Country Music Broke My Brain (27 page)

How many times have I tried cats? Many. Too many. When I came home after a hard day of slaving over a hot microphone, I expected Calvin and Prissy to run to meet me like the conquering hero I was. Instead, all I got was a sneer from Calvin as he sauntered into the other room and Prissy arching her back and jumping on the couch. Now, I admit Prissy has reason to be upset. Prissy is a guy. You name a guy Prissy, you're gonna get some resentment. How can an animal be so difficult to sexually identify? After you remove the two obvious pieces of evidence, it's almost impossible. I am certain Prissy blames me for ruining his reputation in Catworld.

Dogs are good people. Dogs just know. Dogs are kind and gentle. Dogs protect you. Show me somebody with a guard cat, and I'll show you somebody missing some jewels. Prissy is missing some jewels, but that's not my fault.

Dogs understand and forgive. I think cats keep a detailed list of complaints in their secret hideouts. Cats hold a grudge and retaliate by peeing in your slippers if they can. Cats have meetings and take seminars called “How to Become More Aloof” and “Introduction to Furniture Scratching.” Calvin, our giant Manx, would go
near
the cat box just to antagonize us. It was obvious that he knew why we had a giant box of litter. He understood the concept of proper bathroom habits. He just wasn't going to submit to our rules. “General vicinity” was good enough for Calvin to show his intelligence and independence. Calvin is gone now. I'm certain if there's a “Cat Heaven,” Calvin is not there. He's somewhere right now taking a crap in Satan's shoes.

Brad Paisley is a cat. I tend to think of people as one or the other. Brad is friendly and smart and adorable, but he's a cat. I'm not saying he took a whiz in my closet, but I'm also not saying he didn't.

I met Brad Paisley at my golf tournament, which I held for years to support different charities. It was a glorious time. To be grudgingly honest, other people did most of the work. I showed up, swanned around as host, and played golf, and we raised some money for deserving people. If you don't play golf, you probably won't understand charity golf. Often, it's a long day with strangers on a sizzling patch of grass.

The Country King of Golf Tourneys is Vince Gill. Vince holds “The Vinny.” See, his name is Vince and, therefore, his tournament is almost his name. It's a truly swanky and wonderful event. I played for as long as I could stand being a “celebrity” in “The Vinny.” The “celebrity” problem was that nobody knew I was the celebrity. Guys paid thousands of dollars and flew in from Seattle to play with famous people. The tournament was studded with big names: pro athletes, actors, singers . . . and me. I spent four hours carefully explaining who I was to the obviously disappointed three guys who got the worst celebrity draw in the tournament.

We gathered on the first tee and one always said, “I wonder who our celebrity is?” I have a radio show. I write TV shows. I have written some hits. It was all very cordial and painful at the same time. You should know that when people enter a tournament, they
all
expect to play golf with Vince Gill, Michael Jordan, and Justin Timberlake in the same foursome. I expect the same thing. Of course, you can't all tee it up with Charles Barkley, so there's your problem. Although I've seen Charles play, and I'm not sure that qualifies as golf in any way. I finally quit “The Vinny” (or they quit me, I can't remember). Thank God. It was too much pressure on me and Vince to keeping presenting
me
as a celebrity.

Vince has been a friend of mine for thirty years. We've played golf many, many times. I think his putter is still in a tree on No. 18 at Harpeth Hills. He misses a putt, and “It's Helicopter Time!” I throw clubs myself. It makes me feel better. If that's true, Vince should be the best-feeling human on the planet. I remember once during
“
The Vinny” that a man was seated on the bench by the No. 9 tee box. I spoke and he said, “Well, hello, Ger.” He was just sitting there watching the players go by. He was old and gray and obviously weak, but he loved being there. It was Paul Davis. He wrote and sang several great pop hits: “Cool Night,” “'65 Love Affair,” “Come On Over,” and “I Go Crazy.” He was probably the biggest artist at the event, and no one even knew he was there. Paul had been shot years earlier on Music Row. It took his career and life away. He was such a gentle soul. I sat with him on that bench. I never saw Paul again.

Brad Paisley was escorted to my tournament to “meet and greet.” He didn't know why he was there or what to do. I didn't either. I had him hand out prizes at the end as if both of us knew what he should do. He was funny and gracious, as always. He was a brand-new singer, and his record promo rep thought it would be a nice gesture for him to show up. It was, and he did. I thought at the time Brad was a cool cat. I was right. He was, and he is.

BP is among the cleverest people I've ever met. He can fire off a one-liner with the best of them. He is also significantly over-married. He is a world-class guitar player and a good singer. I've written songs with him several times. The last time, I had what I thought was a wonderful, romantic, and meaningful idea. He arrived, having just gotten married to Kim, and said he wanted to write a song he'd started at his wedding reception. You know how cats don't come to you, you go to them? I went to Brad. He wanted to write a song called “The Toilet Seat Song.” Guess what we wrote. It's the pretty common story of a man who learns the lesson about living with a female. Leave the seat up at night and suffer the wrath of an angry and wet woman. Wonderful, romantic, and meaningful it was not, but that's fine. It was fun.

I have a theory that cats are always thinking about other stuff. Even when you are with them, cats have that far-off look in their eyes. They have other plans, and their minds are elsewhere. Brad Paisley is about half-Persian. He's looking at you, but thinking of catching a fish—just like cats do.

You know how cats suddenly have to be in the other room? They are quiet and peaceful, and then, BAM! They run like hell through the door as if somebody set their tail on fire? Brad also does that. One minute he's here. Suddenly, he has to be in the other room.

