When I flew out from California, I found him in bed—although the man I saw there bore very little resemblance to my dad. Propped up on his pillows, he looked me in the eye and told me that he had been diagnosed with mesothelioma, a rare but virulent form of the disease that’s caused by exposure to asbestos. It’s like lung cancer but worse.
Back when he was in the Kentucky legislature, my dad had fought hard to get an experimental cancer-fighting drug called Laetrile legalized. It was made from apricot seeds. At the time, desperate people were going to Mexico to get it. The bill didn’t pass, but it was the hardest thing I’d ever seen my dad fight for and lose, until he began his own battle against cancer.
Against my wishes, he decided on treatment with the world’s leading specialist in mesothelioma at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. Why was I against it? Chemotherapy. Although I understood that his doctor was number one, I’d never seen chemo do anything but tear people down. I didn’t know how much time he had left, but I knew I wanted it to be quality time.
My dad appreciated my opinion. He investigated all the alternatives I provided. In the end, though, it was his call.
Meanwhile, Disney picked up the Hannah Montana pilot and ordered a series. We moved out west. I sold the land on Snead Road—the A-frames and the log cabin—for the exact amount we spent on a house with a little red door in La Cañada, a nice family neighborhood in the hills above Pasadena. I had sticker shock from that transaction. I’d traded thirty-two lush, green acres of pure heaven for a sandbox in the desert. Such was real estate in La-la-land. But Tish and the kids loved that new house, and I was content as long as I didn’t owe anyone a dime, which I didn’t.
As we started making episodes, I visited my dad at the hospital in Boston. One weekend in the late fall we watched a baseball game together. I played him the songs I wrote for Left-handed. He got a kick out of “I Want My Mullet Back.” “Kids are going to love that,” he said. He was right, too. It was on Hannah Montana, and the kids thought it was great. The last song I ever played him was called “Hey Daddy.” It was off the Joe album. As he listened to it, especially a part in the beginning of the track when you can hear a little girl playing in the background, I saw a tear come down his cheek. “Is that Noah in the beginning?” he said in a weak voice, because by then he was on heavy chemo. I said, “Yeah,” and we held each other’s gaze. He enjoyed one last Christmas and New Year’s. But while I never gave up hope and he never quit battling, he faded quickly.
My dad, the former steel-mill worker who went back to school and served eleven terms in the Kentucky House of Representatives, died on February 28, 2006.
We were on the Hannah set, filming what was the twelfth episode. Titled “On the Road Again,” the story had Miley realizing that her dad Robbie Ray had once been a famous country star before quitting his career to focus on hers. She plots to get him back on the road again, and the story culminates with Miley and her brother, Jackson (Jason Earles), surprising Robbie at his gig. And guess what they help him sing? “I Want My Mullet Back.” All of them wear mullet wigs, too.
Right before we began shooting the last scene—the performance of “I Want My Mullet Back”—someone from production called me over to the side and said I had an emergency call from home. I said, “It’s my dad, ain’t it?”
They said, “Yeah. He passed away.”
I had to tell Miley. I didn’t think it was fair to shoot the scene and break the news to her afterward. She’d seen them tell me, and she knew. She came to me, and I held her, not saying anything, just holding her. Finally, she said, “It’s Pappy, isn’t it?” I nodded, and the two of us sat on the side of the stage for a while, staring quietly into a fog of sadness.
Some of the producers came by and said they understood we probably needed to leave. We could pick up the following week, whenever we were ready. I appreciated that and thought about what we should do. Miley watched me, as kids do, knowing me better than I knew myself.
“What would Pappy say?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know,” I said.
“I do,” she said. “Tell me.”
“He’d say, ‘The show must go on.’”
Miley high-fived me and stood up like a four-star general, calling out, “Come on, people! We got a show to do!” And we did the last scene.
After finishing the episode, Miley and I drove home in my old gray Range Rover. The whole family met up at the house and I got a private plane to take us back to Kentucky for the service and burial.
