Kentucky Traveler

by Ricky Skaggs

  I’ve told you how important music was to Dad. Even in his last hours, when he couldn’t speak a word, it was foremost on his mind. I remember when the family was gathered around his sickbed. He was having a hard time breathing. It was so quiet that all you could hear was him struggling for breath. He grabbed my mother’s hand and squeezed it real tight and started pounding out a rhythm, like he wanted us to sing something.

  So we started singing an old hymn, and his eyes filled with joy. He just perked right up at the cheerful sound of our voices. Even in his last few moments, he wanted music around him. To this very day, I haven’t met anyone who loved music more than my dad. I was so glad he was able to bless us that-a-way before he went on home.

  Then something happened, and I’m not sure exactly what. It’s a mystery. We’d finished the hymn, and it got real quiet. We noticed Dad was staring at the wall across the room. Just a bare wall, no window or pictures or nothing. Well, he saw something, and he got a surprised look on his face, a look of awe and wonder. He was looking right past us, and he stretched out his arms like something or someone was coming for him.

  Now, I was there in the room, and I still don’t know how to explain it to you. All I can tell you is it was real, as real as can be! I don’t know if it was an angel or the Lord Jesus Himself, but Dad saw someone from the other side, and he was reaching out like he was ready to follow. He passed on shortly after, and he had a look of total peace and assurance on his sweet old face. His eyes had seen heaven, and he wouldn’t have stayed here with us even if he could have.

  We had the funeral for Dad in Louisa, and there were folks there from all over eastern Kentucky, Ohio, Tennessee, and North Carolina. He had touched so many lives, whether it was helping out with a repair or hosting a picking party at the house or giving away vegetables from his garden. He was as good a friend and neighbor as he was a father. People were coming up to me at the service, and they were crying and saying how sorry they were. Some said they went to grade school with dad. Many told me, “Your dad was my best friend.”

  They were just trying to express their sympathy. I appreciated the condolences, but I wanted them to know his passing wasn’t all about gloom and sadness. His death wasn’t the end, and I was so happy and so hopeful. Scripture tells us to be joyous at a funeral, especially when we know where our loved ones are going. “Dad’s not hurting,” I told them. “He’s up in heaven, and that’s something to rejoice about.”

  This assurance is what Christ died for us to have. Freedom! Freedom from guilt, shame, bitterness, envy, strife, and all of the weight that the Devil wants to heap upon us. But we don’t have to carry it. Jesus said in Matthew 11:29–30, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in my heart, and you will find rest for your souls, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

  Dad’s passing was light and easy because he was free. He had no one to forgive. He had no bitterness, no guilt. He’d laid all of that down at the Cross.

  I just want to encourage you to make every effort that you can to go to your dad, mom, brother, sister, neighbor, or whoever it might be whom you haven’t forgiven or who hasn’t been able to forgive you—and forgive them or accept their forgiveness and try to make things right with them. Maybe it’s not possible for you, but with the Holy Spirit there is no distance. Wherever you are, you can ask God to forgive them, and you can also ask God to forgive you for what you’ve done to somebody.

  I promise you, when you do that, you’ll set them free, and you’ll also set your own self free. Dad was prayed up and ready to go, but I’ve had to sing at funerals where I really didn’t know if the person had made their peace with God or not, and that’s a tough thing.

  Mom didn’t doubt Dad was in heaven, but it didn’t help much in her sorrow. She lived in a time and a place where you’re expected to grieve for weeks and months and even years. Some folks call that respecting the dead, but if they are with Jesus, they ain’t dead, they’re rejoicing. And that’s what we should do.

  Ecclesiastes tells us there’s a time to mourn and a time to laugh. Grieving is important for healing, but not if it gets to the point where it rules your life—where you can’t find joy in waking up mornings, where there’s so much grief that you don’t go anywhere and enjoy things, where you’re almost afraid to laugh ’cause people might think, Well, gosh, her husband’s only been gone for six months, and look at her!

  Some of that was pressing down on my mom. I tried to explain to her about the verse from Hebrews 12:1 that talks about how we’re surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, our loved ones and all the saints who’ve gone home to glory, and that they’re all watching down from heaven, cheering us on, praying us on, and encouraging us on. I think it helped her some, but Dad’s passing was a loss she never fully recovered from.

