Bare Bones

by Bobby Bones

  What?

  Thanks, Rod Phillips! I mean, what the heck did that mean? Was I about to get fired? You brought me out here to fire me? I imagined the worst flight home ever: being fired and then having to sit on a plane for two hours wondering why. I know it’s not customary for bosses to take their employees out to big fancy dinners and promo shoots if they are about to fire them, but common sense wasn’t floating around anywhere in my head in that moment.

  It only got worse when I was taken over to a corner of the video shoot where huddled together was a group of bigwigs: Rod; John Ivey, the program director of KIIS FM in Los Angeles, one of the two biggest Top 40 stations in America; and Clay Hunnicutt, who was then the director of country for Clear Channel, were gathered around talking. They sat me down and said, “We want you to move to Nashville to be our national country morning show.”

  And then I went deaf. Just like when something loud pops in your ears, I heard a loud beeeeeeep and then nothing after that. I was shocked. Their offer came out of nowhere for me. It was the last thing I was expecting. I really thought I was going to Nashville to pitch my Top 40 show, based in Austin, to any station manager who would listen—not to be asked if I wanted to broadcast the largest daily country morning show in the history of the format across tons of Clear Channel’s markets.

  “Are you kidding?” was all I could manage to say. They took a picture of me as they asked me the question. In the photo, I’m pink haired (it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month) and my jaw was on the ground. I was shocked, sad, and slightly excited at the same time. In that order.

  I didn’t say yes right away, not only because I was in shock but also because I really didn’t know how to feel about the offer. On the career side of things, I had built this entire “empire” in the pop format. It was a small empire, but it was definitely expanding. I had already accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to get a morning spot on Top 40 stations in New York or L.A. Elvis Duran and Ryan Seacrest had both just signed new contracts, and they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. They were giants. But I was content in continuing to grow from where I was. In addition to my regular morning gig, I had started cohosting a new national sports show on Fox Sports Radio with tennis champ Andy Roddick. (Let me sidebar on Andy, who in addition to having become one of my best friends is also one of the most obnoxious and best humans in the entire world. That dude can be a real dick on the tennis court or golf course. But man, he is a quality human being. One of the best people I’ve ever met.)

  Despite the fact that I was comfortable with what I had done in Austin, I wasn’t stupid. I recognized that there was much more room for me to grow inside of country—the biggest format in America and one in which I felt comfortable because of my background and my deep appreciation for the music. But there was one other major factor that kept me from jumping at the promotion: I loved Austin. I mean I really loved Austin.

  I was supposed to hate it, because I’m from Arkansas, and when you grow up in Arkansas, you are taught to hate Texas. Texas is the bigger and better brother—particularly when it comes to sports. So as an Arkansas sports fan, I was pretty wary when I first moved to Austin. But the people there are so great. The city embraced us, which was particularly unbelievable for as cool a place as Austin to do to a small gang of—well—idiots, who had never done a morning show like ours. In a city where everyone is always trying to be the biggest hipster in the room, my approach was always to keep it real. I mean I-hang-out-at-Chili’s-and-shop-at-Walmart real. And people loved us for it. I couldn’t imagine anything better.

  I thanked the Clear Channel execs, who expected me to answer “yes” right away, and immediately went back to my hotel room, where I called Betty.

  “You’re not going to believe what just happened,” I said to her. “I was just offered a national show from Nashville. They want me to move here and be the national country guy.”

  I know that it had to be hard for her to hear, because the offer meant I would have to move away. I already wasn’t the easiest boyfriend in the world; a long-distance relationship would only make things more difficult. Still, because she cared about me so much, her immediate reaction was to think only of me.

  “You have to do it,” she said.

  It’s crazy just how supportive and unselfish she was. I don’t have that inside of me. But she did. She didn’t need to think about it. In a beat, her response was “You have to take the job.”

