I had one big selling tool—besides my loveable personality and redneck charm, that is. I made a recording of live mallard ducks calling and then added the sound of me blowing on a Duck Commander as a comparison. I tried to sell the idea that I was closer to sounding like a duck than anyone in the world.
My approach was successful. After we sold $8,000 worth of Duck Commanders the first year, we sold $13,500 the second year. The next year, we sold $22,000. I told Kay, “We are now rolling.” The next year we sold about $35,000. We didn’t hit six figures until about ten years after we started, but the business grew bigger every year.
Out of that first year’s sales, I made about a dollar on each duck call. We were selling them to the stores for $4.27 wholesale. I figured they cost me about $3.20 total, after paying Mr. Earhart to build them, travel, paperwork, and all. We did a lot better when we began to build them ourselves.
About the third year after I started, I decided I was going about the selling all wrong. I felt I needed to go to Stuttgart, Arkansas, the duck capital of the world. I had been driving around trying to interest these little old sporting goods stores. I needed to raise my sights and become a little more ambitious. So I took my tape and cassette player, climbed in the old Ford, and headed for Stuttgart, 185 miles away. I pulled up in front of the only sporting goods store in town, a little bitty place. I got out with my tape recorder, the live ducks comparison, and some duck calls strung around my neck.
I needed to raise my sights and become a little more ambitious.
I walked into the store and there were two guys sitting at a table. I was about to learn they were world-champion duck callers, who just happened to be sitting in the store. The fellow behind the counter asked me if he could help me.
“Is this the duck capital of the world?” I asked him.
“You’re here,” he said with a proud smile on his face.
“Well, I figure this is where I need to start,” I told him. “Now, here’s the deal. I have a duck call here—hanging around my neck. It’s closer to a duck than any duck call that has ever been made. Do y’all want to hear it?”
They all looked at each other and kind of grinned.
“Let me guess,” the guy behind the counter said. “You’re out of Louisiana?”
“That’s where I’m from,” I said.
“Blow that thing,” the guy told me.
I blew one of the calls around my neck, concentrating on the plain, simple sound of the mallard hen with no frills. I understood I was blowing for an audience conditioned by duck-calling contests, which often featured forty-note high calls that not only taxed a caller’s lung power but also made the rafters ring. The “lonesome hen” call blown by contestants would make you weep. They could make a duck call talk. But I was making the outlandish claim that they didn’t sound like a duck.
They listened. Then they chuckled, kind of laughed. They were still chuckling when the guy behind the counter picked up my duck call, blew on it, and said, “I see your problem with this duck call right off the bat.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked him.
“Air leaks a little bit around here,” he told me. “You’ve got an air leak.”
“That’s the way it’s designed,” I responded. “Air leaks and all, it’s still closer to a duck than anybody’s.”
I turned to the men at the table and asked if they duck-hunted.
“Yeah, we do a little duck-hunting,” one of them told me.
“These guys are world-champion duck callers,” explained the man behind the counter, with the proper amount of respect in his voice.
“Well, good night!” I exclaimed. “Boys, let’s have us a contest right here. Get your duck calls and get up here. We’ll tape your duck calls beside that of these live ducks. I’ve already got mine on it. We’ll listen to the ducks, then all the calls. Then we’ll just vote on it. Whoever is closest to a duck wins!”
The guy behind the counter looked and me and said, “You see that door there? Hit it!”
He ran me out of there! But as I was driving out of town, frustrated and still fuming over my reception in a little nondescript sporting goods store, I saw a beer joint with about fifteen cars parked around it. On an impulse, I wheeled my car into the parking lot, squealing to a stop.
I walked in the door and hollered, “Hey!”
The customers were all sitting around drinking beer. They turned and looked at me.
“Is there a duck caller in the house?” I asked loudly.
They all looked at me like they were deaf.
“Is there anybody in here who can blow a duck call?” I asked again.
Several of the customers pointed to a man sitting and quietly having a beer. He looked around at me.
