CHAPTER 15
“Opening Doors”
I NEVER CLAIMED TO be perfect. I knew what happened with Kari was wrong in the context of my marriage, but the sanctity of those vows had been broken long ago and I couldn’t tear myself away from Kari. She wrote about me in a Nashville music magazine, arranged for me to record my songs “Baby Sitter” and “Whiskey, Wine, and Beer,” and before the year was over, she persuaded her father to see me at the Ragtime.
That was a big deal. By then, Terry Shelton and I had written and recorded the song “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.” (I gave Cindy writer’s credit on it, because why not? I gave her credit on a lot of songs in those days, figuring if I ever made it big and they earned some money, she would deserve it for putting up with me.) Two local radio stations—WTCR out of Catlettsburg and the WLGC out of Ashland—played that single (it was actually a demo) and announced that Del Reeves was going to check me out at the Ragtime.
Back then, the radio stations were part of the whole thing. They were plugged into whatever was happening. The people at the Ragtime were their fan base, and they were digging the songs. They played the hell out of “All Night Love,” “Remember,” and “It Ain’t Over,” which became a hit in Huntington, West Virginia.
That was the first time I started hearing one of my songs on the radio, and it was cool, way cool. It made me feel like I was getting somewhere.
That night Del came to the Ragtime, the place was on fire. Packed to the walls. People waiting to get in. The dance floor overflowed when I segued into “Whiskey, Wine, and Beer” and “Snooze You Lose.” Then every BIC lighter in the room was lit when we played “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.” My opening set was nearly all originals, with maybe a couple of cover tunes at most, like Restless Heart’s “Fast Movin’ Train.”
Del was unmistakable—a very tall man with a head of silver curls. He saw two sets and stayed until about midnight. Before leaving, he shook my hand and said, “You got something, kid.”
Then, with the pressure off, I let loose in the third and final set of the night. “Send me up one of those drinks on fire,” I said. “We are going to party down.” And we did. By then, that drink wasn’t the only thing burning.
Del wasted no time signing me to a standard production agreement. Under the terms of the contract, he provided interim management duties in exchange for a percentage of my earnings. Then he produced a more polished version of “It Ain’t Over” at his Allisongs Studio in Nashville.
For all the excitement, though, nothing happened for a few months. The holidays and New Year’s passed. In February 1989, drummer Steve French, an old classmate of mine in Flatwoods, and keyboardist Barton Stevens joined the band after David Baxley and Doug Fraley went their own way. I kept hammering away at the doors on Music Row with nothing to show but black-and-blue knuckles.
I was ready to bust down a few of Nashville’s locked doors when Del arranged for me to meet Buddy Killen. The head of Tree Publishing, at that time the largest in Nashville’s history, Buddy was a musician, songwriter, and executive. And most of all, he was a legendary song man.
Out of respect to Del, Buddy let me play a couple of songs and then gave me his feedback. Later on, I told Del and Kari that nothing had happened. In retrospect, that wasn’t true. First, he allowed me into his office and listened to me play. What can you give someone that’s more valuable than your time?
He also gave me advice that I use to this day. After I finished playing, we talked about the songs and songwriting in general, and then he said, “When you’re writing a hit song, say as much as you can say in as few words as you can say it. If you don’t need a word, take it out.”
Brevity required the strength of a lumberjack, the detachment of a surgeon, and the gentle touch of a poet.
Del also connected me to heavyweight manager Jack McFadden, who was famous for guiding Del’s career as well as the careers of Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Lorrie Morgan, and Keith Whitley. Like Buddy, Jack met with me as a favor to Del. Afterward, he agreed to help. But to say he was my comanager would have been a stretch. He never came to see my show, didn’t listen to my music, and didn’t understand what I did. He hardly returned my phone calls. But his wife, Jo, kind of took me under her wing. “You just keep gettin’ in front of him,” she told me. “Sooner or later he’ll get it.”
I once stopped by Jack’s office, hoping to get a word with him. His office door was open a crack, and as I peeked through, I saw a couple standing in front of his desk, talking. The guy turned around. It was Keith Whitley. He was with his wife, Lorrie Morgan. Jack regarded Keith as his surrogate son. The brief look Keith gave me seemed to say, “Sorry, brother, I have a feeling I’m blowing your moment, your chance to meet Jack.”
I turned around and began to walk out, disappointed. Jo caught me before I reached the door and promised to speak with Jack. She listened to my songs, liked ’em a whole lot, and told her husband that he needed to meet with me.
And he did. Jack called me in and agreed to help me navigate Nashville’s tricky waters. He even arranged to take me to a meeting at CBS Records. I circled the date on my calendar: May 9, 1989. It was the biggest day of my life.
I woke up early that morning with Kari in the cabin on her father’s farm. I left the house eager and hopeful. I wanted to get to the parking lot about thirty minutes before Jack. Unfortunately, as I drove to our meeting spot, I turned on the radio and heard that Keith Whitley had died.
“Oh my God! This can’t be!”
As I recall, the DJ was careful to say the report was not yet confirmed but it appeared to be accurate. I drove to Jack’s office, where I found Jo, in tears. Stan Barnett, another agent there, was also crying over the tragedy. A moment later, Kari arrived. She’d tried to catch me on the road.