  You know, I really understood how my mom felt. I missed my dad, too, and I’m still missing him. But he ain’t missing me where he’s at! The Lord has been so good to me that I’ve even seen him in my dreams. One night I dreamed he came to me and said, “Son, I have such a good time up here. They’re treatin’ me so nice.” Then he said, “Wanna play Bible trivia?” And we did, and he knew all the answers and beat me so bad!

  Another dream came one time when I was really missing my dad. I just needed to hold him, and feel him hug me. That night I dreamed he came right to me and leaned over and started to hug me. I reached up, put my hand on one side of his face, and pulled him down where I could kiss his cheek. His sweet face had a three- or four-day-old beard on it, just like it sometimes did back when I was a kid. When I kissed him, his ol’ prickly beard stuck my lips, and I felt him just as real as if he was here. The Precious Lord knew I needed that.

  Dad died in 1996. Losing Bill and my dad in the same year was hard to take. But sometimes it’s the hardest things that push us in the right direction. The next year I decided to go back to bluegrass for good, and to make good on the promise I’d made to Mr. Monroe. I’ve kept my promise, and I’m still on the road playing bluegrass, the music he created, and I’m doing my part to keep the tradition going.

  It’s only been recently that I’ve come to understand more about that summer night in Martha, Kentucky, more than a half century ago. What it meant when Bill Monroe took his mandolin and put it on me. I’m fifty-eight now, only a few years older than Mr. Monroe was on stage in that schoolhouse, and my hair hangs down shaggy and gray just like his did in his last years. Maybe it took some gray hairs to get me to the point where I could ponder on this.

  There are a lot of stories about elders seeing something special in the next generation. I don’t know what Bill saw in me that night in 1960, but I know what I saw in him. I saw a man who was driven by a passion for his music, and a performer who commanded respect. There was so much fire in him then. He was one of the biggest stars of the Opry, and he was such a professional. He looked and dressed and acted the part.

  He was there to do his show, yet he was able to step back from the applause to let a little six-year-old local boy get up and sing a song. And not just sing, but play his old 1923 F-5 Gibson mandolin, his most treasured possession. Thank God I didn’t drop it, or I might not have lived to write this book!

  That night I found a champion, a hero, and a musical genius to follow. I found a style of music I chose to be the foundation stones of everything that I play. He didn’t have to invite me on stage, but I’m very thankful that he did, and I’m better off for it.

  Now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I know that whatever talent and gift I have for music comes from what God gave me, not Bill Monroe. What I’m talking about is a musical father whom I learned so much from, and not just music. Was he perfect? No, he wasn’t, and neither am I. There’s only one who’s ever lived a perfect life, and that’s the Lord Jesus Christ.

  I am fortunate to have felt the strong hand of two generous men in my life. My father and Mr. Monroe were different, that’s for sure, but they shared the same foundation.
They shared a love of God, and of music, that they passed down to me. My life is what it is because of them. I couldn’t ask for anything more. And though I still miss them both every day, I thank God for the gift that He gave me in these two men.

  When you honor someone, you can never go wrong, and you honor God, too. After Mr. Monroe passed away, I felt like it was time to go back to the music that set my little six-year-old soul on fire! The time had come for me to take my place at the table.

  Chapter 20

  HEROES

  Music speaks to hearts frequently where sermons fail.

  —Reverend Billy Graham, liner notes to gospel album Early in the Morning by George Beverly Shea

  My studio is like my second home. Called Skaggs Place Recording Studio, it’s tucked in a little unmarked low-slung building that you’d never notice from the road, and that’s how I like it. We bought it from the Oak Ridge Boys a few years back. We made quite a few changes and now have one of the best-sounding studios around. Just ask Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, John Fogerty, the Dixie Chicks, or Barry Gibb, to a name a few who’ve cut records here. Also, a lot of bluegrass groups love it because it’s a great live room.