Unbeknownst to Tish or any of the kids, I packed the mullet wig I’d worn on the Hannah Montana episode. I knew there might be some sad moments with the family in the hotel and I wanted that wig in case the kids needed a lift, which they did.
On the morning of my dad’s funeral, everybody was pretty distraught. As we got ready in our hotel room, some of the kids were crying and the others were on the brink. I slipped into the bathroom to get dressed for the service and came out wearing that mullet, acting like everything was normal. The family stared at me like, Are you kidding? But it lifted their spirits a little. It was something my dad would’ve done, and for that moment he was there, in that room, smiling with us.
After the service, I drove from the church to the cemetery to help lay my dad in the ground. He loved my property and the view from Spirit Mountain, but he wanted to be buried with his mom and dad at the Cyrus family cemetery in Louisa, Kentucky. However, when I got there, I saw they had dug a hole on the wrong side of the hill.
It turned out some family members didn’t like the scenery from where he would’ve laid next to his mom and dad and brothers and sisters, so they put him elsewhere. I went ballistic. The reason he wanted his final resting spot there was to be next to his mom and dad.
“We can’t do this now, Bo,” one of my relatives told me. “The hole has been dug. Everyone is here. The service must go on.”
I was so mad I didn’t know what to say and, to be honest, I’ll probably never get over it. I still get upset thinking about it. But a good friend once comforted me by reminding me my dad isn’t there: “He’s in Heaven with his mom and dad and sisters and brothers. It doesn’t matter what side of the hill he’s on. He made it to the top of the mountain. He’s home.”
About a week later, I had to go back to my farm to take care of a few things. I noticed the light on the phone answering machine was blinking. I hit PLAY and heard a message my dad had left after one of my visits with him the previous fall. He said that he’d enjoyed seeing me, hoped the TV series went well, and mentioned something about being able to hear all those cheers from right over that wall at Fenway Park.
“I’m doing fair to middlin’,” he said. “I’m OK. Bye-bye now, buddy… I love ya…”
CHAPTER 29
Dancing Fool
IN THE WAKE OF losing my dad, I realized his wisdom would always be a part of me, like my mom’s sense of humor, the music I grew up hearing and loving from as far back as I can remember, the voices I heard and let guide me, as did my papaw and my dad—and, well, it always came back to music. It always would.
Even with a hit TV series, I was still about the music. No matter which direction my career headed, I’d always call myself a singer-songwriter. As Hannah Montana took off, I saw an opportunity to marry acting and music. I had a satchel full of songs for my Left-handed album, and Disney had their own country music label, Lyric Street Records. It was a perfect example of synergy. I saw it as clear as the Big Dipper above my Tennessee farm on a cloudless night.
Except Lyric didn’t bite. I couldn’t figure out why. The songs were there. The TV show was red-hot. Old Robbie Ray (aka me) had a whole new audience. All the pieces were in place for a hit.
Hurt and disappointed, I signed with New Door Records, a small subsidiary of Universal Music. Was it a perfect match? No. But desperate men do desperate things, and I loved my music so much I was willing to get it out at almost any cost.
The cost ended up being signi
ficant. The New Door executives insisted on changes that erased the album’s rootsy flavor and emotional rawness. Remember, this album began with me wailing on my guitar in my Toronto hotel room: “I want my mullet back…” But if I wanted to get the album out, I had no choice but to buy into their plan.
So we removed what I thought was the coolest part of “Wanna Be Your Joe” and changed the mix. We also gave “Country Music Has the Blues” a new slick sound. Then we dropped an old Mike Murphy tune called “Appalachian Lady” and a cover of Elvis Presley’s “One Night with You” and instead added several new songs.
By the time we mixed, it had turned into a much different record than the one I’d envisioned. Even the name of the album was changed. Now it was called Wanna Be Your Joe.
Why did I agree to such compromises? Well, I had already begun writing my next album and I couldn’t move forward creatively until those songs were released. It’s the way my creativity flows—or doesn’t.
