Country Music Broke My Brain (14 page)

We were Scouts of the finest order. We eventually piled up several thousand dollars from airplane cleansing and other odd jobs. Later that summer I was shocked to learn our Scoutmaster had left the county. Something about being caught with a woman he wasn't married to and his clothes being found burning in his front yard. I also learned that our great leader “borrowed” every cent of our Troop cash assets before he left. It was my introduction to cheating and embezzlement at the same time.

I was deeply upset about the situation and went to my dad for solace. I told him what had happened. In his usual no-nonsense manner, he summed it up for me: “Hoss, what is the motto of the Boy Scouts?”

I stood straight and spoke, “Be Prepared.”

Dad: “Well, you wasn't. Next time, you'll know better.”

That was the end of Boy Scouts for me.

Right now, I bet the Oaks are on a bus headed to some State Fair or casino stage or Boy Scout Jamboree, ready to knock another audience flat-out. I hope Richard remembers his wheelbarrow.

Paranoia

I
LIKE PARANOIA. Not the “talkin' to the dogs on the woods” type of paranoia, but the “what did you mean by that?” paranoia. The best example of great paranoia is from my lawyer of thirty years. Malcolm Mimms said he refuses to stick his hand down in the garbage disposal. We've all done that if something has fallen in there, and it's making that horrible “jar lid on metal” sound. Mal won't stick his hand down in there because, and I quote, “I'm afraid my other hand will reach over to the wall switch and turn it on while my hand is in there.” Isn't that beautiful?

I feel exactly the same way. I don't like to sit with my back to the restaurant. I want my back to the wall in the Mafia seat. Allyson says the woman is supposed to sit against the wall. I think this is a social rule she made up so she can get the Mafia seat. It's called the Mafia seat because mobsters sat with their back to the wall so they could see people coming in who might shoot them. Actually, that's not paranoia, that's common sense.

I don't like to be standing on anything where I could accidentally but immediately plunge to my death. Some call this paranoia a “fear of heights.” Not to be confused with acrophobia, which is a “fear of circus performers.” I also don't like clowns because I know they have metal teeth and want to kill me, but that's a whole other discussion.

When I was ten, my mom, dad, and I went on a vacation with some neighbors. I have pictures of the Wright family and our family camping out on a small patch of stony land near a creek at Natural Bridge State Park. We look like something out of
The Grapes of Wrath.

I've never understood why people go camping. The tents leak. The food is half-cooked. It's boiling hot during the day and freezing at night. Rabid bats can fly in and build a nest in your hair. There is
nothing
to do.

We did nothing for about three days. Stanley Wright smoked Pall Malls and wore a Speedo. That image alone is worth years of therapy. We sat like Polish refugees on the rocky shore of this godforsaken trickle of a river and waited for Dad to light a fire. He'd always say, “We'll rough it for a few days.” My idea of “roughing it” is slow room service and no HDTV. I don't rough, at least not anymore.

The highlight of Natural Bridge State Park is . . . drumroll . . . The Natural Bridge—a tiny sliver of archway over a deep chasm that is minutes of fun. I have a fear of heights and gymnasts because of that damn bridge. My dad made me walk over it. As I recall (probably not with any accuracy), I think it was about thirty miles to certain rocky death below. I started across and eventually sat down and actually scooted toward the other side.

Paralyzed with fear and embarrassment, I actually left fingerprints in the rocks as I made it to the other side. My dad scooped me off and said, “See, it wasn't so bad now, was it?” He gave me a hug. Yes, it was
that
bad. Because of that scary adventure, I won't even change a lightbulb on a stepladder for fear of plunging to my doom.

I am paranoid. By the way, at the end of our vacation, Stanley Wright lost his job because he didn't have permission to take off from work. His job was Chief Bottle Washer. You've heard of the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer—that actually was his job. Stanley washed bottles at a dairy. He did the little jugs. (Insert own joke here.) I think his family wound up “roughing it” for real after that. That's why people should never go to state parks and camp. You wind up permanent campers.

The reason I bring up paranoia at this juncture is because it's rampant throughout Nashville in the radio business, in the music business, and in the business business. A wise old publisher once told me, “Son, don't worry about taking a chance in Nashville because they don't remember your failures in this town.” I thought that was good stuff and cheerfully stumbled ahead into Chanceville.

Turns out people remember failures like they remember the first time they got the clap. They carry pictures of people who bombed at something. Seminars are held with speeches about disasters folks have had taking a chance. They publish Loser Guidebooks on Music Row. Monks in underground tunnels write all the mistakes in giant ledgers with goose quills and ink. That's why paranoia hangs over Music Row like smog.

I once had a song recorded by a movie star–lookin' singer named James Bonamy. James was sweet as could be, and he was a beauty. He sang great, looked great, and had that “thing” stars have. The song was called “Dog on a Tool Box.” I wrote it with legendary tunesmith Monty Holmes. The record guys did a dance mix, an extended mix, a radio mix—it got
all
the stuff behind it. It hit the charts, and I was ready for the good times to begin and the mailbox cash to start bein' delivered. It was just a fun song with no agenda and no great social statements.

The second week of the record's birth, they had a massive national meeting of radio disc jockeys and radio bosses in Nashville. They've had it annually for thirty years. Some big-shot programmer stood during a big meeting and said, “Country music is in trouble. We've lowered our standards too much. Why, there's even a song out now called ‘Dog on a Toolbox.' The
last
thing we need is a song about dogs and trucks and country and toolboxes. People will think we are idiots.”

