Right away, my band made my act better. I always knew what music they were playing, and if I started to get sick, they could keep the show going.
It’s not hard to find great musicians in Nashville. It’s the truth, the streets are packed with ’em. But I’ve got a certain kind of boy I like to hire—somebody who’s worked in the factories up North. They can appreciate being in my band a little more after working the shifts in the factories.
You take a boy like my lead guitar, Dave Thornhill. His daddy was a real coal miner in Kentucky, and then they moved up to Ohio, where he worked in a factory. On the weekends, he’d play in country music places and dream about going to Nashville. Finally, he chucked his job and moved to Nashville—broke, without a penny. He heard that I was looking to hire a guitar man, so he tried out.
I remember at the tryout, he looked familiar to me. I said, “Ain’t I seen you before?” And he said he used to back me up whenever I played in Columbus, Ohio. So I knew he could play my music. I listened to a few notes and told him to be on the bus with his bags packed in half an hour. Dave ain’t been off my bus since.
Dave is an important part of the show. He watches me real careful and makes sure the band is following me. If I break time or something, he breaks time right with me. He’s real proud of being my lead guitar man.
My boys get paid a straight salary, fifty-two weeks a year. Plus, they get six or eight weeks off after Christmas when I go to Mexico, and time off when I’m in Nashville. The only deal is, they have to be ready to go with me whenever we have a show. Most of ’em live in Nashville now. They bring their wives and kids around, and we get to know each other. I think a man works steadier when he’s got a good family.
Now the bus is nearly empty, except for a fellow from my record company. We talk business for a few minutes. Then Cal Smith gets on. Cal is one of the best singers in the business, and he’s been making this tour, along with Ernest Tubb and his band. Cal is from Oklahoma, and he used to be the front man for Ernest, so he’s having a great time with his old buddies.
“Where you been?” I ask him.
“On Ernest’s bus,” Cal says. He’s one of these people, you can never tell if he’s joking or serious.
“What you been doing?” I ask.
“Getting interviewed,” Cal says.
I decide not to ask him the details. It’s probably better I don’t know. Cal has been egging Ernest’s band and my band into all kinds of crazy stunts. Lately he’s been imitating the Wilburn Brothers, something he knows I don’t like. He’ll get on stage and talk with his hands up in the air—drives me crazy. Now he’s got my whole band doing it behind my back.
Last week my boys put Ernest’s bus up on jacks and it took ’em an hour to get it off. But Ernest’s boys paid us back. They’ve got this bus driver named Hoot who looks just like Gomer Pyle and talks like him, too. Me and Ernest are supposed to sing our big record, “Sweet Thang.” Well, last week they sent Hoot out in Ernest’s clothes, about three sizes too big. Hoot starts moving his lips and his hands, while Ernest was singing offstage. The audience thought it was hilarious but I was going crazy. The whole bunch of ’em is nuts.
Luckily, there’re a few normal people left in the world—I think. About 6:30 P.M., two of my fan-club presidents from Kentucky, Jean Powers and Martha McConnell, come pecking on my door. I give ’em a big hug and we talk about the old mountain days—they both grew up in eastern Kentucky—and the fan-club activity. They put out a newsletter, plugging all my new records. Whenever I get near Kentucky, they come visit me. I’ve got a rule that I only let fan-club presidents on the bus. That avoids a lot of hard feelings. I just can’t let everybody on—the insurance company won’t let us.
Around 7 P.M., Jim Webb pops in the bus and says Ernest’s show is just beginning. That means I’ve got about an hour to get ready. Martha and Jean are welcome to stay, but I’ve got to go in the back of the bus and work some miracles.
The back of the bus is about twelve feet long and six feet wide. That’s where I spend half my life, it seems. I’ve got two purple couches that open into one king-sized bed when Doolittle is around. Far in the back, I’ve got a Hollywood vanity and sink and makeup table. There’re bright fluorescent bulbs lighting everything up. I sit on a high-back swivel makeup chair that’s white with purple trim.
