Dreaming Out Loud

by Bruce Feiler

  Moreover, as the South blossomed in recent decades, not only did it become more like the rest of the country, but it also started to influence the rest of the country, making America more like it. As historian (and Nashvillian) John Egerton predicted in the 1970s, the Americanization of Dixie was accompanied by a corresponding Southernization of America. What he meant was that Southern problems—namely race—were becoming national problems. And Southern issues—namely how to raise the prominence of values in American life—were becoming national issues. He was right. The dominance of values in the American conversation of the 1990s—how to preserve our families, our relationships, our communities—is the biggest mark that a Southern aesthetic and value system has taken hold in the country. In place of regional and class rivalry, a generic social conservatism has now taken hold among most middle-class Americans. Ask any Southerner (or Northern transplant) what they like about the South and, after the weather, they are likely to say: “The people are friendly, there’s a sense of tradition, and there’s an emphasis on families.” In short, it’s better living. Not coincidentally, it is these topics that country music handles best, and its prosperity during this period has been based primarily on the remarkable synchronicity between its agenda and the agenda of the country.

  All of which is fine as a foundation for country’s popularity, but what about the music? Is it any good? When I first came to Nashville, I associated country music with everything I hated about the South: Its narrow-mindedness, its unwillingness to change, its attachment to outmoded imagery. The first thing I discovered was that most of my prejudices about the past were incorrect. Country, for all its caution, has tolerated alternative viewpoints, it certainly has changed over the years, and at least some of its artists have tried to punch through the paper sack of Southern clichés. As a result, one curious result of my time in contemporary country music is that I developed more of an appreciation for traditional country and a belief that much of that music does connect to my own deep-rooted sense of being Southern. At the CMA Awards that night, for example, my favorite performance was not by George Strait or Alan Jackson, but by Ray Price. At seventy years old, he was clearly the most effortless singer on the stage.

  As for the music of today, what I feel about it tends to mirror what I feel about the South. When speaking to outsiders—particularly those who dismiss it out of hand—I defend country music fiercely, citing its contemporary edge, its wit, its new crop of more sophisticated artists: Mary Chapin Carpenter, Shania Twain, Kim Richey. I take the same tack with those who claim to like old country but not to like the new. Have you listened to the Mavericks? Trisha Yearwood? Alan Jackson? Garth Brooks has several early songs—“Unanswered Prayers,” “Much Too Young (to Feel This Damn Old),” “If Tomorrow Never Comes”—that I would submit for a list of all-time great country songs. Wynonna has a voice and a body of work—both with her mother and without—that is as strong as Patsy Cline’s and equally blended between country and pop. To claim that all country music today is merely watered-down pop, full of mindless radio ditties and faceless knock-off artists, is to miss the fact that all forms of popular music (not to mention film, television, and books) have only a few originators and swarms of mediocre imitators. Even traditional country music had talentless copycats, only they are now mercifully forgotten, as will be most of today’s bad acts. The only difference is that today, because of Nashville’s popularity, there is more country music in the culture, so there is more bad country music. Music Row should not be blamed for making music that is commercial; it has always done so. Also, like every other aspect of the entertainment business, it will continue to do so.

  Having said that, when I am around people who are sympathetic to country music—who are “in the club,” so to speak—I can be fiercely critical of Music Row. It’s the same attitude I take with the South. Like any Southerner who loves the region, I celebrate the decline of racism, poverty, and isolation in the South, but bemoan the crass commercialization, the mallification, the downright homogeneity that seems to be overtaking the area. It’s no surprise that the same problems plague country music. As bluegrass prodigy turned amateur historian Marty Stuart memorably told Peter Appelbome, author of Dixie Rising: “The best quote I ever heard about country music these days is that the reason Long John Silver’s outsells Uncle Bud’s Catfish Cabin on the edge of town is because they’ve made fish succeed in not tasting like fish.” For half a century, record executives and radio stations were able to decide what was good music by listening with their ears and trusting their emotions. There must be some way to bring that process into the future without abdicating all creative decisions to one hundred people chosen at random during dinnertime who listen to six seconds of forty songs and are then asked to rank them. No wonder so many songs on the radio sound like commercial jingles; they are being created in exactly the same way.

