Hillbilly Heart

by Billy Ray Cyrus

  The tabloids got on my butt, too. One of them claimed I’d been a Chippendales dancer when I lived in California. Then, right after I signed up to open several dates for Dolly Parton, the Globe put the two of us on their cover, claiming we were lovers. That was funny. I hadn’t even met Dolly yet.

  Before the first show, I asked Jack if he could arrange for me to meet her. I showed up at her dressing room with the tabloid in my hand. Dolly was wearing a beautiful blue dress that looked like it was made out of diamonds.

  “Hi, I’m Billy Ray Cyrus,” I stammered. “I wanted to come say hi and apologize for this.”

  I handed her the tabloid.

  “Honey, don’t you apologize for that.” Dolly laughed. “That shit sells records.”

  The tabloids did get one story right: On April 8, I became the father of Christopher Cody Cyrus. His mother was Kristen Luckey, a twenty-three-year-old waitress I met the previous summer when we performed at Cowboys in Myrtle Beach. They also reported Tish was pregnant, too. It was a double bubble of trouble.

  The timing was not ideal. But the only plan that mattered was God’s plan, and I accepted that.

  I was on the road through midsummer. In July, my second single, “Could’ve Been Me,” began its climb to No. 1. I spent the last three weeks of that month recording songs for my second album at Nashville’s Music Mill. Then I was back on the road.

  In August, upon receiving my first substantial check, I immediately paid off my twelve-year-old student loan from Morehead (it’s the only debt I’ve ever had in my life—and it bugged the crap out of me) and then got my mom to a dentist. Poor Ruth had spent years trying not to smile because she hated her teeth. Her smile was the best investment I ever made. I also purchased my first home, a log house on seven acres about thirty minutes outside Nashville. Jack had found it for me.

  “I think you’ll like this, my boy,” he said as we drove there.

  He was right.

  “Do I have the money to pay for this?” I asked.

  “I think you do,” he said.

  The owner was a quiet man who had served in Vietnam and let me know he appreciated my song about veterans. As he showed us around, I saw the property also included a barn. Inside was a horse, an Appaloosa named Roam. I rubbed his face.

  “Does the horse come with the house?” I asked.

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” he said. “But something tells me you and that horse are going to get along.”

  He was right. When I moved in, he left me a housewarming gift—an old piece of wood for over the fireplace onto which he’d carved SOME GAVE ALL. It was beautiful. With my own home, a barn, and a horse, I felt blessed. Then I bought a fully loaded Corvette and a truck. The funny part was that I was never around to enjoy any of it.

  During one stretch, I went to twelve countries in ten days. I saw both the Grand Canyon and the Eiffel Tower from the window of a plane. On another stretch, I appeared on The Arsenio Hall Show, performed in Bakersfield, and sang the national anthem at Game One of the World Series in Atlanta.

  I remember getting calls from Tish and my mom and my dad wanting to know where I was. I just said, “On a different planet.” It was true. I would wake up going, “What day is this? Where am I?”

  Truth was, I was where I was supposed to be. After a show in Dayton, Ohio, I was signing autographs when a woman with a young boy in tow grabbed a hold of me. “My seven-year-old boy is autistic and never spoke a word until a couple of months ago,” she said. “Then I heard him singing ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ in the living room!”

  I felt my heart fill with joy. Hearing this kind of thing put me in a place where I knew I was part of a larger purpose.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Randy,” his mother said. “He’s started to talk all the time. But the first words out of his mouth were achy breaky heart.”

  Then there was Heaven Leigh Yarborough, an eighteen-month-old girl with cerebral palsy from Cleveland, Tennessee, who I’ll never forget. Doctors said she’d never walk, but Heaven took her first steps after watching the video for “Achy Breaky Heart.” As her mother, Marjorie, told me, her doctors thought it was a fluke. Then she bought the video and Heaven stood up and walked again.

  Throughout the rest of the year, I scheduled a special meet and greet at each show. Sometimes there were hundreds and hundreds of people, and within each group there was always someone with a special story—a miracle if you will—about someone who’d found a connection to a higher power through the music. As much as it affected their lives, it also left a permanent impression on me, one I carry with me to this day. It’s part of who I am.