All of Nashville and country music fans around the world cried a river of tears that day. A great talent had left the world, and needless to say, the meeting never happened.
I was due onstage at the Ragtime at 8 p.m., and I had a six-hour drive ahead of me.
By noon, I was in my car, heading north. I drove in a trance. When I got to Morehead, Kentucky, close to Keith Whitley’s hometown of Sandy Hook, I tuned the radio to WCTR, and through the static of the signal coming in, I heard their tribute to Keith. When they played “I’m No Stranger to the Rain,” I shed a tear. How could I not?
As I went along, I gave myself a talking-to. Though, to be honest, what I was hearing was that voice within. But since I had just passed the Sandy Hook exit, I imagined Keith was talking to me: “Hope I didn’t mess you up, hillbilly. I just want to tell you that you’re out of control. You don’t need that whiskey tonight. Don’t be like me. Pull yourself together.” I wish I could tell you that I’d imagined that voice. But I knew it was for real when I heard one more thing: “You got to be there for Jack. Jack’s going to need you.”
Holy shit, I thought I was done hearing voices. I guess not.
I didn’t stop drinking or partying that night or anytime soon, but at the Ragtime, where the smell of beer and whiskey greeted me like a somber handshake, I opened my set with “I’m No Stranger to the Rain”—and boy, those words never rang more true.
CHAPTER 16
“Some Gave All”
TALK ABOUT A HELL of a week. It was early summer, and after my fourth set on Wednesday night I lingered at the club and partied all night. It was still early when I got to my house; the sun was just starting to crack the morning sky.
As I pulled into the driveway, I saw a bunch of stuff piled up in the front. It looked like Cindy was preparing for a garage sale, until I looked closer and saw that all my worldly possessions were on the grass. I guessed Cindy was pissed. OK, more than pissed. As I stared at the pile, I saw my neighbor leave his house and walk to his car, heading for work. He was wearing a suit, and I was in the clothes I’d worn onstage the night before, reeking of alcohol and whatever else.
Our cat, Mr. Sly, was also watching me fro
m the front window. He seemed to be saying, “Man, you really blew it this time.”
This wasn’t my first time rolling in late. Cindy and I had different schedules. I’d sleep in the morning and get up around three or four in the afternoon. Then I’d hit the gym and wait for Cindy, who got home around 5:30. She’d make dinner, we’d eat, then she got in bed, and I’d go to the Ragtime.
It was complicated, and now, with my belongings on the front lawn, my life was even more complicated.
I sat in my car wondering where I was going to live. Two seconds later, I grabbed my microcassette recorder and began to sing:
Wher’m I gonna live when I get home?
My old lady’s thrown out everything I own.
She meant what she said
When she wished I was dead
So wher’m I gonna live when I get home?
I continued to sing and went into a verse.
I knew our road was gettin’ kind of rocky
She said I was gettin’ way too cocky
She waited till I was gone
She packed from dusk till dawn
So wher’m I gonna live when I get home?
I grabbed my guitar and strolled into the house as if nothing had changed. I sat beside my cat, Mr. Sly, and pulled out my recorder and wrote the last verse.
She decided she would keep my cat
My transportation, I wouldn’t be needin’ that
She kept my TV, the bills she gave to me
So wher’m I gonna live when I get home?
After playing the song from front to end, I pleaded with Cindy to let me stay and promised we’d deal with the situation later. I also gave her half writer’s credit for settin’ my stuff out in the yard. “If you hadn’t a done that, I wouldn’t have wrote this song,” I said. She liked that, but still cussed me out before getting ready for work, which seemed to make her and me feel a little better.
Then I carried my stuff back inside, took a bath, and slept until later that afternoon.
When Cindy came home that night, I was waiting with burgers on the grill for dinner. I told her that she was right. No doubt about it, I was an asshole. She smiled, and for a moment things seemed a little better.
I was mad at myself and depressed when I got to the gig. It was Thursday, and I was still mildly hungover from the previous night, or rather earlier that morning. As I sat in my dressing room (which was really a closet for kitchen and cleaning supplies), I had to decide whether to power up to the next level or deal with feeling miserable. I had a guitar in my hand, as usual, and began to play; I also began to sing, and within a few minutes I had written the song “She’s Not Cryin’ Anymore.”
She used to cry when I’d come home late
She couldn’t buy the lies I told
All she wanted was to be needed
Someone that she could call her own
The love I know I took for granted
Until she walked out of my door
Too little too late to say I’m sorry
’Cause she’s not cryin’ anymore.
She’s not cryin’ anymore
She ain’t lonely any longer
There’s a smile upon her face
A new love takes my place
She’s not cryin’ anymore.
Between sets, Terry Shelton, my guitarist, followed me back into my dressing room and we had something good rolled up, which was always a ripe time for me to let things hang out. I told him what had happened between Cindy and me and then sang what I’d written. He loved it. Me, him, and Buddy Cannon wrote another verse and it would become another hit off that first album.