  “It’s our job to give radio songs that will get people’s attention while they’re driving their screaming kids down the freeway,” Don Cook told me when I complained that Wade’s version of “The Room,” one of the best songs I heard that year, was never released. “‘The Room’ is not that kind of a song. It’s a beautiful vocal performance. It’s a real emotional piece of music. But in a minivan full of screaming kids, The Room’ is a nonevent.” Maybe, but why must country music abdicate all its creative energy, as well as its public face, to screaming kids on the freeway? There are plenty of other people, and plenty of other times of day, when we crave the depth, the humor, and, yes, the sadness that the best country music still provides. My plea to Music Row is simple: Please, stop underestimating the intelligence of your audience. You got what you wanted, you lured us in. Now quit insulting us.

  Finally, I know from living in Nashville that while it may be growing more like New York and Los Angeles, while there are colossal examples of backstabbing and greed, there is still a feeling of community that is appealing, reassuring, and, yes, Southern. Several steps from the backstage area at the CMA Awards is a large room called Studio A, where the press, managers, and publicists watch the show on closed-circuit broadcast. It was in this room several years earlier that I first eyed Hazel, holding court and leading the cheers or jeers as the winners were announced. Whereas once I had viewed her reactions as unsophisticated—boosterism more than journalism—now I saw them differently. She was, in her own way, the repository of tradition that Nashville needed more than ever in its headlong rush to the future. “Any time there’s problems with country music,” she told me that night, “when people say it’s watered down—‘I can’t tell this one from that one’—it’s because of this: The people are singing for money and not for love. It’s not coming from the heart. It’s whenever people start having so many meetings, and there’s so much business going on, that they’re not focusing on the music. The music will always speak for itself. This is a town where the best songs in this world come from, and if we focus on those songs, we’ll do all right.”

  Late in the CMA show, those words seemed to come to life as Vince Gill walked to the center of the stage and, with Alison Krauss, sang a song, the bluegrass-infused “High Lonesome Sound,” that he had written in honor of Bill Monroe, who had died several weeks earlier at the age of 84. At the time he was the oldest member of the Grand Ole Opry. At the end of the song, which later was nominated for a Grammy, the two hundred people in Studio A sat still in deference to the gift of the moment, while in the center of the room, sitting alone, Hazel Smith quietly wept to herself.

  And at that moment I finally knew which legend she had once loved.

  Back in the Opry House, the buzz was building. This year’s show was dominated by George Strait, who won three awards: Male Vocalist of the Year, Single of the Year (“Check Yes or No”), and Album of the Year (Blue Clear Sky). Vince Gill won two awards, bringing his total number to seventeen, the highest in history. The Mavericks won their second Group of the Year, and Brooks & Dunn claimed Entertainer of the Year.

  Bu
t on this night, like many, perhaps the biggest anticipation centered around the Horizon Award. Begun in 1981 as a way to reward upcoming stars, the Horizon Award is granted annually to the artist who has demonstrated “the most significant creative growth and development in overall chart and sales activity, live performance professionalism, and critical media recognition.” Besides being a perfect expression of the Nashville philosophy (Where else is “creative growth” measured in commercial activity, stage professionalism—whatever that means—and media recognition?), the award has been a consistent harbinger of success. (The one exception was Terri Gibbs, whose career fizzled soon after winning the first award.) Since then, the CMA trophy—a large crystal candle flame that looks vaguely like one of Madonna’s cone bras—has been won by Ricky Skaggs, Randy Travis, Clint Black, and Travis Tritt. The Judds won in 1984; Garth Brooks won in 1990.