“Come out here, I want to show you a duck call that I built,” I told him. “I want you to tell me how I can sell these things up here. They just ran me out of the sporting goods store down there.”
“They did?” the man asked with bewilderment in his voice. “Yeah, let me listen to it.”
He went outside with me. I blew my call for him.
“Son, let me tell you something,” the man told me. “I’ve been blowing duck calls for a long time. My hunting call is a Yentzen—until now. How much you want for one of them things?”
“Ten dollars,” I told him.
“I want one right now,” he said.
“No, I’m going to give it to you,” I told him.
The man invited me to his house. I introduced myself to him and followed him back through town.
“Robertson, let me tell you something,” he told me later. “These guys up here are making big money selling these world-championship duck calls. They don’t want any ten-dollar duck calls up here in their way. To them, they’re so far above you. What they are going to tell you is that unless you win the world championship blowing like they did, you’re never going to sell any duck calls.”
“But their calls don’t sound like ducks,” I told him.
“I know they don’t,” he replied. “But they have a deal going here, a clique, and they’re making big money.”
“So what do you think I should do?” I asked him.
“Aw, you’ll sell duck calls,” he replied. “You’ll end up selling way more than they will. I’ve heard a lot of duck calls. But I’ve never heard one that sounded closer to a duck than that. That thing is a duck! These guides up here, the ones that hunt, they’ll buy them. So will all serious duck hunters. You’re just going to have to stay the course.”
You know what? I don’t remember the man’s name; I only recall that he was a rice farmer. But his advice and encouragement carried me a long way over the next few years. About ten years later, when I developed a mallard drake call, a few of them were ordered by that little sporting goods store in Stuttgart. I guess they finally realized my call sounded like a duck.
The guy behind the counter in that store wasn’t the only one who had doubts about the Duck Commanders. It probably took me twenty-five years to convince the duck-calling world that there is a difference between meat calling and contest calling.
The Duck Commander has come a long way. But it hasn’t been easy.
It probably took me twenty-five years to convince the duck-calling world that there is a difference between meat calling and contest calling.
Somehow, we stayed the course and it turned out. There is a God, and He blessed us because we did what was right—we loved Him, we loved our neighbor, and we hunted ducks. He is real and what He said He would do is what happened. He said, you love Me and do what’s right, and I’ll bless you—so much so that your barns will be full, packed full, tapped down, and running over. I only know that either our success came from Him or I was one of the luckiest souls that ever came along with a little idea. All I can say is it’s one or the other, but I’m leaning toward the Almighty doing exactly what He said He would do.
The Almighty blessed us, and Duck Commander did work, just like He said it w
ould. Yes, it took a long, long time for us to get to where we are today. But even before our success, and long before Duck Dynasty came along, everybody was happy, happy, happy. In other words, it wasn’t like my love for the Almighty was contingent upon whether the blessings came or not. My prayer was always: “Lord, if You bless me, I’ll thank You; but if You don’t, I’ll be thankful for what I have. I have plenty. I’m in good shape.” Even before our success came along, we had air-conditioning, color TV, hot water, and a bathtub. We had everything we needed. When I was a boy, we didn’t even have bathtubs or commodes, but I was still as happy and content as I am today. As long as I was doing what God said was right and living my life for Him, I knew everything would work out in the end—one way or another.
IF IT SOUNDS LIKE A DUCK . . .
Rule No. 10 for Living Happy, Happy, Happy
If You’re Going to Do Something, Do It Right (Instead of Doing It Again)
When I was a bit of a wild child during the 1960s, one of my favorite musicians was Jimi Hendrix. A masterful showman, Hendrix was a brilliant experimentalist and one of the most influential musicians in history. Hendrix had an incredible ability to manipulate a six-string guitar and distort it to make sounds no one would have believed possible. You know what was most amazing about Hendrix? That sucker never learned to read music! He learned to play guitar by ear but did more with it than anyone before him or anyone since.
