Every Night Is Saturday Night

by Wanda Jackson

  Wendell and I had another breakthrough in our relationship that helped heal some of the recurring jealousies. My son Greg was born in 1964. Wendell had always joked, “If you’ll have me a boy I’ll take you to Las Vegas for a weekend.” Not too long after Greg arrived we did, in fact, take off for a getaway weekend in Vegas with another couple we socialized with at the time. When we arrived we checked into the Sahara, freshened up, and headed out for drinks and dinner.

  When we went back to the hotel later that evening, the elevator opened on our floor, and there was a big guy in a suit standing there facing us with his arms crossed. “Folks,” he barked, “I’m with security and I’m going to need to see your room keys, please.”

  Wendell fumbled for the key. “What’s all this about?” he asked.

  “You folks have the only two available rooms on this floor,” the guard answered. “The rest of them were rented by Elvis Presley and his entourage, so we have to make sure anyone coming up here is authorized to be here.”

  I hadn’t seen Elvis for the better part of a decade, but my heart stopped. I thought, Oh no. Given Wendell’s feelings about Elvis we might have a scene on our hands. I looked over at Wendell. His brow furrowed a little. He took a deep breath and smiled at the security guard. “If you’re on duty when Mr. Presley returns,” he said, “please tell him that Wanda Jackson is here and would like to say hello.” The man took a second look at me.

  “Wanda Jackson? Oh, my goodness, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first. I’ll pass along the message, but do you think maybe I could get an autograph first?”

  About thirty minutes after we got to our room, the phone rang and someone on the other end of the line asked if it would be okay if Elvis came down to say “hello.” In a few minutes there was a tap on the door, and there was Elvis in all of his glory. He was alone with no bodyguards or members of the Memphis Mafia, which is what they called his entourage. He wasn’t working, but he was dressed up like you would imagine he’d be. The first thing I noticed was that he seemed so tall. I found out later that’s when they were wearing elevator shoes. He didn’t need them, since he was already six feet tall, but it certainly added to the sense that he was larger than life.

  Elvis came in and I introduced him to Wendell and our friends. He stayed about fifteen or twenty minutes and, even though none of us can remember what we talked about, Elvis was as polite and charming as could be. I realized later that he came down to see us—instead of inviting us to his suite—so he could leave when he was ready. He was smart that way, and that’s another show business lesson I picked up from the King. Stay in control of the situation so you can exit when you need to!

  What helped Wendell so much is that he could see from our greeting each other that Elvis and I had mutual respect and love for each other, but it was nothing he needed to worry about. That was the last time I ever saw Elvis, but the lasting effect on my marriage with Wendell was far more valuable than any reunion with an old boyfriend could ever be on its own merits. Always a charmer, Elvis won Wendell over, and it helped him move past his jealousy. After that, I would be talking with friends or fans, and Wendell would say, “Hey, tell ’em that story about Elvis.”

  One of the factors that probably didn’t help our marriage as the 1960s progressed was alcohol. Believe it or not, I never had a sip of alcohol until I was of legal age. It was pretty typical for the guys to have an after-party following a show if we didn’t have to travel early the next day. I wasn’t a part of that when I was on the road with Daddy because he wouldn’t allow it. Later on, when I was grown, I could do what I wanted and go to whatever party I wanted. That’s when I started drinking more often.

  Despite my bad-girl stage persona, I wasn’t much of a rebel until I was already an adult. Just before Wendell and I started dating I was getting a little bitter as I watched all my girlfriends get married and have kids. I felt like I was being left out, which made me a little rebellious. I didn’t go out and get hooked on drugs and self-destruct, which is the celebrity stereotype today, but I did get into partying and drinking more than I should have. Back in the 1960s there still weren’t that many female artists. There might be local girls in bands, but none of them were stars. Promoters usually just wanted one girl on the bill. We were window dressing, I guess. I didn’t have the opportunity to work with many other women, so that often meant I was the only female around. Because of that, I always enjoyed the company of men. I never minded being the only girl, and increasingly that meant being more like “one of the boys” to fit in. That was especially true when I was planted in Las Vegas for days on end while performing a string of shows. The after-parties got a little wilder at that point.