  From the outside, it’s pretty plain, but inside it’s a paradise for a studio hound like me. It’s not far from where I live in Hendersonville, a few miles north of Nashville but a long way from Music Row, and that’s good in a lot of ways. I believe producing records is a craft where it doesn’t pay to be stingy. We’ve invested a lot in outboard gear and vintage equipment to make our instruments and vocals sound the best they can.

  When CBS closed down the famed Quonset Hut Studio, I bought a bunch of microphones from the ’50s and ’60s, including the Neumann U 47 house mic that George Jones and Tammy Wynette sang into for their classic duets. I bought it not just for the history, which I do love, but for the sound you get from vintage gear when you’re cutting a record. I have an old RCA 44 ribbon mic that I use when I’m recording with my old Gibson mandolin.

  I’ve been collecting old gear for a long time, hoping to have my own studio someday, and finally I do. I’m always on the lookout to add to my collection; there’s always cool stuff to be had from somebody’s garage or attic. There’s a photo of me when I was seven singing into an RCA ribbon microphone at a radio station in Ashland, Kentucky. The mic is mounted on this awesome boom stand you can’t find anywhere anymore. I wish to God I had that boom stand in my studio. I’d sure put it to use!

  Our crown jewel is the 9098i Amek console we got from a defunct studio in Los Angeles. It is one of engineer Rupert Neve’s magical contraptions, an older model from the ’90s. He also signed it, making it that much more special, and that’s fitting, ’cause it’s hand-wired and hand-soldered, like most of the equipment he designed. As far as analog recording gear goes, he’s revered by gearheads like me for his equalizers, microphone pre-amplifiers, compressors, and large mixing consoles like the Amek. He’s a pioneer, and he’s very critical of digital sound, and so am I.

  And, like me, Rupert has a love for Jesus and is proud to talk about his faith in the marketplace. He’s a living legend in the recording industry, and he’s on my bucket list of people I’d like to meet and say thank you.

  Now, I love using newer technology, too, as long as it sounds good to my ears. The recording quality is incredibly high nowadays, and we use what we can, the best of the old and the new. We can make an acoustic guitar sound as big as a truck. We have an acoustic room we call the “guitar parlor” with a wooden floor and guitar tops and backs strung from the ceiling. We do most of the music out in the studio in a big space where the band can play together in the same area. There’s an original pew from the ol’ Ryman Auditorium, which has a vibe all its own, and a Yamaha grand piano that every pianist just loves. It’s a warm, low-lit studio with an art-gallery kinda feel.

  The studio is a laboratory, a sanctuary, and a workshop. More than anything, though, it’s a clubhouse for a brotherhood of musicians. It’s where we find inspiration and try to create songs that bring joy and hopefully will stand the test of time. Far as that goes, we’ve got plenty of help from some wise elders whom I call my Preachers, Prophets, and Pickers.

  There’s a gallery of pictures on the walls of my studio that pay tribute to my heroes. Some are famous and some aren’t, some are musicians and some aren’t, some have passed on and some are still with us. But they’re all heroes to me. Not only for what they’ve done, but for the way they’ve lived. They all have strong wills. Nothing could stop ’em.

  Sometimes when I’m recording, I’ll look up on the wall and see a picture of Mr. Monroe, or an old poster of Minnie Pearl, and think how grateful I am to have known these precious old souls. They were great musicians, great entertainers, and plain great people. It gives me a lot of inspiration and encouragement to know that they loved me and they’re cheering me on from heaven. Now, I’d like to share with you a little bit about my heroes. Some you’ll know, some you might be surprised by. But I hope that now that you know me a little better, you’ll understand why I want to give thanks to each and every one of them.

  It seems right to start with Ray Charles. I met Ray on a recording project in 1983, and it was an incredible introduction. He grabbed my right hand to shake it, and then he took his left hand and rubbed up and down my arm. He had a way of seeing with his touch, and the way he got to know me was by touching my arm. You could feel his energy, as if he were connecting with my spirit.

  The first thing Ray told me was how much he loved bluegrass music. He said he could hear that “old-timey, way-back-in-the-hills” sound in my singing. He appreciated that I was staying true to my roots. He said he had been a diehard bluegrass fan ever since he was a kid in Georgia listening to Bill Monroe on the Opry.

