Country Music Broke My Brain (29 page)

A cow chip throwing contest is a whole other sport. Sidearm is my method, but you have to select the proper chip. If you've ever skipped rocks across a creek (I was neighborhood champ for several years), you can toss a cow chip. Kathy knew, as all pros do, that to gain maximum distance, the chip has to be durable, thin, and Frisbee-like. This is when I knew Ms. Mattea was my kind of girl. Walking from pie to pie, testing for firmness and aerodynamics, was serious business. I am ashamed to admit I didn't apply myself as much as I should have. Although I can sling the B.S. with the best of them, Kathy Mattea won. The girl has got an arm like Roger Clemens. Distance, control, and direction are her talents. I know, in spite of all her gold records, winning that contest is her crowning achievement.

The other memory of that wondrous day in the sunshine involved a young man named Blake Chancey. Blake is Ron Chancey's son. Both are great producers. Ron made records with the Oak Ridge Boys, Garth Brooks, and Bob Seger. Blake went on to helm recording projects with Mary Chapin Carpenter and the Dixie Chicks. I guess the little nut didn't fall far from the big nut tree. I love both the dad and the son.

We were outside most of the cow chip tossing day. Every now and then, I'd hear Bob Beckham's dog howl. Farm dogs do that. They warn people of some unseen trespasser or impending danger that nobody but the dog sees. I didn't pay much attention, and nobody else did, either.

When we went inside the house later that day, a young Blake Chancey was sprawled on the couch in front of the television. Blake was too young and too cool to be involved in anything as tasteless as a cow chip tossing contest. He preferred watching an old rerun of
Baywatch.
I don't blame him. Pamela Anderson is one of the most talented actresses to ever run in slow motion in a red bathing suit down the beach.

Bob and I entered the den. Blake looked up and said, “Bob, there's something wrong with your TV remote. I've been trying to switch around and it doesn't work. Maybe the batteries are dead.”

Punch, punch, punch. He was right. The television didn't respond at all. Again, punch, punch, punch. Nothing. We heard some barking in the distance. Punch, punch, punch. No television reaction. Again, I heard a faint lonesome wail.

Bob grabbed the remote and said, “Son, stop hitting that. Oh, Jesus.” He then dashed out the door. I watched out the window as he seemed to be running to where the barking came from. Blake and I decided to follow. Blake dropped what he thought was the remote. But it wasn't.

Shock collars have never been anything I want to use on one of my dogs. Owners and trainers swear by them. It actually teaches the dog lessons for life. I don't want to condemn anyone for trying to teach their “best friend” about safety and civility. The “shock” doesn't actually do any real damage to the dog, but let's face it, it comes as a shock. Certainly, if it gets several reminders a second for an entire episode of
Baywatch.
Bob felt terrible. I felt terrible. Blake was just mortified. The dog recovered just fine, but he always reminded me of Don Knotts after that.

What did Terry Bradshaw ask me to do?

A)
  
Think up a slogan for peanut butter

B)
  
Wax his new Corvette

C)
  
Trade pants with him

Don't Pass Me By

STEELERS
FANS STILL SORT of quiver if you mention the name Terry Bradshaw. He's the Pro Football Hall of Fame quarterback with
four
Super Bowl rings. Rather than cow chips, he's still watching footballs being tossed, although now it's behind a desk on Fox
NFL Sunday.

Most people don't remember that Terry was a country singer in Nashville, Tennessee. It happens a lot. Somebody has success in sports or modeling or business, and
here they come
: “I'm a-gonna be a Country & Western star!” There's always some producer or record exec who sees dollar signs attached and is ready to lead the way to a recording studio. Over the years, I think I've heard more bad music produced for the wrong reasons than anybody who's ever lived.

Every now and then, however, the “star” could actually sing. Nowadays, even
that
isn't a problem. Studio wizards can auto-tune a talent-free singer into success. If you hear a song with that otherworldly sound to it, that pitch-perfect vocal that doesn't seem human, chances are it isn't. It's an athlete or a rapper or a model being “fixed” by modern technology.

Terry Bradshaw could, and probably still can, actually sing. I'm not saying he made Ronnie Dunn want to quit showbiz, but he had a nice tenor voice. It's the voice you'd hear in the church on Sunday when somebody stepped out of the choir and sang a verse by his lonesome.

Jerry Crutchfield is a producer, musician, and business exec. We have done a
lot
of things together: commercial jingles, songs, and anything we stumbled across that might work. He's one of the few people who can pick out a hit song and turn a nobody into a somebody with one hit. He did it over and over. It's a talent few people have. “Crutch” taught me a lot.