On the other side, there’s a closet holding over a hundred dresses. I make some, and some are shipped by Barbara Smith who works in my office and is a close friend. She does most of my shopping for me in Nashville so I never have to go into a store. She knows my size and what I like to wear. If I don’t like ’em, I just send ’em back. My dresses are size three or five, depending what time of year it is. After Mexico, I’m size five, or even seven. Late in the year, I’m down to size three.
I spend half an hour at the vanity, just making up. A writer named Carol Offen once asked me why I got dressed up so fancy in these days when a lot of women are wearing blue jeans and letting their hair just hang. I said that’s all right for other women, but I think my fans expect me to look a certain way. It’s part of my personality on stage. Also, I enjoy seeing me change from Loretta, the gal in jeans, to Loretta, the woman in the long gown. It’s a little like seeing one of the Hollywood stars appear before my own eyes. I guess my Mommy should never have let me sit looking at pictures of movie stars when I was a baby.
But lately I’ve been cutting down on all the phony stuff. I’m tired of all that work, pretending I’m something I ain’t. I’m tired of the rollers and the creams, the eyelash curlers, the lipsticks, the powder. I still use hot curlers to get my hair curly, then I spray it. I must use a truckload of it every year. I used to wear a fall made out of Korean hair, after some fans cut off my curls with a pocket knife. But the hairpiece was giving me a headache, so I gave it up this year. I don’t wear false eyelashes anymore. Too many fans were pulling them off. From now on, what you see is what I’ve got.
I keep fussing in front of the mirror, curl by curl. It still ain’t right, but there’s Jim Webb knocking at the door.
“Five minutes, Mom,” he says. Then he takes my arm and we rush off the bus, through a stage door, and we’re backstage. I take one look around me—same old theater, just like always, a few familiar faces backstage. Then I hear the announcer say, “Ladies and gentlemen, the first lady of country music, Miss Loretta Lynn.” And I see a spotlight out there, and I wobble out in my high-heel shoes, as clumsy as ever. Dave Thornhill kicks over the first notes to “Coal Miner’s Daughter” and we’re off.
We’ve been starting with the same four or five songs—“Coal Miner’s Daughter,” “The Squaw’s on the Warpath,” “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” “Me and Bobby McGee,” and “You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Man.”
It’s always the same songs, and sometimes people ask me if I get tired of singing ’em. Yes, I do. At first it’s good, but you go for years and you really get tired of ’em. But people want to hear your hit songs, so you’ve got to.
After the opening songs, I introduce my band. I never know what they’re going to do next. After we’re on the road a while, our biggest kick is making each other laugh. After it gets real bad, I’ll say, “Boys, you’d better pay your way in tomorrow, because you ain’t performing for the audience tonight.” But I’m as bad as they are.
It’s real dangerous when you’ve got a man like Don Ballinger around. Don’s my “front man”—the one with the big smile who warms up the audience at the start of the show. He’s always telling the audience how bad he’s paid, or he pretends he’s scouting for pretty girls in the crowd. He’s got his good points, though. When I’m not feeling well, he’ll start clowning around until I’ve got my strength back.
Tonight he starts talking about the girls he saw from the bus.
“There was a bunch of tanks,” Don says. “Real big ones. Sherman tanks.”
I put my hand in front of my face. Only one way to hush that boy up—that’s to sing. So we sing a few
numbers, then I introduce my other musicians. Gene Dunlap, our Louisiana piano man, sings in that deep “country soul” voice, just like a white Ray Charles. Then it’s time for me and Ernest to sing “Sweet Thang.”
You never know what’s gonna happen. But fortunately, there’s no stunt this time. And it ain’t Hoot, Ernest’s bus driver walking on stage, but it’s really Ernest. Thank goodness, because this is still one of my favorite songs.