  This year’s class of nominees was as eclectic as ever and, for those looking for clues as to what direction country music would take, as confusing as ever. On the one hand, Shania Twain represented a new breed of adult sexuality in country music. Terri Clark, the first female “hat act” in a generation, showed the continuing appeal of Western tomboys. Bryan White appealed to the Tiger Beat audience, while Wade had one of the richest, most sad-sack country baritones in years. Finally, LeAnn Rimes was a teenager singing broken-hearted torch songs. Anyone trying to predict the future would have to account for all these branches, as well as a few others. “I think the future is going to be driven by what the past was driven by,” Jimmy Bowen said to me in the wisest prognostication I heard about the future, “unique one-of-a-kind talents. If Nashville can continue to produce five or six of those a year, country will do okay.”

  The future was on everyone’s mind as Travis Tritt strode to center stage in a red Manuel jacket to announce this year’s Horizon’s winner. As was customary, each of the nominees had performed on the show, with Wade strutting through a shortened version of “On a Good Night,” taking care to point to his idol during the line, “On a good night, I can drive to the lake / Turn on the radio and find George Strait…” It was that shot that the producer chose to use when Wade’s picture was shown on the screen full of nominees.

  “All of this year’s nominees have two things in common,” Travis began. “One is talent. You saw them demonstrate that tonight. The other is that they’re all new young performers with lots of exciting ideas. If they’re the future of country, that means the future is looking bright.” After scrolling through the nominees, Travis produced the envelope from his jacket. Wade, sitting on the aisle directly in front of Garth, smiled grimly. A year earlier, this award seemed destined to go to him. Today, after a string of unfortunate breaks, a slew of uneven decisions, and a general avalanche of pressure, he knew it was a long shot. Shania Twain, even though she was on her second album, was the dominant star that year. LeAnn Rimes, though only around for a few months, had experienced the fastest launch of any artist in the 1990s. And Bryan White, following his tearful acceptance speech at the ACMs, had earned himself even more supporters. Still, Wade, thinking of Ricky Skagg’s acceptance speech at the CMAs several years earlier that had lured him back to Nashville, kept hope.

  “And the award goes to…” Travis cracked the envelope. “Bryan White!”

  As completely understandable as that award was, it was followed by something unexpected, and, for those of us around Wade Hayes, something magical. As Bryan White climbed from his chair, a wave of goodwill swept through the audience. The wave seemed to catch Wade by surprise. But unlike six months earlier at the ACM Awards in Los Angeles, when he winced and dropped his head in shame when he lost to Bryan, and unlike three months earlier at the TNN/Music City News Awards in Nashville when he slumped out of the Opry building when he lost again to Bryan, on this night, in front of a much bigger audience, Wade stood along with the rest of the crowd, lifted his head, and cheered.

  Wade was the first to arrive. He parked his brand-new white Dodge pickup in front of the Soundshop Studio and plopped down on the curb, lifting his Styrofoam cup to his lips for a drip of tobacco juice. It was a gray winter day, with the threat of snow in the air, one of those days in the wake of the CMA Awards when Nashville descends into a several-month period of hibernation and self-analysis. “Oh, well, denied again,” Wade said of his CMA defeat. “But I kind of saw that one coming. I was a little upset, but Bryan White is a great singer and a really nice guy. I’m happy for him. I wasn’t at the ACM Awards. I was ticked then. But, hey, I got over it. It took me about six months, but I did get over it.”

  Wade was wearing brand-new black Wranglers, black Justin boots, a white T-shirt with THE ROAD printed on it, and a Resistol baseball cap with the slogan THE BEST THERE IS. “It’s all free,” Wade said of his outfit, in a startling echo of Garth’s comment to me a year earlier. “I’m not wearing a damn thing I own.” He grinned, impressed with himself. He acted older than I remembered. But cleanly shaven this morning, he also looked younger than he had in a year. His nose was even flatter than when we first met. His pale green eyes were wide open, and, once we went inside, they peered out the window for large periods of time—searching, straining a bit, but intermittently laughing. When was the last time I had seen him do that?