  I was scared—not to go to country, because that was awesome. And not to go to Nashville, because Nashville’s awesome. It was because I had to kick down everything I had spent the last seven years building from the ground up and start all over. It felt very much like the move from Little Rock to Austin. I’d never been there before, but I had to do it.

  “You’re right,” I said to Betty. “I have to do it.”

  A few days later, I told the execs at Clear Channel that my answer was yes.

  Of course, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. These kinds of offers are always followed by a lot of negotiating on both sides. One thing that wasn’t up for negotiation, however, was the rest of my crew on The Bobby Bones Show. I wasn’t coming unless all of the team could come too. If they wanted the show, well, Amy, Lunchbox, Ray, Eddie, and the rest of my crew were the show. Thankfully, that wasn’t a sticking point.

  Even though the gang had new jobs in Nashville if they wanted them, they still couldn’t know for a long time, which was weird for me. It went from uncomfortable to problematic when Amy and her husband picked a house to buy in Austin. Luckily (for me), something happened and the deal on the house fell through. But I went to Rod and said, “If we don’t tell Amy now, she’s going to buy another house.” So I got special dispensation to tell her months before everyone else. She was in immediately. Because for Amy, the bigger her platform, the more good she can do in the world. Also, despite how much the rest of us drive her nuts, she still likes being part of the gang. Crazy girl.

  Eventually I was able to call in each person on the show one by one and tell them that I had some information I needed to share, but I had to have them sign a nondisclosure agreement first—which scared everyone. As soon as they had put pen to paper, I told them the news quickly. I didn’t take any pleasure from torturing people.

  Except Lunchbox. He was the only person I messed with.

  “There’s going to be a lot of changes,” I said.

  “What kind of changes?” he asked nervously.

  “The changes involve you.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s tough for me to tell you this . . .”

  I dragged it out forever. I took many deep breaths. I even faked a half cry. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I wish I had taped it!

  “I’m going to be leaving,” I said.

  His eyes got real big.

  “I’m really sorry that I have to leave. I don’t know what you’re going to do . . . but I hope you’re going to come with me, because they’ve offered us a national show out of Nashville!”

  He didn’t know whether to hug me or kill me. It was awesome.

  On Monday, February 4, 2013, we formally announced that The Bobby Bones Show was moving to Nashville; Friday was our last show in Austin. I know this might not seem like big news to most of you reading this, but it made some waves in the city that built our radio show. As the Austin Chronicle’s Abby Johnston wrote about me: “He assembled his own dream team and turned KISS FM’s negligible ratings into a national goldmine, far outscoring any other local show. . . .

  “The show feels like a conversation between friends, and that’s what kept me listening. I love to hate Lunchbox’s antiquated and misogynistic attitude toward women and his party-boy lifestyle. . . . Lunchbox’s foil, Amy, has captivated listeners with her struggle to have a child, and as she chokes up on air, I’ve shed tears with her. . . . Mostly, though, there’s Bobby, who through the years has revealed himself as one of the most genuine and open hosts on the radio.”

  No
t everyone was as emotional about our leaving. As someone’s comment to a post about our announcement on a local TV news channel’s Facebook page shows:

  “I’ll miss Bobby, but if he’s taking Lunchbox with him I’ll throw him a party!!”

  Lunchbox is an acquired taste.

  Jokes aside, it was a monster when we left. That Friday, my last day on the air, I cried like a baby. Lunchbox and Amy each said some final words on the air, and then they left the room, until it was just me. Alone, I just cried and cried. It was my second time sobbing on air. The first was when I had been jumped and feared for my life. This time it was because I had loved the show so much.

  We hadn’t been the funniest on the radio. But in the land of hip and SXSW, we broke the mold and proved that you don’t have to act super cool in a city that is super cool. We talked about stuff like our love of the unlimited salad at Olive Garden. Austin embraced us because we were real humans, and none more so than me. Austin was the place where I grew into adulthood.