Now we’re getting toward the end. I do “They Don’t Make ‘Em Like My Daddy.” But while I’m singing, I see my boys doing that Wilburn bit, talking with their hands again. That makes me so mad, I feel like walking off stage. But of course I finish the song and then “Love Is the Foundation” and, finally, “One’s on the Way.” But I don’t do any requests and I don’t do “God Bless America Again.” I just nod to Dave Thornhill that I’m finished, and they play the little hoedown number while I go offstage, still angry at them teasing me like they did. Ever since I broke with the Wilburns, I don’t like to see any of their mannerisms. My boys just do it for meanness.
Jim Webb takes my arm and escorts me back into the bus. I start slamming things around my bedroom while Martha and Jean ask me what’s wrong; and I tell them.
“They just do it for a joke,” Martha says.
“Well, it makes me mad,” I say.
“Don’t let it show,” Jean says. “That just makes it worse.”
We just sit there for a while, until Cal Smith comes on the bus. He knows I’m mad, but he can’t resist teasing me.
“What’s the matter, Clytha June?” he asks me. That’s his nickname for me—meaning I’m all country.
“When are you going back with Ernest Tubb?” I say.
But I can’t stay mad at anybody for long. In a few minutes, some of the boys are drinking a soda and talking with us, and it’s all forgotten. We do the second show at 9:30, and it’s 1 A.M. before we get back to the motel. Did you ever try to get a good sandwich at 1 A.M. in Cincinnati? They may have some great restaurants, but that late-sandwich bit can’t be done, folks. I end up eating a cold cheeseburger, and it makes me queasy all night long.
Saturday, May 6: My stomach still hurts. I don’t order any breakfast, just lie in bed feeling miserable. The bus is leaving at noon, and I just wait until Jim Webb tells me to get packed. We get in the bus and take off. Me and George sit in the back and talk. I keep the shades drawn as we roll on along the interstate highway. Like I said before, I’ve seen the roads too much in my life.
About three o’clock, we stop in front of another motel. If you ask me, it looks just like the one we left.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Columbus, Ohio,” somebody says.
I never gave any thought to it, but the boys must be happy this trip. Most of ’em have family around Columbus, particularly Don Ballinger and Chuck Flynn, the new bass player. I look out the window and there’s Chuck with his kids. It’s probably the first time he’s seen ’em since he joined our show a month ago. I get to thinking about Doo and my twins back at the ranch, and I get kind of homesick.
Up in my motel room, I order a big lunch of liver and potatoes, salad, milk, and pie. Ever since the doctor told me I’ve got high blood pressure, I’ve been trying to build up my iron. I turn on the television set, but I fall asleep until it’s time for the show.
We take the bus out to the auditorium, and I’m still half asleep. But I wake up fast when I see my cousin Marie. Oh my gosh, I forgot. We’re in Columbus, Ohio. Half the time I clear forget what town we’re in! Marie’s closer to me than a sister. Her husband died early this year, and I ain’t seen her or talked to her since. I motion for Jim to open the door for her, and she comes in.
We look at each other, and I can see how broken up she is. We give each other a big hug and a kiss. She’s trembling like she’s freezing.
“I’m nervous,” Marie says. “I can’t sleep none yet.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral,” I say. “I told Mommy to send flowers.”
“She did,” Marie says. “It’s been rough. Every time my little grandchildren ask, ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ I just fall apart.”
We go to the back of the bus. Marie takes a Valium, hoping it will calm her down. She and Charles had their problems, like all married couples, but he was a nice feller. It’s gonna be tough on Marie, I think to myself. She offers to fix my hair, so I lean back and relax. The Valium calms her down a little bit and she does a good job with my hair. We talk about the old days, back in Butcher Holler, and then it’s time for me to do the show—only one show tonight.
I get out on stage and there’s a different feeling tonight—more sparks. It’s Saturday night and people are out for a good time, or something. Plus, most of our boys have friends and family in the audience, and they’re giving it their best.
After our first five songs, I stop the show and introduce Chuck Flynn, who replaced John Thornhill on the bass. Chuck walks to the microphone and says in that slow, country style of his:
“I come from Mount Vernon, Ohio, just up the road a piece. My fan club was gonna give me a parade, but one got sick, and the other had to work.”