Now imagine trying to replicate a duck’s sound by ear—without a duck’s bill! When we’re building duck calls, we try to use the same methods as people trying to learn to play music by ear. They can’t read musical notes or charts, but when they hear notes, they memorize them, and then they sit down at a piano and play exactly what they heard. They duplicate the sounds in their heads and play them from memory. We do the same thing with duck calls. We hear ’em while we’re out hunting, and then we build a device that sounds exactly like what we heard. Just like on a piano, we have to make sure we have the right pitch, note, inflection, and volume to ensure that our duck calls sound exactly like a mallard, green-winged teal, wood duck, American wigeon, or whatever duck species we’re trying to imitate.
It isn’t easy, and it requires a lot of trial and error to get a duck call to sound exactly right. After all, it’s not like we were trying to replicate Daffy Duck—thufferin’ thuccotash! Each duck species has a very unique and distinct sound; you can’t call a wood duck with a green-winged teal call or vice versa. And this probably won’t surprise you, but female ducks always sound different from males, even if they’re of the same species.
Despite all the variations in sounds, what we’ve discovered over the years is that if a duck whistles, then you use a whistle to duplicate the sound. If a duck quacks, you use a call with a reed in it. One species of duck—the gadwall—requires both a whistle and a reed.
We build calls for all kinds of ducks. There is a certain percentage of waterfowl hunters who are mallard purists, but we appreciate all ducks. Of course, there are a few species that we’ll draw the line on and won’t eat. We don’t eat the common merganser, and I understand there are particular sea ducks that are nearly inedible. For us, it’s just as much fun to hunt wood ducks as mallards or green-winged teals. I think the most elegant, graceful duck is the pintail. For good table fare, our favorite ducks are the green-winged teals and close behind them are the wood ducks. If we really want a good duck gumbo or duck with dressing, we almost always go for the green-winged teal. They go fast around our table, especially if Willie has pulled up a chair!
The green-winged teals go fast around our table, especially if Willie has pulled up a chair!
Of course, the species I dislike the most is the Steven Seagal ducks—the ones that are hard to kill!
The very first duck call I made in 1972 was the Original Commander Call, which was designed for the mallard hen. The mallard is probably the most recognizable of all ducks and is the ancestor of many of the breeds we see in the United States. The mallard hen is covered in feathers of uneven hues from buff to very dark brown and usually has a brown or orange bill. The male mallard has a white neck ring, which separates its distinctive green head from its chestnut-brown chest. The rest of its body is mottled in lighter brown to gray to black, and its speculum feathers are a distinct purple-blue with black and white edging. The male mallard’s bill is yellow, and its legs and feet are bright coral red. The male mallard is really a beautiful bird. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from dropping them from the sky whenever I’m given the chance!
I made the mallard-hen call first because most ducks will respond to that kind of sound. We still make the Original Commander Call today, and each one tends to sounds different because every one is still made by hand from wood. Of course we still blow on every call to make sure it sounds exactly right. The Original Commander Call is the quintessential duck “quack,” and the mallard hen typically gives the call in a series of two to ten quacks that start loud and get softer as she goes (sounds a lot like a woman I know at home). Now, not all mallard hens sound exactly the same. When you’re blowing on an Original Commander Call to attract a mallard hen, you can quicken and sharpen the cadence to replicate a young mallard hen, or slow down and draw out the cadence to get an old, raspy mallard hen. There are three distinctive sounds for a mallard hen: quack, feed call, and hail call. The mallard hen call is very versatile and effective.
The Mallard Drake Call came along next. We were the first company to build one, so we patented it so our competitors couldn’t copy our design. The male mallard doesn’t quack; it’s more of a quiet, raspy sound. When I set out to build the Mallard Drake, I superglued various sizes of PVC pipe together and finally mastered it. When I finally built a call that sounded exactly like a male mallard, I went tearing into our house and told Miss Kay, “I have it! We’re going to revolutionize duck calls as we know them!”
I blew on the Mallard Drake Call for her.
“What is that?” she asked me. “Is it a frog?”