  I was in Springfield, Missouri, for the Ozark Jubilee when I had my first drink on my twenty-first birthday. Norma Jean and her date took me out to celebrate and I ordered a whiskey sour. The two of them got up to dance and, by the time they returned, I was asleep in the booth. I don’t know why it had such an effect on me, but I wanted to be a drinker. I thought it was the sophisticated adult thing to do. Of course, falling asleep in public isn’t all that sophisticated, but I kept trying until I got to where I liked drinking. Being a dedicated Baptist, Mother didn’t approve of drinking or smoking. I couldn’t indulge around her at first, but I finally broke down and started drinking with Daddy when Mother was around. She would just shake her head.

  I started smoking cigarettes before I started drinking. I had just gotten out of high school and, of course, everybody smoked back then. We’d see the movie stars smoking in all the films and it seemed glamorous. I was sitting with some guys from a local band where we were playing a gig one day when one of them lit up a cigarette.

  “Don’t you smoke, Wanda?” he said.

  “No, not really,” I said. None of my church friends smoked, so it wasn’t a habit I’d taken up at the time.

  “You ought to give it a try,” he said. “You’re a little uptight and it’ll calm you down.”

  Back then there were brands like Winston and Viceroy that would provide small packs with four cigarettes in them that were placed on lunch trays in some cafeterias and restaurants. After that musician made his comment, I took one of those little packs and slipped it into my purse. Every hotel room had ash trays and matches, and I’d seen Daddy do it enough that I knew how to light a cigarette. I fired one up and, even though I didn’t know how to inhale exactly, I guess I inhaled enough. By the time I got to the third puff, I was so dizzy I could hardly stand up. I tapped that cigarette out and literally got sick. I had to go in the bathroom to throw up. I drank some water and stretched out on the bed for a while until I felt better. You’d think that would cure me from the desire, but I got up and said, “I’ll try it again!”

  Now I can’t believe what an idiot I was to try so hard to get addicted to something. Once I was on them I became a smoker at heart. It was really hard to quit when the time came, but now I wonder how we lived in that smoke-filled world! The best thing that’s happened for singers is being around less smoke.

  By the time Wendell and I married, the people that we were around all smoked and drank pretty heavily. That was just the norm in our lives. We would never have admitted it at the time, but our drinking had gotten out of hand. The 1960s was a tumultuous era. Somewhere in all the fighting, drinking, partying, child-rearing, traveling, and career-chasing I drowned out that still, small voice in the back of my head. The things I learned to value in Sunday School and church slipped away as I pursued what I wanted.

  Chapter 20

  On the set of my TV show, Music Village.

  TEARS WILL BE THE CHASER FOR YOUR WINE

  While my priorities were admittedly out of whack for much of the 1960s, I experienced successes and achieved career milestones in that era that I’m still very proud of. One of my personal highlights was when Buck Owens scored a Top 10 country hit with a song I wrote for him called “Kickin’ Our Hearts Around.” Buck was one of my buddies, going all the way back
to when he played rhythm guitar on my first Capitol sessions in the ’50s. That was long before he signed his own artist deal with Capitol and, though I liked everybody I was working with in the studio, there are certain folks you just have a rapport with. Buck was one of those guys.

  After my first Capitol session in 1956, I was still hanging around the studio after we finished recording. It was the first time I’d ever met Buck, but I felt so sorry for him when I saw him putting his guitar in an old case with broken latches. He’d wrapped white surgical tape around it to hold the case shut so his guitar wouldn’t fall out. When he picked it up he had to put it under his arm because the handle was broken. I thought, “Gee, I hope that guy can make enough money to get himself a decent guitar case one of these days.” In addition to going on to write and record an endless list of hit records, Buck would become a savvy entrepreneur who bought and sold radio stations, real estate, and various businesses. I once read that his net worth was over $100 million, so I guess he could have bought every guitar case on the face of the earth if he wanted to!

