” as a single, and suddenly it was getting airplay. I’d made the record almost as an experiment, and come to find out, folks liked it. It was number one for six weeks in Houston, and then it became a local hit in Detroit and down in Orlando, Florida, too.
I had a few days of down time from Emmy’s band, and I spent it at Brian’s Enactron Truck studio recording tracks for my second Sugar Hill album. Right around then, Dolly Parton came through town, working on a project with Emmy and Linda Ronstadt. I met her at those sessions, and after a few minutes we felt more like family than some musicians I’d known for years.
Dolly and I shared the same kind of mountain upbringing and church background and Mom and Dad and brothers and sisters, and we loved the same kind of good ol’ country cooking and, of course, the same kind of music. She said she loved to hear me sing ’cause it reminded her of her home back in the Smoky Mountains of east Tennessee.
I told her how much I loved her singing, too, and how when I was a kid me and my folks couldn’t wait to see The Porter Wagoner Show on TV every week just to hear her sweet voice! I told her that I was working on my second record for Sugar Hill, and that it was gonna be real country with some ol’ mountain bluegrass thrown in for good measure.
Then I got up my nerve, took a deep breath, and asked her if she’d sing harmony on a couple of songs I was working on. She immediately said she’d love to, and just to let her know when I was ready for her. I thought, Lord Jesus, did she just say YES? I couldn’t hardly believe it. I thought, Oh my God, Dolly Parton is gonna sing on my record! Then the thought came to me that maybe she had said yes just to save face, and that she really wouldn’t do it. When it comes time to record, I was thinking, she’ll say she’s too busy. That’s how the Devil works; he’s always trying to steal your joy and make you believe things about people that just ain’t true. But I really didn’t know Dolly. She’s a woman of integrity. If she tells you something, she means it. That’s just how she is. A straight shooter. I’ve never known her to be any other way.
I wanted her to sing on a few Stanley Brothers songs. It turned out that she’d seen Carter and Ralph play a show at a little schoolhouse in Sevierville, Tennessee, when she was
a girl, around the same time I had. It was so easy for her. She fell right into that ol’ mountain stream of music she’d swum in many years ago, and she was lovin’ it. This was the kind of music that was close to her heart, and Dolly is all about heart.
I’ll never forget when we cut Carter’s “A Vision of Mother,” one of his most beautiful, almost mystical, songs. Dolly sang Pee Wee’s high-trio part, and it came so natural she nailed it in no time. I remember she hit a note that she didn’t mean to sing and wanted to fix it, but I loved it. It wasn’t a wrong note; it was just something that came out that she wasn’t planning to sing. I didn’t want her to re-sing it or try to do it over. It came out of a deep place in her spirit, and I felt it, and I wanted the listener to feel it, too.
There I was, making a record with Dolly Parton and having the time of my life. I thought, How stinking cool is this? To be here and get to experience this. I felt extremely blessed. And you know, Dolly’s spirit of generosity may have blessed the project in a whole other way I wasn’t even aware of, ’cause things were about to get bigger than I’d ever imagined.
Some call it fate, or destiny, or a God thing. Some things really do seem like they were just Meant to Be. You think back and you wonder how different your life could have been if things had gone another way, if you’d walked down one street and not the other, opened one door and not the other, taken one flight and not the other.
Well, I’m sure thankful for the day I took a flight from Los Angeles to Nashville. I got bumped up to first-class, and I settled into a seat with my Walkman. I had four or five songs on tape that I’d done for my second record for Sugar Hill. They were just unfinished masters, rough mixes that I wanted to keep fooling with. One was the Stanley Brothers’ “Don’t Cheat in Our Hometown,” and another was a remake of the Webb Pierce song “Honey (Open That Door).”
Somehow I got to talking with the guy in the next seat. He turned out to be Jim Mazza, vice president of Capitol/EMI/United Artists in Los Angeles. He didn’t know me from Adam, and I’d never heard of him, either, but we hit it off. I told him I played with Emmylou but was working on my own music and had some demos on my Walkman. He was a record man down to his bones, so he was open to new sounds. “Mind if I take a listen to some of your stuff?”
I gave him the headphones and cued up “Don’t Cheat in Our Hometown.” I think he liked it okay, but when he got to “Honey (Open That Door)” he was bopping in his seat, a big smile on his face. Here was one of the top dogs in the music business, and he looked like a groovin’ teenager. He took off the headphones and went from silly to serious in a split second. He wanted to know who produced it.
“Well, I did.”
“Son,” he said. “This could get you a record deal.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I kept listening, wondering, Do I tell him I’ve already got a record deal with Sugar Hill?
He asked if I was staying in Nashville. I was supposed to get back home to Lexington, but I told him I sure could be. So we scheduled a meeting for the next day on Music Row. That’s the place in Nashville where all the major record labels and song publishing companies have their headquarters.
When I got to Capitol Records the next day, the top brass were in the office and ready to hear my songs. Jim introduced me to Lynn Schults, the head of Capitol in Nashville. He was as friendly as could be and knew a lot about country music. “Don’t Cheat in Our Hometown” was the first song played. I saw Lynn’s eyes light up. Next was “Honey (Open that Door).” They all started bopping to the beat.