  By the end of 1992, I had put out two more singles, “Could’ve Been Me” and “Wher’m I Gonna Live.” I felt like I might never get off my tour bus. In fact, on the back was a mural of my red truck parked at home, and beneath it were the words “Where’m I Gonna Live When I Get Home?” But I’ll tell you what I realized as I crisscrossed the country, singing my songs and hearing people’s stories. I was home.

  CHAPTER 20

  Good Advice

  IN NOVEMBER 1992, I was on a sold-out tour in the United States and Europe. I was scheduled to take a break in the middle of December so I could be with Tish when she was due to give birth to our child. I wanted to be at the hospital with her even though she kept saying she only wanted her mom, Loretta, and would call me when it was time. “I’ve been through this before,” she said. “There are just too many nasty things going on in that room for me to want anyone but my mother with me.”

  Fine with me. We talked multiple times a day while I was on the road. But as soon as my plane touched down in Nashville, on November 23, I received a fax from Jack McFadden. It said, “Baby girl Cyrus born.” Shocked, I called Tish and instead got a hold of her mother, who told me that while I was in the air Tish’s doctor had decided to induce her. He’d feared some complications and, to be completely forthcoming, there were some. But the net result was that Tish and I had a baby girl.

  When Tish got on the phone, she said she’d been through so much, I should go straight home and come to the hospital the next day. I said, “Are you crazy? I’m on my way. I’m coming to see you guys. I’ll be right there.” And that’s just what I did. I went straight to the hospital.

  Tish was weak and our baby was in an incubator on 100 percent oxygen, but I’ll tell you, both of them were beautiful, and their spirits were strong, and after about eight days, both of them were able to go home with me to the log cabin, where we celebrated Thanksgiving, albeit a few days late. There was no question we had a lot to be thankful for.

  Despite arriving three weeks early, our little girl was perfect. She had ten fingers, ten toes, and eyes that were brighter than all the stars in the sky combined.

  As for her name, I’d had sensed early in Tish’s pregnancy we were going to have a baby girl, and I’d said, “It’s going to be that child’s destiny to bring hope into the world.” Once my premonition proved correct, I knew only one name fit her, and that was Destiny Hope. I had no doubt it was the perfect name—that is, until I saw her for the first time.

  “Look at her!” I said. “She’s smiling!”

  She was always smiling. No newborn that I knew of had ever seemed so happy to have arrived in this world. Every time I held her, I seemed to say, “Oh look, she’s smiling.” Then I came up with this little rhyme: “Smiley Miley, puddin’ piley, kissed the boys and made ’em miley.” I don’t know what it meant. But soon I called her “Smiley.” Then we dropped the “S” and called her Miley. Before we knew it, that’s all anyone called her, Miley… Miley Cyrus.

  It’s funny—and I’m going to jump ahead here—but one day, after she started first grade, she came home with a note from the teacher. It read, “Destiny Hope will only sign her name as Miley. Is that what you call her? If so, is that OK?” We replied, “Yes, we call her Miley.” And that’s when it became official.

  Anyway, after she was born, I moved Tish
and Miley, and Brandi and Trace from her mom’s house into my log home. I wanted everyone to be comfortable. As for me, going from bachelor to chief bottle-warmer was an easier transition than I would have imagined. From the get-go, I embraced daddy duties. Not only did I change her diapers, I took the responsibility to an extreme. One night, after coming in from the road, with my hours screwed up and unable to sleep, I drove my Corvette to the Kroger and bought every baby diaper they had in the store. I got every size, too, from newborn, to three to six months, to those for a year old. Whatever they had, I bought it.

  Then, because my Corvette had no backseat or trunk space, I made a bunch of trips back and forth between the store and our house. By the time I had finished stacking them in the garage, I had built an impressive wall, the best defense against baby poop in Tennessee. Tish was wide-eyed when she saw it the next morning.

  “What the hell?” she said.

  “Look,” I said, grinning, as I pointed to a row. “These are for six-month-olds.”