  I remember another time we were in the studio and Ken Nelson was wanting me to do something with my vocal performance, but I couldn’t understand what he was trying to get me to do. He was trying to change my approach to the song. I went over to Buck, who was stationed nearby, and said, “Buck what does how I’m doing it sound like to you?”

  He got a huge grin on his face and replied, “You sound like Wanda Jackson.”

  I laughed and replied, “Thank you, then I’m going to sing it my way!”

  I wrote “Kickin’ Our Hearts Around” in Nashville when I was in town for the big DJ Convention they used to have every year. I was in my hotel room one night with nothing to do but flip through a movie magazine. There was an interview with Joan Collins, who was talking about her relationship. She said something like, “I told him we’ve got to stop kicking our hearts around because we’re just hurting each other.” When I saw that I thought, Man, what a title! I got out my guitar, a pen, and some paper. As I’ve mentioned, I always liked to have another artist in mind when writing. I thought, Who would sound good singing those words? Buck, who had already had several hits by then, just popped into my head. I’d decided I’d make it nice, clean, and simple and hope that Buck would record it.

  Not long after, Buck and I were on the same bill for a show somewhere. I told him I had written a song for him, played it backstage in a dressing room, and gave him the lyrics. He said he really liked it and wanted to record it. When I got home I made a recording and sent it to him, but I didn’t hear anything else about it.

  One day Wendell was outside cleaning the cars at the first little house where we lived. Suddenly he called through the kitchen window, “Wanda, get out here quick!”

  I thought something was wrong, so I ran out as fast as I could. I didn’t even notice that he had the radio playing. “What is it, Wendell?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Listen! Isn’t that your song?” he said.

  Sure enough! There was Buck on the radio singing his new single, “Kickin’ Our Hearts Around.” That was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life to have somebody in mind when writing a song and then have them sing it exactly the way I wrote it. Buck didn’t change a single line or make the slightest adjustment to the melody at all. I was so happy with that. It’s been a great song in my career, and I’m sure glad I didn’t have anything else to do that night in Nashville but read magazines!

  In 1970 I joined Buck, his son Buddy, the Hager Twins, Billie Jo Spears, and Tex Ritter on the Country Caravan Tour, a string of European dates intended to promote Capitol Records. By that point Buck was the biggest star in country music and had been named Capitol’s Artist of the Decade. It was a thrill to get to spend some time with him again. I’m grateful to have had the chance to have Buck play on my early records and to have contributed a song to his impressive string of hits. They might just be a couple of pieces of a very large puzzle, but it means a lot to me to know I had the chance to contribute to Buck’s development on his way to superstardom.

  In 1966 Buck Owens launched his own TV show called The Buck Owens Ranch Show that predated his duties co-hosting Hee Haw with Roy Clark. Buck’s show was produced by Bud and Don Mathis, furniture dealers in Oklahoma City with whom Wendell and I socialized. The Mathis brothers had a show of their own called Country Social that I appeared on several times. A year before they teamed up with Buck, I partnered with them to launch a syndicated program of my own called Music Village. We launched the show in the fall of 1965 and managed to place it in several national markets. Other country artists had their own syndicated TV shows at that time. While Porter Wagoner’s was the most popular, there were others hosted by Bill Anderson, Arthur (Guitar Boogie) Smith, Ernest Tubb, Flatt & Scruggs, Billy Grammar, and even my old friend Bobby Lord. As far as I know, mine was the only syndicated country music television program hosted by a woman.

  The stage set was designed to look like a little town. We had storefronts and a little church down at the end of the street, like you see in the old cowboy movies. I would perform with my band; Bud Mathis would appear; we had a bluegrass gospel group called The Black Mountain Boys; we’d have guests on almost every week; and we even had a comic character, like every country show in that era. We couldn’t think of anyone to play the rube, so Wendell decided he’d be the comic relief. He wore overalls and portrayed Lenny, a dumb farm boy, whose character was inspired by Jonathan Winters, who used to play a similar role.