BP (yeah, still Brad Paisley) and I were sitting at my office trying to nurse a song to life one day. He said, “I've got a song on my album I love that I don't think is gonna see the light of day. It's a duet with Alison Krauss, ‘Whiskey Lullaby.' Why don't you play it on the air once just to see what happens?”

I want to interject here that I think DJs get or take too much credit for “playing” a song. I know it's important and it helps, but the real heavy lifting happens from the songwriters, singers, producers, and record guys. Pushing a button that starts a record is really not all
that.

I played “Whiskey Lullaby” on my show and changed the world as we know it. My old neighbor Bill Anderson and Jon Randall had written a masterpiece. I played it. Brad's recording with Alison was magic. Her vocals were perfect for such a heart-rending song. I was the one who played it. I've said that Alison Krauss often sings like she's trying not to disturb someone in the room with her. But the song I played that day—the duet by those two hillbillies (I forget their names)—was an award-winning record. I think Brad was pleased. He was probably distracted by a piece of string.

There is something magical about watching phone lines light up like Willie Nelson at a pot convention the first time you play a song. Certain songs strike a chord with people immediately.

The story here that I'm pretty sure Brad doesn't know is about the next song of his I helped break. It was called “The World.” Here's how things actually work sometimes in the music business:

I was already in Brad's book as helping with singles because of “Whiskey Lullaby.” I now had played “The World” several times. I'd come rockin' out of the news with this song at least once a day. Brad called me and said, “Hey, you think that's a hit? I think we're gonna go with that next.” He was excited. I was excited. I'm certain there were powers-that-be at his label who were looking at the same decision. What I never told Brad the Cat or anybody is that I played “The World” by accident. I put his new CD into the player. I was gonna play his duet with Dolly, which was somewhere on the CD, but I always forgot to select that song. I was distracted or talking or reading the newspaper. So, I always played “The World,” which just happened to be the first song on the album.

Now
do you see why I think jocks get too much glory in playing a song? I accidentally played a certain tune, and Brad Paisley thinks think it's
The One.
It was nothing more than my dumbass method of playing a CD. I stress again, I'm certain others picked it, loved it, wrote it, and fought for it. I just accidentally played it.

After I played “The World,” it changed the world again. I now had the golden touch so much that just playing a song by accident made a No. 1 record. The writers, producers, promotion people, Brad, his bus driver, his wife, and the president of the record company had nothing to do with it. Oh sure, the audience loved it and bought it and clamored for it, but I
played
the damn thing. Brad absolutely purred the next time he saw me. I was catnip, no doubt about it.

For years, I, along with half of Nashville, pitched Brad to host the
CMA
Awards.
I blurted out as much as possible that
he
would be the perfect host. He's funny. He's a star. He wears a hat and Carrie Underwood doesn't. All the things you need in a host. Vince had done it so many times, he ran out of steam. Brooks and Dunn took a whack at it, but there were no raves, to be honest. It's a tough gig. One day, BP (Brad the Persian cat) called and said, “Guess what? Not for public knowledge, but I am gonna host the
CMA Awards
show. Can you help me write some of it?” I was thrilled he thought of me, and I agreed. I know he asked several other folks, which was smart, to think up stuff for him and Carrie to say.

I wrote 'til my eyes bugged out of my head. I did it twice, as a matter of fact—the first year they hosted and their second year. I didn't contribute all of the material, but I do remember sitting in a parking lot the day of the show on the phone with Brad for an hour. We discussed stuff down to the finest detail.

Writing jokes is a thankless job. A lot of folks assume it's easy. It's just like writing a song. Some days it just falls out of the sky. Other days you sit and think so hard your head hurts. Later that evening, he called and offered an excited post-show “thanks.” I then saw him at Ronnie Dunn's after-party. Brad and I talked a little. He mentioned there was a chance that
somebody,
somewhere might do something, somehow for all my help. I joked and said, “Well, then, I guess you'll just have to write another song with me.” I'm pretty sure he arched his back and hissed. Suddenly, he had to be in the other room. You know how cats are.

Broadway and Lower Broadway

THERE'S
BROADWAY, and then there's Lower Broadway. Broadway is in New York City. Lower Broadway is in Nashville. Every so often, they intersect. I'm going to admit right here and right now that I love Broadway. I love show tunes and musicals and the whole thrilling thing.

I realize that, in many places, this will cause me to lose my “man card,” but I don't care. At my age, my man card is not getting punched much anymore anyway. People ask me a lot, as if I'm some kind of Manhattan expert, “Where are the places to go, eat, and sleep in New York?” I actually know London better than I do the Big Apple. I always tell them to be sure and see some theater. It's exciting. We have a rule, by the way. If one of us—Allyson, Autumn, or I—don't like the show, we leave at “halftime.” I usually know in the first five minutes if I want to sit through the rest of the show. I will have more on the problems of leaving early later, if “early later” is a phrase.

Lower Broadway is a touristy collection of honky-tonks, barbeque joints, and a few upscale restaurants. The music blares out the open front doors of the honky-tonks to entice people to come in, order a longneck, and listen to somebody sing old Garth Brooks songs. Nashville also has the fabulous Schermerhorn Symphony Center downtown. I always tell the conductor of the Nashville Symphony they ought to leave the front doors open so people walkin' by will drift in to catch him playing old Beethoven songs.

Tootsie's is the USDA-approved, Grade A honky-tonk. It's always been in that same place, just down the alley from the Ryman Auditorium. They've managed to maintain the historic “dive” appearance with just the right amount of neglect and poor lighting. I haven't been there in years but have been many times in the past. You really do feel like Kitty Wells or Willie Nelson might saunter through the back door at any minute. The lore is that
Opry
stars would sneak off between shows at the Ryman and have a half-dozen pops before going back for the late show.