The Grand Tour

by Rich Kienzle

  DEDICATION

  For Lloyd Green, Harold Bradley, Bob Moore, Pig

  Robbins, and all the Nashville A-Teamers

  who recorded with George

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  1 1931–1953

  2 1953–1961

  3 1962–1968

  4 1968–1975

  5 1975–1983

  6 1983–1990

  7 1990–1999

  8 1999–2013

  EPILOGUE: 2013–2015

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SELECTED LISTENING

  SOURCES

  PHOTO SECTION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PROLOGUE

  Grand Ole Opry House, Nashville, Tennessee

  October 12, 1981

  Would he or wouldn’t he show up?

  That was the overriding question the night of the annual Country Music Association Awards, set to be a second triumphal year for George Jones. Though he was considered the greatest living country singer by both fans and the music industry, nearly three decades of self-destructive alcoholism, a trait inherited from his daddy, had taken a personal and professional toll, earning him a reputation for unreliability and the derisive nickname “No Show Jones.” His more recently acquired taste for cocaine had left behind a growing trail of missed concerts, angry fans, incoherent performances, arrests, multiple lawsuits, and growing debt, much of it from endless purchases of vehicles and homes he couldn’t afford. The media who began following him during his turbulent six-year marriage to fellow star Tammy Wynette continued to chronicle a seemingly endless stream of legal issues, incidents, arrests, and failure to appear at concerts. Those who knew the simple, decent, and painfully humble man beneath it all feared the worst.

  Through it all, the one thing that endured—and kept the vast majority of fans and fellow performers in his corner—was the music. The previous year, George was honored for a hit single he didn’t even want to record, one that took his producer, Billy Sherrill, nearly three years to cobble together, starting with multiple rewrites on the song itself. “He Stopped Loving Her Today” was the sorrowful tale of a man whose obsessive love for a woman ended only with his death.

  The record was a bolt from the blue, a moving, jarring reminder of the raw power of traditional country in an era dominated by lushly orchestrated “countrypolitan” hits by Kenny Rogers, T.G. Sheppard, and Dolly Parton and the outlaw sound of Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings. It summarized the raw, emotive, and searing vocal passion and interpretive genius on which Jones’s reputation stood for nearly a quarter century. His performance packed such a visceral wallop that one knew, even on first hearing, that the song would endure as an example of what country music, freed of any showbiz facades, was always supposed to—expected to—embody. A year before, the CMA had honored “He Stopped Loving Her Today” as Song of the Year, and George as Male Vocalist of the Year. Unbelievably, it was his first CMA Award in that category. This year, he was up for his second Male Vocalist award. The public, even those beyond the country audience, were well aware of the travails of George Jones.

  Tonight, Rick Blackburn, vice president and general manager of CBS Records in Nashville, parent to George’s label, Epic Records, hoped for the best. After all, he’d been telling everyone who’d listen that George had turned things around. The Associated Press had recently run a story brimming with hope, George declaring that after the bad times, he’d turned a corner.

  The truth was quite the opposite. George was to be at the Opry House, site of the broadcast, at 7:30 central time. He’d sing “He Stopped Loving Her Today” onstage and join Barbara Mandrell, the show’s cohost, on her recent hit “I Was Country When Country Wasn’t Cool.” He’d added a brief vocal contribution on her recording. They were longtime friends. Mandrell first toured with him when she was a thirteen-year-old singer and pedal steel guitarist. This year, she was nominated for the CMA’s top honor: its Entertainer of the Year Award.

  George’s handlers, Blackburn and his latest manager, Alabama-based Gerald Murray, had ample hurdles just getting him fit to appear. He’d drained most of a fifth of whiskey and, totally out of it, was ready to battle, a stance he often assumed when he was drunk. They ran the kicking, cursing star through cold showers, pumped him full of coffee, and got him dressed, to a car, and to the Opry House. Even in a fancy brocaded show outfit, he looked raw and dissolute, at least twenty years older than his fifty years. He was flanked in his seat by road manager Wayne Oliver on one side, Murray on the other. Hostile toward his girlfriend, Linda Welborn, he’d demanded she sit in the balcony. Blackburn had the unenviable task of warning the show’s producers the star would be in no shape to sing “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” The TV folks were not happy, and had to do some quick shuffling.