  Ray was special. We were together only a few times over the years, but I loved each meeting. I loved to be in the same room as him and soak up his energy. He had a presence about him, a life force that charged you up and kept you going for a while. I’ve never met anyone so fully immersed in music as Ray. If you’d have cut him, he would have bled musical notes. He was a total musician, totally into what he was singing at that moment. He had complete focus and concentration, and the song was all that mattered.

  The picture of Ray in the studio is a poster promoting his 1984 album of duets, Friendship. The caption says “Every mother’s son in town,”’cause all the top singers in Nashville wanted to be a part of this project. Lucky for me, I made the cut. Thank you, God!

  Our duet was the title song, and back then my tenor was higher, so I was able to sing harmony above Ray. During the overdubs, he was in the booth coaching me on the talk-back mic. People who call me Picky Ricky should have met Ray Charles. He ironed out every wrinkle. He wanted the best I had, and after a few takes, he got what he wanted and shouted his hallelujahs. Ray wouldn’t settle for anything less. When he heard what he was after, he was in heaven. You know, you get a Ray Charles once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, and I was very blessed to have known him and recorded a song with him.

  On the wall near Ray is a portrait of Roscoe Holcomb. It was painted and given to me by Bruce Hornsby’s wife, Kathy. Roscoe was from Daisy, Kentucky, in Perry County, a couple hours south of where I grew up. As a young man, Roscoe was a coal miner, but the mines dried up. He hoed corn and taters on the side of a mountain, but the land in that region was poorer than he was.

  All the while, Roscoe worked on his music. He picked old-time banjo, and he played guitar tuned like a banjo. He sang ballads like “Omie Wise,” “Little Birdie,” and “Man of Constant Sorrow,” and he sang hymns, like “A Village Churchyard,” in the a cappella style of the Old Regular Baptists. He took pieces from blues and folk songs and put ’em together like an old patchwork quilt. No matter what the song, it always came out 100 percent Roscoe.

  He was skinny as a pencil, and his singing cut to the bone. He had the kind of voice you only hear in the mountains, high and lonesome and loud enough to take
down a hawk half a mile high. My mom sang like that, too. He didn’t entertain for the public back then, just for neighbors and in church. He played his music to suit himself when he felt happy or worried, or just to ease his suffering.

  Roscoe was a Christian man, and he prayed and asked the Lord to help him provide for his family. Right about then, folklorist John Cohen was mining these nuggets of musical treasure out of the Appalachians, documenting local musicians who played the old-time way. In 1959, Cohen showed up with his tape recorder and film camera, and it changed Roscoe’s life. The folk revival was just around the corner, and Roscoe was in the right place at the right time.

  Roscoe made some recordings and won over crowds on the festival circuit. He traveled to Europe with the Stanley Brothers, and he played colleges and folk concerts. He was the same ol’ Roscoe at a Boston coffee house as he was on his back porch in Daisy. Now, he didn’t get rich and famous. He always struggled with poverty, bad health, and hard times. But I’d say his prayers got answered, many times over. God blessed Roscoe with the gift of his talent and opened doors so he could get work as a musician and scratch out a living. For the next fifteen years, Roscoe was able to play his music and touch the hearts of people who’d never been near an eastern Kentucky coal mine.

  Without Cohen showing up (thank God he did), we might not have heard Roscoe Holcomb. Same thing back in the 1920s—if Ralph Peer hadn’t made his field-recording trip to Bristol, Virginia, we’d maybe never have heard the Carter Family and so many others who lived back in the mountains. We’re so lucky these old-time singers and pickers got to put their sound on records and add their thumbprint to our musical heritage. They teach a lesson, you know, with the passion and feeling they brought to a song instead of technique and precision. Roscoe became a cult hero for all kinds of musicians, from Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton—who says Roscoe is his favorite country singer—to some others you might not expect, like Bruce Hornsby. The painting of Roscoe above the control-booth window is a reminder of my Kentucky roots. I see him as a humble man who wasn’t too proud to ask God for help. There was such pain and suffering in his life, and Roscoe offered it all up to the Lord through his music. He’s an example of what real faith is all about.