The record died an instant death. Everybody was so paranoid and unsure about what they really liked, they accepted this piece of flawed logic as gospel.

I tell this story not so we could all learn a lesson, but so I could tell how I got screwed out of a hit by some doofus who didn't know what he was talking about. I feel better now.

A lot of artists control their image and their careers down to the smallest moment. Others don't really care all that much. I've seen both work. I also have learned that the bigger a star gets, the more they are on time, the more they have success, and the more you can depend on them to do what they say they will. It's not the big stars who are prima donnas, it's usually the middling singers and pickers who are a pain in the ass to deal with. It's because they are paranoid. Hey, it affects everyone. I have had acts show up an hour late, others chew gum and talk into the plants instead of a microphone, and some even bring their dogs or bring their kids who leave dirty underwear in the studio. I've had actual recording artists refuse to say anything more than “Yes,” “No,” and “Huh?” for thirty minutes. Paranoia strikes deep.

A great singer once told me he was doing a tour with Travis Tritt. I won't mention Joe Diffie here because it would embarrass him. Joe is one of the all-time traditional singers. Joe Diffie doesn't have a pretentious bone in his body. Travis is and always will be a rock star doing country songs. I think he got a little blown-up when he was on top of the charts.

Joe said they were about to start a show, and he was walking down the hallway. He saw Travis go into a room backstage. He went in to speak to his costar before the show started. But there appeared to be nobody in there and nothing else in the room except a big road case on wheels in the corner. He looked around for Travis and couldn't find him. Then Joe decided to lean down and speak into the air holes in the top of the road case. “Travis?”

A whispered answer: “Yeah, man.”

“Travis, are you in there?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Travis, why are you hiding in a road case backstage?”

“Because, man, they have to wheel me onstage in secrecy or the fans might mob me.”

Joe said there was no one backstage except musicians, a security guard, and a couple of people cleaning up.

Travis Tritt is a great guy, and I'm certain he's not paranoid. But I think when lightning strikes, and people start to react wildly to your presence, it makes you get wheeled onstage inside a road case. Don't get wheeled onstage inside a road case.

My mother was afraid of a lot of things. Everybody always says a child of the Depression is like that. She'd told me many times that, during those rough years, she'd been sent to live on a small farm in Kentucky with her aunt because her mother couldn't support her.

Mom said Aunt Lou also was broke, but she had three chickens. Those chickens laid six eggs a day. Three in the morning for breakfast, three in the evening for dinner. I never pointed out to her that mostly a hen will produce one good egg a day. She probably romanticized those super-chicks. I know they also struggled with the egg vs. fried chicken dilemma.

It was also during the Kentucky era that my dad said he saw a young girl walking down the dusty street in the town of Falmouth. He said, “I drove up beside her and offered her a ride.” She just turned and walked away. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. I'm here because of that little introduction.

My dad wasn't paranoid. He was a blue-collar workin' guy. My mom didn't always trust the goodness in people. She unfolded her Mexican food to make sure nothing bad was hidden inside her burrito. Dad was one of those guys everybody loved. I never really saw my dad and what he was truly like 'til I started working with him.

From ages fourteen to sixteen, each summer I rode half asleep in the early morning in the back of his truck. I racked out on some coiled-up wire while he sang Hank Snow songs at the top of his lungs. We rode by Summit Hills Country Club, where the moneyed and upper class belonged and played golf. I stared at them like the total strange animals they were. Dad said, “Look at 'em, Hoss. They ain't happy.” I always thought these people, in their crisp golf clothes on a sunny day, riding little carts over perfect grass, were the happiest-looking people I'd ever seen. But I never argued with him. My mom was funny, but slightly dark. My dad was funny and slightly sunny. I guess I got parts of both of them.

On the front seat of Dad's truck was a piece of wire. I think it's called BX cable. It's angry-looking wire, thick and covered in metal. On the end of this foot-and-a-half piece of BX cable was a melted mass of copper, an accident of electricity from some construction site. It was a weapon, primitive but effective.

I sort of tested it by hitting my leg, and gave myself a bruise. “What's this for?” I asked, twirling it around.

He said, “I go into some pretty rough neighborhoods [he worked at all the Kroger stores] and if somebody jumps on the side of my truck, I knock 'em off with that.” He then said something I'll never forget. “Some colored folks are good, and some want to take your stuff.” It probably sounds racist, but to him, it was just the way it was.

This was before the terms African American or black came into our speech. There were also other words in common usage at the time that, I must admit, didn't make me wince. It was just the way things were.

I didn't personally know any black people at all. I do remember being quite young and witnessing the most frightening thing I've ever seen. We drove past a burning cross and a bonfire. I saw the outlines of people in white hoods with the blaze behind them and somebody yelling a speech to them. I remember my dad saying, “Don't look at that, Hoss. Those people are mean and crazy.” It was just the way things were.

I remember when we worked near some scary neighborhood in a run-down part of town during the winter, and this same man—my father—saw little poor black children walking in sandals or barefoot on the frozen streets, gathered them up in his truck, and took them to buy them shoes. It was just the way things were.

I guess if you're gonna talk about worrisome, paranoid people, you ought to end with somebody who is
not
that way. I pick Kenny Rogers.

We go way back. Kenny Rogers has finally been inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, and it's about damn time.

I've been all over the world, and when people find out I'm from Nashville, they always mention Dolly, Elvis, Johnny Cash, and Kenny Rogers. It's because those people are stars even in the smallest towns of the old countries of Europe. People there almost always say, “I want to come to Nashville and see Graceland.”