  Less than a month after I said good-bye to Austin, The Bobby Bones Show arrived in Nashville. When we launched, we were in thirty-five country markets with more than two million weekly listeners and set to grow almost immediately to fifty markets nationwide.

  The singer-songwriter Chris Janson was our very first guest once we went over to country. I had seen him play for like thirty seconds and thought, Wow, that guy’s pretty good. Quite frankly, we needed someone to come and make sure our equipment was good, so I invited him up to play. Our equipment was good and so was Chris.

  It was easy for me to slide into the new genre, because as I said, it wasn’t all that new to me. The way I talk, the way I act, where I’m from—is country. Even when I was heavy into alternative or hip-hop in my life, I was still always a country music fan.

  The only hard part was that everyone who considered himself a real defender of country music hated me. A writer for the alternative weekly Nashville Scene summed up the general opinion of me: “I have a hard time seeing how a thirtysomething-year-old Top 40 DJ with no noted background in country music shilling for Clear Channel with a sidekick named ‘Lunchbox’ is anything to get excited about.” Nobody wanted me there. Nobody accepted me. It was just like in junior high and high school, all over again.

  Part of the anger toward me was simply change rage. I was taking over for the legendary country DJ Gerry House, who had been on in Nashville forever. He was a very traditional, old-school, inside-the-industry, deep-voiced, cowboy-hat kind of country guy, who had been broadcasting from Nashville for almost forty years when I showed up. I didn’t actually replace him; there was a show between his and mine, but it didn’t last long. Anytime you follow a great anyone—football coach, CEO, talk show host—it’s really hard to succeed. Anyone who comes in after him, it doesn’t matter how good they are: they really don’t have a chance. And I feel bad for them.

  Still, when I got on air, everyone continued to compare me to Gerry—and as much as I respect him, I’m not him. Nothing about me is like him. Not better or worse, just different. But that old chip on my shoulder revealed itself again in the midst of an entire industry saying I was single-handedly going to ruin country music.

  In the beginning I might have been a little too different. I can admit that now. Deciding I was going to make sure they knew I wasn’t coming into their world but that I was just going to bring mine, I blasted hip-hop and pop. I blatantly ignored the “old guard” that is Nashville. And it wasn’t just though my musical choices. I also vocally challenged them. I was outspoken with my social views. For example, I went on the air and supported gay rights completely in a format where that’s never been accepted. Why should it bother me one bit if two people love each other? Answer: it doesn’t. A lot of station managers, however, were not happy about my stance. (That’s one thing I haven’t changed; I’m a permanent and absolute supporter of gay rights.)

  My attitude was “This is how it’s going to work. I’m playing whatever I want to play. I’m doing the bits I want to do. I don’t wear cowboy boots or hats or belt buckles. I am not you; I am me.” Looking back, I wish I hadn’t been such a bull in a china shop, so to speak. But live and learn. (By the way, the “old guard” are still not big fans of mine.) It was no wonder that everybody hated my guts.

  Well, almost everyone. Not long after I moved to Nashville, Brad Paisley invited me over to his house. With an album to promote, he had been our first Country Top 30 countdown guest, and after that he asked me over as a sort of welcome to Nashville. When I got to his house, he introduced me to his wife, Kimberly Williams. When I talked to her, I couldn’t stop thinking, You’re talking to the Father of the Bride girl. (I know, pretty stupid, but that movie, which she starred in, is a classic.) Then we got on his four-wheeler and drove from the house to the recording studio he has on the property, which is deep in the woods. He showed me the studio and then we walked out onto his property. That’s when he said, “People aren’t going to like you around here for a long time,” he said. “They don’t like change. They didn’t like me when I started. But I can assure you that if you keep doing what you are doing, they will come around.” That meant a lot to me then and still does, years later. He didn’t have to do that.