  The show began running through awards and performers until Rosanne Cash, clad in a country-girl getup that didn’t reflect her more cutting-edge musical style and joined by fellow singer Gail Davies, read the Male Vocalist nominees: George, Ronnie Milsap, Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers, and Don Williams. When George’s name was announced as the winner, he strode unsteadily up the aisle, shaking a few hands along the way. When he got there, he embraced Cash and Davies, accepted the award from a tall blonde, and then, blinded by the stage lights and totally looped, walked toward the mike. Looking out from the podium, he could recognize only fellow performers and friends: singer Johnnie Wright and his wife, Kitty Wells, who’d opened the door for female country artists with her 1952 hit “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.”

  “Well, I’m one of the Jones Boys, and I just wanna say one thing.” He momentarily stared at the artillery-shell-shaped award. “Well, I’m very proud. I still love Johnnie Wright and Kitty Wells.” He pointed toward the crowd, then continued, “Thank you very much. We love country music and it’s ’bout time it got back to Nashville!”

  There was nothing to do but continue. Mandrell, who’d been through two wardrobe changes, came out to sing “I Was Country” prior to the Entertainer Award announcement. A cameraman stood in the aisle next to George’s seat in the audience. It was precisely what George, knowing he couldn’t pull anything off, had feared. “Whatever you do,” he’d grumbled to Murray, “don’t you let her come down here and try to get me to sing that part.” During a guitar break, she called, “Are you out there, George? You are there! Come on up here, George!”

  Someone slipped George a hand mike. He looked toward the stage, smiled, made a noise, then, pointing to his throat, silently begged off.

  Mandrell wasn’t having it. “I’ll come get ya!” she amiably hollered from the stage.

  As she went into the next verse, she floated down the steps to the aisle.

  George, still smiling, growled to Murray, “I told you!”

  With a microphone cord that had only so much line, she implored, “Meet me halfway, George!” He fumbled down the aisle and behind his smile had totally forgotten the two lines he sang on the record.

  Cueing off Mandrell, he barely sang the lines “country . . . from my hat down to my boots.” Trying to save the moment, Mandrell remarked, “I love the way you do that.”

  “That’s country!” he quipped unsteadily.

  He tried but could barely squeak out the tag line “I was country when country wasn’t cool” before pecking Mandrell on the cheek and the lips. As he walked back to his seat, she exclaimed, “The greatest . . . George Jones!” as applause swelled.

  Her decades of stage experience allowed her to smooth, but not totally save, the moment. Millions of viewers saw the CMA Male Vocalist of the Year, for the second year in a row, too fucked up to do the t
hing he did better than nearly anyone in the world. Those who followed the tabloid coverage of his exploits saw the latest installment, live, on network TV. Given the steady stream of scandal, even as he made the greatest music of his career, it was little wonder much of Nashville and many fans concluded that any day, George would follow his longtime idol, Hank Williams Sr., whom he’d met when he was eighteen and who died drunk and drugged up in the backseat of his Cadillac, into the darkness.

  Grand Ole Opry House, Nashville, Tennessee

  September 30, 1992

  The thick, graying cape of hair was heading toward white, the sideburns shorter. Quite a bit heavier and clearly healthier, clad in a black western tux, white shirt, and string tie, he stood on the Opry House stage holding a hand mike and tore into his current single, “I Don’t Need Your Rockin’ Chair.” Written specifically for him, the churning novelty tune celebrated the legend who, in the end, had staunchly refused to go gently into anyone’s good night. His voice was huskier, yet packed the same emotional power as when he recorded “The Window Up Above” in 1960.

