Country Music Broke My Brain (19 page)

Roach dreamed and rocked to the rhythm of the road. It was peaceful now. Peaceful was good. Things hadn't always been so peaceful. Lord, there was that tour with the rock star who had decided to go “country.” What an idiot. They were doing fairs and “soft ticket” dates, and his old rock fans showed up with their kids to see him—a middle-aged, slightly pudgy white guy in Spandex, singin' his “country” songs. Oh, he had fiddles in the band, all right. But he just couldn't let go of the rock star moves. Country people get moody when you bite the head off a baby rabbit.

Brandy floated through his mind. Not the liquor, Roach's second wife. She always said, “My daddy said I was made 'cause of brandy, so he named me that. Good thing they wasn't drinkin' Kahlua!” Then she'd give that high-pitched scream of a laugh. She was a good ol' gal. He'd met her at a club, where she shot ping-pong balls out of her coochie into the audience. She had great distance.

He'd always enjoyed women with talent. They were in love right up until she ran off with that TV evangelist who had a private plane. Last Roach heard, she was strippin' for Jesus at the end of his tent revivals. Good for Brandy.

He had to get out of roadwork. It was a good, solid life with good friends, but he'd been at it too long. How many times can one man be shot in the ass with a nail gun? Or have a case of M&Ms dropped on his foot? Or get third-degree burns from a parrot carrying a lighted road flare? We've
all
been through things like that, but enough is enough. This was where he was getting off the crazy train.

Thinking of getting off made him recall the really good times. He'd had his share of fun with women. Yeah, it was quite a week with those deaf-mute Vietnamese twins.

That ended when he woke up screaming. They were breaking his fingers so he couldn't tell anybody about his “Bangin' on a Mirror” trick. His right pinkie still points left more than it should.

It was always easy to slip back to the good nights. The Cheese-Eating Contest on that Brooks & Dunn tour in Switzerland. The Moose in the Tent night. The Unlucky night. He'd been warned by his bunkmates, “Don't hold a fart-lighting contest with a welder's torch,” which was almost as bad as the “scooting across hot coals” moment in the Bahamas.

Roach knew he wasn't gonna have any more kids. He'd met a couple of young peezers who sidled up to him outside a Reba concert and announced they were his offspring. He didn't buy it. People just lie to get backstage. He also knew his baby-making days were over after that nut-lifting contest anyway. You tied a rope around your nutsack, and the first guy to lift a truck rim was the winner. The moment he heard something pop, he knew his days of being a pop were over.

Why wouldn't somebody want the Roachmeister for one more tour? Sure, he'd left that star's attached microphone turned on before the show as the star went to the can battling Montezuma's Revenge. Sure, he'd accidentally opened the floor lift bringing the singer up onstage while a fan was kneeling in front of him. That can happen to anybody. And for cryin' out loud, what kind of a roadie job is putting police tape on the floor—from the bus to the stage—just because the singer was always so hammered he needed the tape as a guide to find his microphone? Come on, man, it was funny when Roach put the tape leading to a Dumpster out back. Who knew that cowboy would follow the tape right into the garbage? Is that a reason to fire a man?

Roach knew the rules. Roach was a team player. He
told
that bass singer not to inhale when you're practicing with a blowgun. Wasn't Roach the one who ran out and lifted the motorcycle off Travis Tritt when he dumped his Harley onstage at the Derby? I mean, it
was
hilarious. You don't fire somebody for laughing.

It's not like he cost the backup singers
that
much money when he started the company that specialized in potted chipmunk. He still had a lot of life and great ideas in him. False teeth for dogs was a killer concept. A golf course with ball returns like a bowling alley had promise written all over it. There was so much to plan and live for.

The bus groaned and started to slow down. This was it. They were back in Nashville. Suddenly, dreams and plans felt foreign to him. His bones ached. His back hurt. The bus smelled like a locker room in the Philippines. He waited for a moment. He was gonna rise from the crypt and walk away. Say good-bye to his buds and the driver. The star had gotten home seven hours ago on her plane. He'd send her a note. She was terrific.

This was the long good-bye. The boys always said Roach got out of his bunk like an octopus falling out of a tree. He stood, stretched, and headed toward the door. He stepped off and grabbed his duffel. He tried to remember where he'd parked his car.

He felt a sense of freedom and panic at the same time. Maybe it was time. Roach was turning the corner for a new road. There were some other drivers and buses parked nearby. He gave a quick wave. And he walked.

A voice called out over the early-morning parking lot. “Hey, Roach! ROACH! It's me, Brandon. Been out on the road with Blake Shelton. Hey, man, I know your girl's hangin' it up. You have any interest in takin' a ride through Canada starting Friday? We're gonna have a lotta fun and we'll drink Canada Dry!”

Roach smiled.

Roy Acuff and Opryland

THE
KING OF COUNTRY MUSIC goes way back. He was a singer with medicine shows in the 1930s and was a true pioneer. I spent a year working at Opryland doing a morning radio show from the stage of the
Grand Ole Opry.
Roy showed up quite often because
he lived there!
Yes, you read correctly. He had a house right there on the
Opry
property. Every so often, he wandered over with a cup of coffee and watched me stumble around doing my radio show. Kind of like when you look up and discover your neighbor is watching you clean out a litter box, or catching you running out to get the paper wearing one sock and a pair of boxers.