  Brad was right—about people not liking me for a long time. From listeners to station managers to the recording industry to the artists, everyone looked at me like the weird radio guy. Nobody wanted me there. It was not pretty. I had the same exact feeling going into work as I had walking into school every day after the T-Bone incident.

  Almost a year after we moved to Nashville, I woke up to the fact that my attitude wasn’t winning me any friends—or listeners. I needed to get people to like me, or at least feel sorry for me. Working on the theory that it’s hard to hate someone if he is getting picked on, I thought, I’m going to turn myself into the one who’s getting picked on.

  This is the first time I’ve ever admitted to this story publicly, or privately, for that matter. But here we go. Ready?

  What I did was I launched a massive negative PR campaign against myself to garner sympathy. Only one person other than me knew what was going on. My buddy Cruz, a former member of the military who was head of security for the show for a while, was my secret agent as I created a shell company through which to maneuver. I spent about thirteen thousand dollars of my own money to buy billboards all over town.

  Then, one beautiful morning in the first week of February 2014, they went up. There were multiple billboards, in the highest-trafficked areas, that said in all-uppercase black letters on a white background, GO AWAY BOBBY BONES. That was it. But that’s all it took for people driving around to say either

  a. “Why do people want Bobby Bones to go away?”

  b. “I agree. Go away, Bobby Bones.”

  or

  c. “Who is Bobby Bones?”

  People started talking about it all the time. On the street they would come up to me and say, “Dude, I can’t believe people are doing that to you.” Then began the speculation on who was crazy enough (and hated me enough) to pay for these expensive billboards. Even news organizations began investigating into the entity behind the signs. Was it a record company? Was it a rival radio station? Was it certain artists who I’d feuded with? (Yes, this has happened.) When media outlets tried to track the original buyer by going to the Nashville outdoor advertising company that had put up the billboards, they were told all that was known about the paying entity: the client who had purchased all four boards for a three-week run was known as “Anti-BOBBY BONES.”

  Nobody (not even my bosses) thought it was me.

  The plan worked. Listeners who were on the fence started to feel sorry for me, because someone had spent all this money to pick on me. And those who had never heard of me before tuned in to hear what a guy who gets billboards telling him to go away had to say. (A year later, when we did market research, people still remembered and remarked on those signs.)

  In the middle of all this,
the Academy of Country Music announced on February 18 that I had tied with Lon Helton, the longtime host of Westwood One’s Country Countdown USA, to win the award for National Radio Personality of the Year. The award came out of left field. We hadn’t even been on for a full year, and they were giving us the award for being the best? I took to Twitter that day to joke: “I won an ACM for National Radio Personality of the Year today. I’m still waiting for them to ‘recall’ and recount and take it away.”

  They didn’t recall our award. I had to miss the awards ceremony, because one of my best friends was married the same day. So as Luke Bryan and Blake Shelton hosted and gave out awards, I gave a speech at the wedding of my buddy Ricky, who I call Softball. And I would do it again ten times over. An award is cool, but in the end it’s just a dust collector. And I can always hold over Ricky’s head that I skipped winning an ACM to be at his wedding, so he can help me move.

  The listeners who tuned in out of curiosity after those billboards didn’t change the dial, either. The Bobby Bones Show grew to nearly seventy affiliates, with about three million weekly listeners, and on the weekends I hosted the Country Top 30 with Bobby Bones over more than one hundred affiliate stations.

  Now, you may be reading this and thinking that those were pretty desperate measures to take to get more ratings. Underhanded, even. And I understand that. But you have to understand how hard it was to be rejected for the thing that I had been doing for years and that had made my radio show so successful—and that was being myself. When the old-guard country folks rejected me because I wasn’t “country enough,” it hurt for lots of reasons—my background, my respect for the music, but most of all because I was coming from the same place of authenticity that I always came from. When I put up the billboards, it was because I wanted people to take the time to actually listen to the show and make a judgment on the quality, not a snap judgment based on the fact that I had previously been on Top 40 radio or on how I dressed.