  “But Miley’s barely two months,” Tish said.

  “She’ll grow into ’em,” I said.

  Fatherhood shaped all aspects of my life. On the road, I was the lucky recipient of much affection from fans. At shows, they threw flowers and stuffed animals onstage. Afterward, I gathered them up, massive amounts, and I dropped them off at whatever children’s hospital was nearby. My tour bus rolled up on our way out of town. I did this for years. If my life was about sharing God’s light and love, this was the icing on the cake. Those nights I stopped at the children’s hospital were some of the most gratifying of my life.

  When I came off the road, I craved solitude, a place to recharge and be alone with Tish and the kids, and live the normal life that gave rise to my songs. I had some money coming in and, of course, more than a few advisors telling me what I should do with it. But as a guy who grew up with nothing, I didn’t trust anyone with my money. The only thing I trusted was land. I could see it. I could stand on it. And, since I consider myself part Indian, I figured I’d notice if someone tried to steal it.

  So when two homes next to mine went up for sale, both of them A-frames, I bought them, along with another thirty-two adjacent acres on a hill overlooking Franklin and Nashville.

  The setup was perfect. Tish, the kids, and I moved into the larger of the two A-frames, Tish’s mom moved into the other, and I turned the log house into a gym / office / recording studio.

  My spending spree didn’t end there. The record company had given me a Harley with all the bells and whistles; I turned around and bought the same bike, dressed to the nines, for every member in my band. I also paid off my mom and Cletis’s house at 2317 Long Street. Then I paid off my dad and Joan’s house.

  Many of these stories were told when People magazine named me one of their 50 Most Intriguing People of the Year, and ABC followed me at home for a TV special that aired the following February. One story that wasn’t told: On New Year’s Eve, I headlined Bally’s in Las Vegas, and during the day, the world record for the longest line dance ever was set as part of a radio promotion. I witnessed it. Afterward, I remembered that the fortuneteller at the Sand Bar had envisioned me in Vegas with “many people dancing.” Here it was, happening right in front of me. I felt a chill.

  In January 1993—the same month Mercury released “She’s Not Cryin’ Anymore,” the fourth single off my album—I attended the American Music Awards in Los Angeles. I was nominated in four categories and went home with awards for Favorite Country Single and Favorite Country New Artist. It was unbelievable.

  One month later, I was seated behind Michael Jackson and Elizabeth Taylor at the Grammys. Michael was receiving the Grammy Legend Award. Even though I had several nominations, I was too tongue-tied to say anything to the King of Pop. During the show, though, I heard something hit the floor and roll to a stop. I looked down and saw a dime by my shoe. I ignored it until I noticed Michael going through his pockets. I picked up the dime and held it over his shoulder.

  “Are you looking for this?” I asked.

  Damned if he wasn’t.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the dime in his ungloved hand.

  I looked at Jack McFadden, who was next to me.

  “Why does Michael Jackson have a dime in his pocket?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged. Who knew?

  To be honest, I thought it was even weirder for me to be included in a show with Eric Clapton, Celine Dion, and other superstars. A year earlier, I had begged Mercury to release my album. Eight months earlier, I had been playing the Executive Inn, keeping one eye on the TV above the bar so I could see if my video played. Now I was seated among Elton John, Mariah Carey, Don Henley, and Tina Turner.

  Like everyone else, I knew Eric Clapton was going to sweep the Grammys that year. I understood. He was up for “Tears in Heaven” and Unplugged, both masterpieces.

  I knew I wasn’t going to win a Grammy. But what the heck? A year before, I’d been living out of my car. I wanted to give thanks to God for allowing me to live this dream—and part of that dream was just having my name in the same sentence with Eric Clapton’s.

  I’d be the first to applaud the deep emotions of love and loss that “Tears in Heaven” evoked in people, including me. I love the song and even recorded it. I said my thanks by wearing a T-shirt that had JOHN 3:16 written across the front.