Wanna Be Your Joe was released in July 2006. Neither of the two singles released even charted. It was the same old story: radio didn’t care. I would’ve been destroyed if not for the fans. Regardless of what the industry thought, they helped the album debut at No. 24 on Billboard’s Top Country Albums chart and proved there was an appetite for my music.
Indeed, the music lived; it had a life of its own. I went on the road, and the band was rockin’ and so were the fans, and that made every date on the whole summer tour worthwhile.
From my opening concert to the last sold-out show, at the Santa Monica Pier in September, I enjoyed the hell out of being on stage and seeing moms and dads and their moms and dads and little kids having as much fun as me.
One day, after the tour was finished, I was back home on the farm, visiting my mom. She was watching the news on TV and a story popped up about a local Special Forces soldier named James Ponder who’d been killed in Afghanistan. He left behind a wife and two daughters. Something about their family touched me and I told my brother Mick, who helps me with stuff, to reach out to them and ask if they would like me to perform “Some Gave All” at his service. As soon as they replied, I was on my way.
At the service, I found out James had been a great daddy, an avid baseball fan, and a turkey hunter. Afterward, his wife and daughters gave me his dog tags as a remembrance.
Well, the following October, I was invited to sing the national anthem at the sixth game of the World Series in St. Louis. The Cardinals were playing the Detroit Tigers. Before leaving L.A. for the game, I remembered the young war hero had been a Cardinals fan. I slipped on his dog tags and wore them when I sang. His family appreciated the tribute; even better, the Cardinals won the series.
Later, I hung his dog tags on a tree at home near my teepee where a flock of wild turkeys hung out. They’re still there.
They may be the only things from that time period that stayed put. In November 2006, Miley’s Hannah Montana soundtrack album rocketed to No. 1. A day later, six songs from the album hit the charts—a record! No other artist had ever accomplished that feat.
We were beyond proud. Disney executive Gary Marsh reacted with an I-told-you-so grin. Explaining her appeal to the media, he said she had the likability of Hilary Duff and the talent of Shania Twain. Of course, the Disney machine had also launched Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Justin Timberlake, and as far as I was concerned, Miley had the same qualities that made them superstars. She was exceptionally good and 100 percent unique.
Musically, she had been what I’d call a prodigy since she was a little girl asking my friends to teach her licks, and she’d gotten only better. She’d get up in the morning, ask me to fix her a cup of coffee “Pappy style,” which meant with lots of milk and sugar, and then we’d get in the car and sing all the way to work. To this day, she sings the hell out of Johnny Cash’s classic “A Boy Named Sue.” I wish y’all could hear her right now—or see me smiling as I think about it.
As a daddy, I enjoyed a special sense of awe and pride, watching Miley evolve into a world-class actress. She reminded me of a little Lucille Ball. In scenes where I had to laugh or smile at something she said, I’m laughing and smiling for real. I’m not good enough to fake it. She was always funny, and still is.
In those early days of the show, the writers watched the way Miley and I joked with each other and added it to the storyline. The humor on Hannah Montana was our real sense of humor. Miley would crack jokes about me, and I would put myself down. People laughed. Then she might take another swing at me. That was our shtick. We were daddy and daughter, best friends, and singing partners, and it played like a dream because it was genuine. I loved that in our serious world, brothers and sisters, moms and dads, papaws and mamaws, and aunts and uncles gathered around the TV and shared laughter. We were blessed for that to be our job.
But there was a price to pay for being a part of a phenomenon. No one knew that better than me. I’d seen the pitfalls of the circus; I’d stood in the center ring, and dang if the tent wasn’t pitched in my backyard again. Hell, it was inside my home.
Suddenly the Cyrus family was going in all directions, like Jiffy Pop on the stove.
Phones rang nonstop.
Agents asked for meetings.
Publicists arranged photo shoots, interviews, and appearances.
It was the same circus I’d been a part of before; same circus, different clowns.