Both Friday and Saturday went by without me writing anything. In lieu of songs, I sobered up. On Sunday, I was between the third and fourth sets when I saw a stranger at the bar. Sunday night crowds tended to be light, and I usually recognized everyone there for the late shows. Hell, from playing there five nights a week, I pretty much knew everyone who set foot in the place. But this night was one of the sparest I’d seen. In fact, I saw an empty stool at the bar next to this stranger, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing an empty barstool. Or that guy.
Intrigued, I walked up to the bar for the first and only time since plugging in at the Ragtime that evening. I ordered a cold beer and said, “How you doing, sir? I’m Billy Ray Cyrus.”
He stuck out his hand: “I’m Sandy Kane.”
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” I said.
He told me he was from Sandy Hook, Kentucky.
“I know Sandy Hook,” I said, immediately thinking back to Keith Whitley. After a moment, I asked, “You’re a Vietnam veteran, aren’t you?”
I had a feeling. Something about the way he looked. His eyes said the most. He opened up and talked about it a little, and I listened intently.
As he finished, the bartender gave me the sign. My break was up.
“I got one more set,” I said. “You got any songs you want to hear?”
He thought for a moment.
“Man, you know any Skynyrd?”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“Bob Seger?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Credence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’d be perfect for me.”
After rounding up the band, I explained what was what and led them through a superset of Skynyrd, Seger, and Credence. We ended on a powerful version of “Call Me the Breeze.” When I came offstage, Sandy Kane was at the bar, still sitting on his stool, only this time he had a big old smile in the middle of his grizzled face.
“Thank you,” he said. “That was a gift.”
“Hey, thanks for your service,” I said. “Thanks for going to Vietnam. I knew a guy who came back and didn’t have any legs. He was a schoolteacher from our area.”
Sandy nodded.
“You know what they say. All gave some, and some gave all.”
He shook my hand again and walked away.
Instead of partying that night, I got in my Chevy Beretta and drove home, feeling a bit mellow and kind of sad. US 52 was empty. It was like a dark asphalt snake running parallel to the Ohio River illuminated under a sliver of silver moon.
If I hadn’t reached into the glove compartment for my recorder, I probably would’ve completely forgotten that I was in a car, that’s how far away my head was as I told myself the story of meeting Sandy Kane.
“He wanted to hear Credence, Seger, and Skynyrd,” I said, speaking into the recorder. We gave him a double shot of our southern best, and when he left, he said, “All gave some, and some gave all.”
The recorder was going, so I just started singing to the melody I heard in my head. I thought back to a statue I used to see when I was a kid, somewhere we used to travel to when we played football. It was a monument to veterans. I could still see it in my mind. It read: All Gave Some, Some Gave All.
I knew a man called him Sandy Kane
Few folks even knew his name
But a hero yes was he
Left a boy, came back a man
Still many just don’t understand
About the reasons we are free
I can’t forget the look in his eyes
Or the tears he cried
As he said these words to me
All gave some, and some gave all
Some stood through for the red, white, and blue
And some had to fall
And if you ever think of me
Think of all your liberties and recall
Some gave all
Now Sandy Kane is no longer here
But his words are oh so clear
As they echo throughout our land
For all his friends who gave us all
Who stood the ground and took the fall
To help their fellow man
Love your country and live with pride
And don’t forget those who died
America, can’t you see
All gave some, and some gave al
l
And some stood through for the red, white, and blue
And some had to fall
And if you ever think of me
Think of all your liberties and recall
Some gave all
And if you ever think of me
Think of all your liberties and recall,
Yes recall
Some gave all
Some gave all.
I finished without pausing. I never wrote a word on paper. All of it came out as a piece. I was so freaked out that I woke up Cindy. Breathless, I sat on the side of the bed with my guitar in my lap. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said.
Instead of telling her what had happened, I sang her the song. When I finished, I asked what she thought of it. She wiped her eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
I knew “Some Gave All” was different from my other songs. From that night on, it felt like it was my child. It was part of me. It became my mantra and my attitude toward life. I knew the song was special, so the next day I drove to Flatwoods to play it for my mom, who had the best set of ears of anybody I knew.
After playing “Some Gave All” for her and seeing her reaction, I was even more confident about the song. I knew what I had to do: give it to Charlie Daniels. He was such a big supporter of Vietnam veterans I thought it was a natural for him, and he might even make it a hit.
My mom said, “That song is going to change your life.” I told her about my Charlie Daniels idea. “He’ll record it and I’ll be a songwriter,” I said.
“Oh no, Billy,” she replied. “I love Charlie. But that’s your song.” She shook her head. “That song is meant for you.”
“But—” I started to say.
“No, you are not giving it to him,” she interrupted. “Do not give it to him. That is your song. I have a feeling about it.”
A couple of weeks later, my mom ended up riding with me to Charlie’s concert in Beckley. She hadn’t seen me perform in a long time, and she really did love Charlie Daniels and his sound. She said the way he played the fiddle reminded her of her dad, my papaw Casto. What she didn’t know, though, was that I had made a demo of “Some Gave All” on my four-track and, despite her “feeling,” planned to give it to Charlie. I was obsessed with that; the song was going to bust me through the doors in Nashville.
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