  The next day I got on an airplane whose first-class section included Tina Turner and Bob Seger. Before I buckled my seat belt, I unfolded my newspaper. The headline read CYRUS BIG LOSER. I stared at that paper, stunned and embarrassed. I felt a hand upon my shoulder. My first thought was, it was God. It wasn’t. But it was close. It was Bob Seger. “Put that thing underneath your seat where it belongs,” he said.

  I thanked him and then turned into a fan, letting him know how much his song “Turn the Page” meant to me. It was one of the most influential songs in my life.

  “Hang in there, man,” he said. “Play your music. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  Good advice.

  Between tour dates, I poured myself into finishing my second album, It Won’t Be the Last. Studio days were precious, and Seger’s advice stayed in my head. Producers Jim Cotton and Joe Scaife and the guys in Sly Dog often stayed with me in the Music Mill for days at a time, through marathon sessions. We knew there was pressure, that people were going to judge this second album, but we tried to keep that out of mind. Every day when we came into the studio, we high-fived each other and said, “Keep the music first.”

  That was our slogan: Keep the music first. I loved the album we made, especially when you consider that the days I wasn’t in the studio, my ass was strapped to a rocket, going around the world at the speed of sound and also trying to get to know my new baby girl. I thought the album reflected my diverse interests, especially songs such as “Throwing Stones,” which I’d written after “Some Gave All,” and the title track, “It Won’t Be the Last.” The highlight was bringing in the Jordanaires, the vocal quartet that had backed Elvis Presley, to sing harmonies on the song “When I’m Gone.” I felt shivers when I looked up and saw Ray Walker and the others and felt their history.

  My dad was a devout fan of the Jordanaires and drove in from Frankfort just to watch the session. At one point, I glanced at him in the control room and saw him gasp in amazement. Success brought a lot of privileges and opportunities like this, and the best part was being able to share it with my dad.

  In June, my album was released. I refused to let the label put my picture on the cover, insisting they use a silhouette of my profile instead. The record company wanted to see my face. “I’m tired of my face,” I told ’em. We had a pretty heated argument, but I wanted the attention to be about my music, not my looks or my hair or anything else, and in the end, though they weren’t happy, I prevailed.

  It Won’t Be the Last debuted at No. 1 on the country charts and No. 2 on the Billboard 100. Once again, the critics weren’t impressed, but the fans were; by t
he fall, it had gone platinum and produced four hit singles: “In the Heart of a Woman,” “Somebody New,” “Words by Heart,” and “Talk Some.”

  Jack put me on the road for the rest of the year, starting with the annual CMA Fan Fair where I invited Bryan Adams to join me onstage for a few songs. It didn’t help me fit into Nashville’s idea of a country music star, but what the hell. I had been a big fan of his for a long time, and it turned out he liked me. Before the show, I received a note inviting me to jam. I thought it sounded too good to be true, but I decided to call the bluff. Only it wasn’t bluff. I looked up and here he came. I didn’t give a shit if some people had a problem with that, which they did. I wanted to be known for playing all styles of music, not just one kind of music.

  Let me just say, Bryan came out and we rocked ’em hard. We did a rock-stomp version of “Achy Breaky Heart” and Sly Dog kicked straight into “They Call Me the Breeze.”

  Bryan had one of my favorite producers in the world with him—and also one of the best—Mutt Lange. He’d produced some bands, including AC/DC, Def Leppard, and Foreigner. Before the show, we were hanging out in my tour bus and Mutt was staring out the front window, toward the audience. He spotted a beautiful, dark-haired young woman. She stood out in the sea of people. “Who’s that girl out there?” he asked. “I gotta meet her. I’m gonna marry that woman.”

  “That’s Shania Twain,” I said. “Harold Shedd just signed her. She’s really talented.”

  Moments later, Mutt was off the bus and on his way. Not long after that, Shania and Mutt got married.

  Meanwhile, my tour bus crisscrossed the county. In this world before BlackBerrys and cell phones, I was in the bubble, isolated from everything but music. It was a gratifying, lonely, strange world of songs, shows, fans, and the double yellow line of highway. One night, somewhere out west, my bus pulled into the back of an arena. It was about 1 a.m. and I walked inside to look around and get the vibe of the place.