Terry came to town, recorded some C & W songs, and embarked on his new singing career. I saw him a lot during those days. He and Crutch also decided he needed a side business to capitalize on his fame. That's where Terry Bradshaw's Peanut Butter came in. I wasn't part of the business plan, but I was part of the creative team. Bradshaw turned to me one day and asked, “Can you think of a slogan for peanut butter?” I've done a lot of goofy things in my life, but that day I started by staring out the window at home trying to dream up a slogan for crushed goobers in a jar.

I had several slogan ideas, most of which I knew Terry wouldn't like. Picture a big jar with Bradshaw's mug on the front. “It's nuttier than I am” was my favorite. I didn't even have the nerve to submit it. Second only to “Terry's Nuts!”—which was not a crowd favorite either. “Pass the peanut butter” had a nice football-y ring to it, but was shot down. “From Super Bowl to Super Jar!” Nope. “It takes a goober to know a goober.” I thought Terry's picture on the front would make that work. No way. I even tried “PBJ. Peanuts, Bradshaw, and Jelly.” Not even a glimmer.

“It's not peanut BUTTER, it's peanut BETTER!” Yes, I know. It doesn't have the joyous zing of “It's nuttier than I am,” but that was the one they went with.

Somewhere in my attic I think I still have a jar of Terry's nuts.

Who said, “Thanks for letting me gherm you”?

A)
  
Al Sharpton

B)
  
Neil Diamond

C)
  
Pee Wee Herman

She Came in through the Bathroom Window

ONE
OF THE WONDERFUL side benefits of living in Nashville is that you get to meet visiting superstars. I'm not talking about the “Gone Country” types Alan Jackson references—the ones who have fallen out of favor in another kind of music and now want to try “Country & Western.” I mean the ones who genuinely have affection for the place and sometimes even move to Twang Town.

I once was hosting some charity event at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. As usual, I was barely aware of who was on the bill or what was going on. A guy poked me in the back as I stood backstage and said, “Gerry, I'm Peter Frampton.” I nearly fell over. Peter lived in town for a few years.

Jazz guitarist extraordinaire Larry Carlton lives just south of the city. I will miss seeing Donna Summer at dinner parties and on New Year's Eve. Felix Cavaliere of the Rascals and “Groovin'” fame appears every now and then. I've been to Steve Winwood's house a lot and ruined most of his wine collection. Stevie is in England most of the time now. You get the idea.

These people aren't “carpetbaggers,” they just love living here. I always think, anyway,
So what? So what if they
do
come to town to try and make a record?
Rosanne Cash once said to me out of frustration, “It's not a
religion.
”

Rose took some heat from country purists for some reason I've now forgotten over one of her records. There are still a few of those types left around here. Some people are still upset they use drums on the
Opry.
But Rose is right. It's
not
a religion. It's just a town where music is made, and if somebody wants to live here, good for them.

I've been to dinner parties many times with Sheryl Crow. When I look at the list of songs she's written that I love, I'm amazed she even speaks to anybody. Sheryl and her babies called Nashville home. She's one of those people who make you feel good just knowing she's in the same room. After a “fun” dinner with wine, my favorite memory of Sheryl is seeing her playing an unplugged bass guitar while Reba McEntire banged on a cowbell and sang at the top of her lungs.

One of my many songwriting heroes is Michael McDonald. Mike has a house in Leiper's Fork. It's an old farmhouse, and he converted one of the little houses nearby into a studio. Yes,
that
Michael McDonald . . . Doobie Brothers/Steely Dan Michael McDonald. If somebody asks me to name my favorite pop song, I always say, “What a Fool Believes.” Mike wrote that with Kenny Loggins. The performance, the story, the lyrics, and the music are all perfect.

He's written so many classics, it's kind of scary. And he did it all while singing in a language no human can understand! My favorite Michael McDonald album,
What The Hell Is He Saying?
, is played all the time. And, believe it or not, I actually wrote with Mike. He's hilarious, he's sweet, and he's an intimidating piano player. I plunk around on the 88s. I can write songs, but watching him do it is also, like I said, intimidating; there's no other word for it.

After forty years of mauling a Steinway, his hands look like meat hooks—big, gnarly, angry fingers sticking out of muscular canned hams. Kim Carnes (who also lives in Nashville) sang “Bette Davis Eyes.” I got to see “Mike McDonald's Hands.” Plus, when he's just sitting there writing and making up lyrics, he sings
just like
Michael McDonald! Even lyrics I just wrote I can't understand when he sings them—one of the great thrills of my career.