If you blow too high on a Mallard Drake Call, you really do sound like a tree frog—and there’s no meat on those suckers! You have to catch the plump bullfrogs if you want a meal. The Mallard Drake Call is different from any other duck call. With most calls, you say, “Ten, ten, ten,” while you’re blowing into it. But with the Mallard Drake, you’re basically saying, “Aaaaah,” on a very low bass note as you raise your fingers off the call. It’s an easy thing to do, unless you’re a tenor. The Mallard Drake Call is controlled by your vocal cords and is really a whistle with a stem on it. You have to remember that when you’re on an amplifier, whether it’s with a guitar or any other musical instrument, you get maximum vibration when you hit a bass note. So you have to go really, really low when you’re calling mallard drakes.
Conversely, there are three types of ducks that are whistlers: teal, wigeon, and pintail. Believe it or not, I built our first whistle from a children’s musical toy set. None of the flutes and horns in the toy set sounded like a duck, but after I spent an hour with a band saw and used plenty of superglue, I built a whistle that sounded like six birds! For pintails, you put your finger in the opening while you’re blowing; for wigeons and teals, you blow straight into the whistle. You can even use our whistle to call mallard drakes, doves, or quails if you want. That’s why we call our whistle a six-in-one call.
The green-winged teal is the smallest of the North American dabbling ducks. It has a short neck and small bill, and its chestnut head has a green eye patch that extends to the nape of its neck. It’s another pretty bird. Male green-winged teals have a high-pitched, single-note peep sound, while females are relatively quiet. But the females will let out a sharp, high-pitched quack when they’re flushed. Like most women, you’ll know when they’ve been bothered! When you’re calling a green-winged teal, you don’t do it very loud, and you use fine, little short notes while you’re blowing air directly into the whistle. It’s almost like a miniature mallard hen call, but when you get four or five people p
eeping at the same time, it’s exactly what teals sound like on the water.
There are also blue-winged teals and cinnamon teals, and they’re identifiable by the colors their names suggest. The blue-winged teals, which have blue-gray upper wings, are common in the northern prairies and parklands of the central United States. We see a few blue-winged teals every once in a while, but they tend to winter farther to the south. The male has a high-whistled tsee, tsee sound, while the female lets out loud, evenly spaced quacks. The blue-winged teals are a lot of fun to hunt because they fly very fast and make erratic twists and turns as they fly low over your decoy spreads. The cinnamon teal, which has a cinnamon-red head, neck, breast, and belly, are common around the Great Salt Lake in Utah and the central valleys of California. They winter in Mexico and other parts of Central America, so we don’t see them in Louisiana. The male cinnamon teal makes a series of chuk notes, while the female gives off more of a quack.
We see a lot of American wigeons, which are also known as baldpates and have a bluish gray-tipped bill. The males have a white crown on their heads and a green face patch. The wigeon drake gives out three high, squeaky whistles, like whee, whee, whee. To call a male wigeon, you stick the whistle in the corner of your mouth and clench your teeth. You blow three times and make sure you accent the second sound. The female wigeon, which has a gray head with a brownish-black crown, gives out a quack sound. We usually end up seeing a lot of American wigeon ducks; they nest in parts of Canada and are usually the first to migrate south for the winter.
The northern pintail is a long, slim duck with long, narrow wings, a slender neck, and a long tail. You can’t mistake a pintail for any other kind of duck. Some people call them the “greyhounds of the air,” and the males have chocolate-brown heads with a white stripe on each side of their necks. The male lets out growling, guttural notes, and they’re not easy to duplicate. If you look in the mirror, you’ll see a round piece of meat hanging in the back of your throat. God gave us that piece of meat to call a pintail duck. If we didn’t have it and couldn’t flutter it as we blew air into a whistle, we’d sound like a backhoe backing up: beep, beep, beep! But because God gave us that piece of meat, we can sound exactly like a pintail duck. The female pintail quacks and sounds nothing like a male.
Happy, Happy, Happy: My Life and Legacy as the Duck Commander Page 10