  We had six or seven workable sets on Music Village. We always started down at the honky tonk and ended up at the church. I particularly liked the introduction. We had a real stagecoach that we got from an amusement park called Frontier City. We’d have everybody line up on one side of the stagecoach with the camera at just the right angle so you couldn’t see the line. It gave the impression that we were all packed into this little stagecoach and were emerging, one at a time, like clowns from a tiny car. One time we brought in live horses, but only once! The crew put down some plastic around the set in anticipation of the inevitable. What we didn’t count on was how bad it stank under those hot lights!

  We had fun on the show, but it was hard work. When we syndicated it we sold it to furniture companies in various markets. I would talk about furniture and then we’d go to the break. The local furniture company would then splice in their own promos. In other words, it was designed specifically for furniture stores to sponsor, since that’s what the Mathis brothers did. We’d mail out these huge two inch tapes on a reel to the various markets, but would rotate them. We’d send a tape to market one, and then it would go to market two the next week, and on and on. Once it went to the last market they would return it to us.

  Eventually, we ran into some disagreements with Bud and Don. When they started doing Buck’s show, it was basically the same kind of show we were doing. It was shot on the same stage and competed for the same market. There was a falling out and we ended up erasing all those tapes! Boy, I sure wish I could have them again. I’d love to see some of that footage after all these years, but it’s gone. As tensions escalated with our partners, Wendell and I realized that the show was taking us away from our touring business anyway. It was time to refocus. Eventually, we decided to agree to disagree with Bud and Don and separated as friends. All in all, Music Village lasted no more than a year, but I’m proud to have been a female pioneer in country music television.

  Our friends Jude and Jody, who were in the furniture business but also worked as entertainers, started out working for the Mathis Brothers before they struck out on their own. Jude and his wife were the ones we had some fun with when they showed up unexpectedly in Germany. Jody, who I went to a dance with in high school, ended up marrying Norma Jean. Wendell and I actually hosted their wedding in our home. It’s kind of funny to think that my best friend ended up marrying a guy I’d dated in high school, and had the ceremony in the home I shared with my husband, who was her former boyfriend wh
om I’d effectively stolen. She wound up with the guy I’d dated first, and I wound up with the guy she’d dated first. Then my husband and her husband became hunting buddies! Plus, we’d all been in business with Bud and Don Mathis. The local entertainment world was like our own little soap opera, so I guess that was the country music version of Peyton Place in Oklahoma City!

  One of the things I’m grateful for is that Capitol gave me the chance to record often, so I built up a substantial body of work in the 1960s. In 1964 I released the Two Sides of Wanda Jackson album, which featured country on one side of the LP and rock on the other. One of the songs I recorded for that project was “Honey Don’t,” by my old friend Carl Perkins. I worked with Carl a lot in the ’50s and I always enjoyed watching him because he was such a good entertainer. The Beatles also recorded the song, but I latched onto it before they released their version. I guess you could say the Fab Four and I both had good taste when it came to picking songs.

  The Beatles, of course, changed everything in the 1960s. The British Invasion marked a turning point in rock and roll as all these bands that had been influenced by Chuck Berry, Gene Vincent, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard, and my fellow American rockers expanded on what we created and took the world by storm. Suddenly, it was hard for us original rockers to compete. Music tends to experience waves of popularity. There have been times when early rock and roll was in vogue, and times when it seemed hopelessly outdated. The same can be said for country. For six decades I’ve seen these cycles come and go, and was always grateful that my diverse musical interests helped me ride out some storms that might otherwise have been a big challenge to my career. As the 1960s progressed, I became increasingly identified as a country artist, which, of course, was a return to my roots.

  In 1966 Capitol released “The Box It Came In,” which was my first Top 20 country single since 1961.