About fifty people cheer for Chuck. He’s real popular up here. That makes Don Ballinger start pouting like a baby, wanting his attention. I remember I saw his wife, Nancy, offstage somewhere. She’s a pretty gal who’s raised four kids and has a regular job and puts up with Don. I figure, what the heck, it’s family night, so I call Nancy out on stage.
Can you believe this? Here’s this pretty woman walking out on stage and you know what Don calls her? “The Tank.” He looks her up and down as she walks toward us.
“It’s sad how much she’s aged since the last time I saw her,” Don says.
I give Don a shove and tell him to stop smarting off. Now you see why I’m on the women’s side. We get on with the music and finish up good. Afterwards, I decide I feel well enough to sign autographs. I sit at a table and sign, while the fans line up. Some of ’em just stare when they get close while others ask questions.
“Do you know so-and-so from Paintsville?” somebody asks.
“How are the twins?”
“Is that your real hair?”
While I’m signing, I catch a glimpse of an old friend of mine from Van Lear—Audrey Blevins Honaker. She was one of the coal-camp girls who works in a supermarket in Columbus now. When I got started in show business, she used to have me over to her house and she’d fix chicken and dumplings and corn bread and pinto beans, my favorite meal. But lately it seems like my schedule is too tight and we never see each other.
“Did you get the food?” Audrey asks.
I don’t remember any food.
“The pie and cookies I put on the bus,” Audrey says.
I never saw ’em, but I tell her I did.
“They were terrific,” I say. Hmmm. My boys must have eaten ’em.
“Next time, you come out to the house,” Audrey says.
I promise I will, and keep signing. Seven hundred autographs later, I go back to the bus and I find the boys have saved me half of Audrey’s strawberry pie and a few peanut butter cookies. Me and Marie eat and talk in the back of the bus until the boys have loaded their equipment. I give Marie another big hug—her starting to tremble again, me not knowing what I can do or say that will really help my cousin. We hold hands for a minute, and then she leaves the bus.
The bus goes back to the motel. All the boys are invited out to Frontier Ranch, where they used to play. I just go up to my room and try to find a Gregory Peck movie on television, then stay awake until three o’clock, just tossing and talking to myself, and thinking about my babies and Marie and my headaches. And finally I fall asleep.
Sunday, May 5: It’s raining ugly out. Just a mean, gray day, and I don’t feel like getting up for nothing. But Jim Webb knocks on my door and tells me we’ve got to leave by nine. You mean it ain’t nine yet? I stumble around, throw my clothes on, grab my little red overni
ght bag, and we take the elevator down. There’re some of my fans in the lobby—take a good look, fans, now you’re seeing the real Loretta Lynn. Ain’t she something?
I climb right back in my bed in the bus and sleep until eleven o’clock. Then I freshen myself up and visit the front of the bus. Somebody tells me we’re playing a four o’clock show in Toledo, Ohio. That’s fine with me. Nothing I can do about it anyway. Just go up there and sing.
I enjoy sitting up front with my boys. We talk about our problems and I’ll give ’em advice. I’ve even lent ’em money when they need it, though Doo says I shouldn’t get so close to the boys. But I can’t help it. When you’re living in the same bus with people you like, you can’t help but get interested in them.
We’ve only got a couple of rules about the boys. Doo says they’re not supposed to bring more than two beers apiece onto the bus. Usually, they follow the rules, but once in a while they’ll slip. I’ll start crying and then they’ll bring me ice cream and presents, so I can’t stay mad at ’em.
Just recently I decided they were blackguarding too much, so I set up fines. A dollar a cuss. Right now they’re arguing whether certain words are cusses. Bob Hempker, my steel guitar player, and Ken Riley, the drummer, are talking it over with Don Ballinger. I know they’re just being real foxy. This just gives ’em the chance to say the words over and over again. So I decide to settle things.
Me: What’s the problem?
Ken: Kenny Starr said “By God,” and that’s cussing.
Bob: It ain’t cussing. God’s name is in the Bible.
Loretta Lynn: Coal Miner's Daughter Page 23