By the time a song called “Head over Heels in Love with You” started playing, everybody in the room was up dancing. This was too easy! Or so it seemed. They asked me if they could make a copy of the music and send it to the head of EMI. Their boss, Don Grierson, had to sign off on any new artist considered for Capitol or United Artist. I knew the music they were listening to belonged to Sugar Hill, but I kept on.
I said they could make a copy, and they sent it overnight to Mr. Grierson in Los Angeles. The fellows in Nashville told me to come back tomorrow. I was back in the Capitol office late in the afternoon the next day. Lynn was the only one there, and I thought, This ain’t a good sign. “Ricky,” he said. “I’m as frustrated as I can be. Grierson passed on your music. Said it’s ‘too country.’ I think he’s wrong. I can’t do anything to sign you. But I’ve got an idea.” He picked up the phone and said, “Hey, Rick, gotta few minutes to listen to a new artist? It’s good, you’ll like it. Okay, I’ll send him down.” Lynn told me where the CBS Records building was.
You know, I’ve often thought back on that day and how odd it was for the head of Capitol Records in Nashville to pick up the phone and call the head of CBS Records in Nashville. He basically gave away an artist to a rival. That sort of goodwill gesture would never happen today. It blows my mind. It was definitely a God thing. He closed one door and was about to open another. Lynn Schults played a huge part in my career, and I’ll never forget what he did for me that afternoon. I was a total stranger, just a kid with a cassette.
Music Row is a small world. And it was a real small world thirty years ago. Everybody knew everybody, and every office was a stone’s throw from the next. I went down the street, and fifteen minutes later I walked into Rick Blackburn’s office. He was waiting for me.
Right from the start, I knew me and Rick were gonna get along fine. He was easy to talk to. We spoke the same language, and we loved the same things, especially when it came to music. He grew up on a farm. Early in his career, he played in a rock-and-roll group called The Sounds that was signed to King Records, the legendary label out of Cincinnati where the Stanley Brothers and James Brown made so many classic recordings.
Now, Rick loved old country, but he had studied trends, too, the way tastes change with every generation. To his thinking, the Urban Cowboy craze had worn out its welcome. He figured things were just about to cycle back to the classic country he and I grew up with. He put on the tape, and we listened to “Don’t Cheat in Our Hometown.” He remembered the original by the Stanleys and liked what I’d done with it: polished off an old chestnut. He could tell I wasn’t just a throwback or a revivalist. I was a carrier of an old tradition.
“That’s a hit!” he said. “This can work.”
Then “Honey (Open That Door)” came on. This one really caught his attention.
“Oh, wow, that’s a smash! It worked for Webb, and I think it could work for you, too. Who in the heck produced this stuff?”
“I did,” I said. “And by the way, if we get serious about a deal, I want to produce my music.”
Rick sorta winced, and I knew I’d hit a sore spot. He said that Larry Gatlin was the only artist at the label who produced his own records. “That’s a tall order on your first album,” he said. “I’ve got to think about that.”
I didn’t want it to be a deal-breaker. I just wanted him to know up front that it was important to me. “I know a lot more about Ricky Skaggs than anyone else here in town,” I said. “If you like what you hear, I can do it again. I know my limitations and what I do best. I know what I can sing and what I can’t sing. I don’t want to sound like Nashville. I want to sound like me.”
I told him I’d make a deal with him: If we didn’t have any success with my first album, I’d be willing to take on a coproducer. “That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“Who owns this stuff?” he said.
“Sugar Hill does.”
He’d never heard of Sugar Hill Records. I explained that it was an independent label out of North Carolina, that I had already recorded one album for them, and that what he was listening to was for the second release.
“Well, it’s great stuff, and I want to sign you,” he said. “You hungry?”
I wasn’t sure if he meant hungry for a record deal or for lunch, and to tell the truth I was hungry for both. “Sure, I’m always ready to eat!”
So we drove over to Ireland’s, a restaurant nearby that had steak and b
iscuits. It was a popular meeting place on Music Row. Before I knew it, Rick was scribbling a record deal on a table napkin. He was already mapping out my future, and we’d hadn’t even had anything to eat yet.
I stayed firm on what I’d said about producing my own records. I didn’t have the clout to be so stubborn, but I was young and naïve, and I really believed my main selling point was that I had my own sound. I told Rick about how the Sugar Hill single had gotten airplay in several cities with hardly any promotion. About how the deejays said callers were flooding the stations with requests to hear it, and how folks were dancing to it in Texas. Rick was listening.
Rick liked that I was willing to take a risk. There’s a little bit of gambler in everybody, and he wanted to roll the dice on me. So we hammered out my first record deal right there at a table in Ireland’s. That’s how fast I signed up with Epic, a subsidiary of CBS. I guess it was my destiny, ’cause it sure wasn’t on account of very much haggling!
To be honest, I wasn’t the one taking a chance; I didn’t have anything to lose. Rick did, and he went out on a limb for me. People in the promotions department thought he was out of his mind. Here I was, an unheard-of and unproven artist, and Rick was giving me free rein and a key to the studio. I felt like I couldn’t let him down. I knew I had to make good records, and come in under budget and on time, too.
Meanwhile, I got word from Emmy. She was just about to deliver her second daughter. She told me she was going to take a year off and focus on being a full-time mama. She said the band was on hiatus. When I told her about my record deal, she was happy to hear the good news.