But I got swept up in the excitement, too. I’m no different than anyone else. That kind of excitement is hard to resist. It’s impossible to resist. When you’re on a rocket like “Achy Breaky Heart” or Hannah Montana and it’s taking off, you only see opportunities. Everybody loves everybody. You don’t see there’s an elephant in the room that might get loose and stomp somebody’s brains out.
Here’s what we had in our favor. After the Hannah pilot had been shot and picked up, we had a week or so before we had to be in California to start making the series. Concerned about the abrupt and drastic changes our lives were about to undergo, Tish gathered everyone together in the kitchen and said, “This family is going to get baptized because we’re going to be under attack in Hollywood.”
That next Sunday, our car pulled up in front of the People’s Church of Franklin in Spring Hill. We went inside and Trace, Miley, Braison, Noah, and Tish all took a dip proclaiming Jesus Christ the Son of God. Brandi had already been baptized. When my turn came, I asked the pastor, Rick White, a remarkable man, if I should do it since I’d also been baptized back when I was in high school.
“If you feel like you need to, go ahead,” he said.
I stepped forward.
“I feel like I need to,” I said. “A second dip surely couldn’t hurt.”
Tish’s premonition was right on. Soon after Hannah premiered, our little house with the red door became a tourist attraction. Our doorbell rang nonstop. We moved to a larger place up the hill where we had more protection from the constant traffic and intrusions. But things continued to get crazy. One day Tish took Miley to the mall to get some new clothes, and within a few minutes the store was overrun with fans. Mall security closed the doors until the crowd could be cleared.
At home, we tried to keep life as normal as possible—at least we thought we did. We gave the kids chores and made sure we went to church on Sundays, but I suspect, in reality, we were holding on for dear life.
There weren’t a lot of child-star or show-business families to serve as role models. The studios and agencies didn’t hand out instruction manuals for parents. We did our best, but deep down both Tish and I knew normal was over. Miley was a worldwide superstar.
It took Tish and I working together to keep Miley grounded, and I think we did a good job. I just worried it wouldn’t last. One Sunday, we were in church and Miley drew a little heart on my hand. It was so sweet, but I grew sad thinking how fleeting that bond we had might be as she grew up. “You know what?” I said. “Today is your day to do whatever you want. This is going to be your day.”
Miley, who could be sweet or spiritual or wild as a buck, just like me, took my hand, pointed to the heart she’d drawn, and grinned with a mischievousness that made me worry.
“Let’s get that tattooed,” she said.
“All right,” I said. “You got a deal.”
A few hours later, we’d found a tattoo parlor in Pasadena and I had her little heart on my hand for life. When that was finished, she led me to a hair salon on Ventura Boulevard called Whackos and gave the lady there instructions on how to style my big old head of hair. I left there with the craziest rock-and-roll highlights and a lasting memory of the two of us giggling till we were gasping for breath.
Like I said, I’m far from being a perfect father. But we spent time together that day. We lived and we laughed, and that was my goal. You don’t forget those times, and I haven’t.
Other memories are bittersweet. For instance, Miley was invited to a dance at a friend’s school. After a long day of taping, Tish and I drove her there, hoping she’d have the sort of fun we remembered from school events. Tish had bought her a dress and done her hair, and she looked adorable, like a doll, as she followed other kids into the gym.
Tish and I held hands, watching in silence. I’m sure we shared the same thought. Miley had the same kind of double life as the character she played on TV. Well, almost.
“I think this is going to be as close to normal as she’ll ever know,” I said.
“At least she’ll have this,” Tish said.
And she did. Miley called that her “homecoming dance.”
As Hannah Montana began the second season, Disney asked if I would appear on Dancing with the Stars, the hit show on their TV network, ABC. It seemed like it could create some good synergy. Plus, I always loved a challenge and learning something new. At the time, following the recent loss of my dad, I needed to push myself to do something I was afraid to do. So I said yes.
I wish I would have factored in that I didn’t have a lick of dancing ability. The show’s producers said that didn’t matter. I knew better, but I did it anyway.
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