  The record included symbolic cameos by ten of Nashville’s young Turks: Garth Brooks, whose phenomenal rise marked a clear if controversial generational shift to a more pop-rock style of country, joined Clint Black and Joe Diffie, both of whom walked a line between modern and traditional. Neotraditionalists included Alan Jackson, just beginning his own rise to stardom with a style far closer to George’s; Vince Gill, who first emerged as a force in the mid-1980s; and Mark Chesnutt, a honky-tonker from George’s home area around Beaumont, Texas. Also representing the traditionalists, Kentuckian Patty Loveless, who got her start in bluegrass, sang with Pam Tillis, daughter of veteran singer-writer Mel Tillis, who had shared many wild times on tour with George. Rounding things out were the R&B-flavored T. Graham Brown and edgy outlaw Travis Tritt.

  Steady on his feet, George sang with ease about “not being ready for the junkyard yet” and feeling “like a new Corvette.” Behind him, the curtain opened wider, and flanking him were Jackson, Brown, Loveless, Black, Gill, Diffie, and Pam Tillis. With them: Marty Stuart, the rooster-haired antiquarian who blended a more rocking style with the traditional vintage country George had staunchly revered since childhood. As the performance ended, Randy Travis, another neotraditionalist star of the 1980s whom George deeply admired, strode out in a black fringed jacket, carrying a plaque.

  “I have the best job in the house tonight,” Travis said as George bowed his head slightly, deferring to the occasion.

  “You know there’s nobody sittin’ at home watchin’ tonight or nobody in this audience that wants to see you retire to your rockin’ chair by any means, but we do want you to enjoy bein’ the next member of the Country Music Hall of Fame.”

  The standing ovation came. George, clearly moved but not tearful, as many other living inductees had been, reacted with his characteristic blend of awe and modesty.

  “I don’t believe it! Greatest thing! Thank you so much,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. Only thing I can say is that country music has been awful good to me throughout a whole bunch of years, and I’ll tell you what—I’d just like to thank a few people. I’d like to thank the good Lord above, first of all, because he made it all possible, surely. And I naturally gotta thank all the fans in the whole wide world, especially the country music fans. It’s been a great career and I ain’t over it yet and I ain’t through and I ain’t givin’ it up and I don’t need no rockin’ chair.

  “But I’ll tell you what. I want to thank one more person, for makin’ it real possible for me bein’ able to be on this stage tonight to receive this award. Between her and God, she’s been one of the greatest ladies in the whole wide world. She saved my life, and I’d just like to acknowledge my wife, Nancy, if you’ll do it.”

  At that point Nancy Sepulvado Jones, beaming and tearful, stood to acknowledge the applause—and collective gratitude. Everyone in the audience and at home knew she was the catalyst, the long-needed anchor who finally allowed George to learn to love himself enough to control his urges, to set aside seven years of nearly fatal cocaine abuse. Sticking by him in some of his worst moments put her at risk as well. Now the coke was gone and the drinking, at long last, reduced and controlled.

  “I won a lot of awards, not braggin’, a lot of awards over a period of years. And each and every one of ’em was fantastic. They made you feel great, they kept you goin’ and made you try harder and work harder, but this has got to be the greatest one in the world. It’s made my day. It’s made my whole life. Thank you so much! I love you!”

  And with a wave, he and Travis strode offstage. George Glenn Jones, who climbed to stardom from East Texas poverty, who fell to the depths and then some, had risen in utter triumph, having overcome demons that destroyed many friends and musical heroes.

  HE WAS A COMMON MAN GRACED WITH AN UNCOMMON TALENT. DURING HIS life, he was considered by peers and fans to be the greatest living country singer. In death he remains, to many, the greatest country singer of all time.

  His expressive vocal style earned him laudatory nicknames like the “Rolls-Royce of Country Singers.” His admirers included two masters of American song, Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. It’s easy to see why. Jones’s deeply emotional singing makes him a transcendent figure in American music, one who influenced and continues to inspire generations of singers. While he wrote some of his own material, Jones was above all a master interpreter on a par with Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Bessie Smith, Johnny Cash, Barbra Streisand, Patsy Cline, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Nat King Cole, and Billie Holiday.