I should interject that the show I was doing was called
The Waking Crew.
It was
live
radio with a
live
band and a
semi-live
audience. It was early, and they were usually sleepy or from out of town and had
no
idea what was going on. I found both true sometimes. This was a long-running and beloved radio show that went back to the 1940s, carrying the grand tradition of great live radio and entertainment. Look up “The Breakfast Club” or “The Arthur Godfrey Show.” A host, a band, an audience made the show. I hosted it for about a year and drove it straight into the ground. When I left for L.A., they canceled the show.

Now, to be fair, there were problems when I got there. The band had been the star, and some of them didn't want me to tread on their comedy territory. I didn't learn that for quite awhile; I thought they were just mutes. It was like I was the mother-in-law on a honeymoon—not a good fit.

I always like to think it was canceled because I left, but it's probably closer to the truth to say they were so worn out watching me struggle to keep it afloat (literally “afloat” because we sometimes did the show from their General Jackson Showboat) that they just couldn't muster up the effort to find somebody else to host it.

Each daily show had two live singers. Often, a beautiful blonde named Lorrie Morgan came in. Other times, a whip-thin guy named Alan Jackson from the mailroom shuffled in. I'll never forget seeing this gorgeous creature, Lorrie Morgan, standing offstage in full regalia looking like a movie star. We were in a commercial break, and I walked over beside her. She fired up a Marlboro Red and said, “Wow, look at all these sleepy sons of bitches. Is that an audience or an oil painting?” I fell in love that moment.

What was I talking about before? Oh, yeah, Roy Acuff. The Royster only sang once on
The Waking Crew
with me present. “Great Speckled Bird” was one of his showstoppers. He was a real pro and a man of the people. I got kind of excited when my neighbor dropped in to sing, which brings me to the Roy story.

One day, a security guard at Opryland told me what had transpired with the
Opry
Master. Now, understand that Opryland was a theme park and a tourist Mecca. There were people in sandals and black socks wandering around for days like mental patients. I don't need to remind you they
loved
country music and were thrilled to poke all over the park. Gawkin' and snappin' pitchers and generally taking it all in. They were good folks, but tourists. Country tourists are the only people in the world who will drive 700 miles to a destination and have their picture taken with their car.

One summer morning, a gaggle of them got loose and wandered into Roy's
house.
Yep, front door is open. Let's go in and gawk . . . through Roy's kitchen . . . down the hall to ol' Roy's bedroom . . .while ol' Roy was in it, asleep! They gathered 'round the bed and watched Roy snort and snooze. He was all tucked up in the covers, talkin' to the Sandman, and these folks from Michigan or Ohio were workin' the Polaroids and snooping through his sock drawer.

Now,
this
is what you call a
real
country music theme park. Not only do you see the stars onstage, but you can also view them with their mouth open, snoring in
bed
—a place where tourists and
Opry
legends share a special moment.

A guard noticed Roy's front door was open and went in to check. When he discovered the “visitors,” he told me he was afraid “Mr. Roy would wake up and think he was dead with these people gathered 'round staring down at him.” It would be like waking up at your own funeral, I guess.

Our security expert silently ushered and shooed the thrilled trespassers out the bedroom door. As they crept out, the guard said he looked back and Roy was still sawin' away.

I always wondered if these folks went back home and were showing slides of their vacation. How they must have described being in Roy Acuff's bedroom: “Oh, Opryland is just so wonderful. We rode the Log Flume and got all wet. We had a nice lunch at this little country place. And we went into Roy Acuff's bedroom and watched him catch some z's.”

“I hope next year we can see Dolly all racked out.”

I think if the Opryland powers-that-be had incorporated this into the tourist agenda, they'd still be open and doing big business.

Sake's Fur and George Jones

“SAKE'S
FUR QUIT WORKING,” Allyson announced one chilly evening in March. I'm used to her saying things like that, so I asked her how she knew Sake's fur had “quit working.” “Look at him,” she said, pointing to the obviously shivering little Japanese Chin. “He's just freezin'. I guess his fur just gave out and can't keep him warm anymore.”

Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Sake was a Christmas Eve panic purchase I'd made with Autumn as my endorser. We couldn't think of what to get Mom, so we bought Sake at some pet store in a mall. I know it's a terrible thing to do, but we'd had two glasses of wine, and it was getting near the gift shopping deadline.

I don't believe Sake ever actually came to me when I called for him his entire life. He was a sweet little guy, but he either slept or stared out the window. He was a deep dog.

You could hear him thinking as he looked out while things blew by.
Leaf. Leaf. Squirrel. Leaf.
I am convinced Sake was actually a $900 rabbit. Sake has gone to doggie heaven now, but I kinda miss him giving that thousand-yard stare and bumping into the furniture.

I think George Jones' fur just quit working. It was possum fur, to be sure, because that's what a lot of people called him. I always thought bringing up George's resemblance to one unattractive rodent was an insult. He never seemed to mind and even referred to himself as the Ol' Possum. I maintain actual possums look so horrible because, when panicked, they fall over and pretend to be dead. To convince something that's about to eat you that you're dead, you have to look like “death on a cracker” all the time. Thus, and ergo, possums are horrible looking—like they've been up drinkin' and snortin' cocaine for two weeks. Now that I've said that, I understand why George Jones was called the Ol' Possum.