  “The funnest thing now is coming to the realization that everything is going to be okay,” he said. “I’ve finally learned to let all the bad stuff just kind of float on by and keep my head down.” His voice had lost none of its rich Oklahoma air. “I learned that if you let yourself get mixed up in all of that stuff, then there’s no way in the world you’re gonna write songs. And that’s the whole problem I was facing last year. There’s just no way to be creative or fully enjoy what I was doing because I was just so worried all the time.”

  Was there a moment when he came to that realization?

  “It was several months ago,” he said. “Right before the CMA Awards. I was lying in bed one night and I happened to open up the Bible. As you know, I’m really into theology. That doesn’t mean I’m weird or anything, I just enjoy that. Anyway, when I opened the Bible, it happened to fall on this passage that said: ‘Worrying won’t add one cubit to your stature. Why are you worrying?’ And I thought, ‘Well, hell, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.’ And that’s the truth. That’s kind of what started it. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting closer to thirty; I know people change gears about every ten years. Maybe I’m growing up or something, but I have such a more positive outlook on everything. It wasn’t anything anybody did. It was just me praying about it a lot and coming to the realization that everything happens for a reason.”

  The reason for his sudden turn of fortune, he believed, is that he needed a dose of reality. As Don Cook had said to me several days earlier, “Wade got real comfortable when he had two number one records in a row. This is real easy.’ Well, it’s not easy. Wade had an incredibly fast start. God knows, I didn’t have any start like that in my career. I was here just beating the bushes for six or seven years. It was twenty years before I had the confidence to make records.” For Wade, though, the transition was instantaneous. “Wade Hayes came here and within two years he had a number one record. That’s phenomenal. It sort of distorts a young, impressionable sense of reality. Truth is, he got through the gate just before it closed—in the sense that all of a sudden everybody just started throwing product at radio. The competition level rose dramatically. In the process of putting together his second album, none of us had any idea what we were running up against. We were just dead wrong about where we needed to position him musically.”

  On this point, Wade agreed. “I think there were two things working against me last year that I didn’t realize,” he said. “First, the whole thing with the record. I was iffy about it. There were songs on the album that I liked, but something wasn’t jiving. It was like we had to have the album done for billing, or something like that. That really scared me a lot. Second is that we came out with such a big bang. I d
idn’t realize that that wasn’t the way things normally go. I kind of got this perception of things that was not true and just naturally assumed, ‘Okay, I’m here. It’s just going to keep getting better.’ But reality caught up with me. And who’s to say I didn’t need a little reality check? I probably did. I don’t think I’ve ever been mean or snotty to anybody in my life, but maybe I wasn’t appreciating things as much as I should have been.

  “Lee Roy Parnell told me something,” Wade continued. “He came to my first number one party. He told me, ‘You better cherish this because they don’t come along every day. And you’re going to regret it if you don’t enjoy this fully.’ And you know, I didn’t listen to him. I said, ‘Okay, this has happened. I’m ready for something else. Give me more.’ And he was absolutely right. The next one I get I am going to enjoy it. I can promise you that.” His voice became sarcastic. “They’re going to see a side of Wade they haven’t seen yet.”

  At the heart of this change, Wade said, was the realization that he had, in fact, achieved the goal he had originally set for himself. He had acquired the security his parents never had. “I drive by every now and then and see this big house that I worked on here in Nashville,” Wade said. “It used to be called the elephant house because it had this big long driveway coming out the front of it that looked like an elephant trunk. I can remember being up on that thing when it was twelve degrees below zero in the middle of winter framing that house. It was the coldest I’ve been in my life. I started at like six bucks an hour and pretty quick got raised up to nine bucks an hour. I thought, ‘Damn, I’m doing good.’ It was more money than I’d ever made in Oklahoma. Well, I drove by it recently and thought how lucky I am. I have had two number one songs. And I’m making money.” He paused. “Just having that piece of mind—that they’re not going to come turn your lights off—is pretty exciting.”