  Certainly his fan base differed from that of longtime friends Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson, whose blend of the visceral and cerebral appealed to broader audiences. Jones was what he was and never made a conscious effort to broaden his impact and fame beyond his sizable core of fans. Unlike Cash and Haggard, George didn’t offer social commentary as one of his goals. Waylon and Willie challenged Music Row to attain creative freedom; Jones, even at his worst, always embraced the Nashville establishment.

  Except for a few early day jobs and two years in the marines, singing is all he ever did. Beginning as a young man mimicking Hank, Acuff, Monroe, and Frizzell, Jones used his heroes as a footing, a foundation to create a unique, elemental, and chilling vocal presence of his own. He slowly evolved into a stylist capable of conveying levels of meaning that explored and defined a lyric at a level even the composer may not have thought possible.

  The voice was a raw nerve put to music. Jones reached deeply into a lyric to capture a song’s essence, infusing the correct amount of emotion (or emotions) into each word. He sang of love and joy, of spirituality and zany nonsense. Yet above all that was his consummate ability to explore pain, sorrow, heartbreak, and emotional desolation. Over time, his singing grew more expressive and compelling, particularly when he channeled his real-life pain into songs, most of them written by others, that uncannily seemed to echo his state of mind at that moment.

  He was born into poverty in a harsh, inhospitable region of East Texas, the youngest of eight children initially raised in an environment that in many ways hearkened back to nineteenth-century America. His mother, raised in a devout Christian home, was loving and deeply religious. She taught him moral values and exposed him to music, specifically the traditional hymns she sang in backwoods churches. George’s father wrestled with his own demons, stemming from the death of his eldest daughter when she was eight. Loving and hardworking when sober, sloppy and at times brutal when drunk, he demanded his talented son sing on command and beat him when he wouldn’t comply. It remained burned into George’s psyche.

  That led to a conundrum that plagued George Jones through much of his life, the two sides of his personality long in conflict: simple virtue, charity, and empathy on one side; nihilism, self-destruction, and violence on the other. His talents became both a blessing and a curse. At times, in his harshest moments of despair, he felt unworthy of his gifts, undeserving of
the financial successes and mass acclaim that came his way. Material comforts and luxuries meant everything and nothing. He would change cars like many change socks or shoes. He’d purchase high-end items such as boats, and then, often while drunk, sell them for a fraction of what they’d cost him.

  His failures were as spectacular as his triumphs. Jones was married four times and had one common-law relationship. He had four children and was, for the most part, a colossal bust as a father. He could be a loving parent when he was present but for the most part functioned as an absentee father, either because of domestic problems or, barring that, his endless touring schedule. Sometimes on tour he simply vanished, failing to appear for contracted performances. That could have undermined his career. Instead it became part of the mythology surrounding him, along with the famous tale of him traveling to and from a Texas liquor store on a riding lawn mower.

  While his exploits weren’t initially covered in the mainstream media, that changed after his 1969 marriage to Tammy Wynette, the hot female country star of the moment. She arrived in an era when women were just beginning to carve significant niches in the country field. “George ’n’ Tammy” became one word to many fans. Their joint tours, hit duets, regular battles, separations, and reunions became fodder not only for the tabloids but for their record company, who produced and released songs, both duets and solo performances, that seemed to reflect the current status of their marriage. Their 1975 divorce didn’t allow Jones to escape media scrutiny. His personal life and his finances spun out of control, pushing him further into the spotlight. Cocaine joined the bottle as a primary intoxicant. His tours often came unglued when he went on a bender or appeared at a show too dissolute to sing a word. Gentle and good-humored when sober, his irresponsibility and occasional violence when out of control only added to his mystique. As his stature grew, his substance abuse constantly jeopardized his vocal abilities, which miraculously survived the worst of his excesses for many years.