Country Music Broke My Brain (36 page)

Jim also hosted a show called
Those Amazing Animals.
When it got canceled, he said I missed a helluva barbeque.

As we were about to wrap up the TV production meeting, somebody else said, “K.T., what do you want the show to be?” She looked right at him and said, “Some days we'll dress like pirates for no reason whatsoever.” Everybody laughed, and we all made plans to meet again soon to get the ball rolling. As we walked to our cars, K.T. looked at me and smiled that knowing smile of hers. “Another meeting, more big plans, and you know what will happen? We'll make plans for another meeting 'til everybody sort of wears themselves out planning.”

She was right, as she usually was. We never dressed as pirates.

The Elegant Warriors

OUR
VET IS DR. LADD. We've sent all manner of dogs and cats to him to get poked, prodded, and cured. Dr. Ladd is also a good-looking dude. I almost had a man crush on him. Allyson gets all dreamy-eyed whenever one of our mutts needs its teeth cleaned. Her friend Bonnie says he's so cute that several of her friends are taking road kill in just so they can stare at Dr. Ladd.

The Doc is a total pro and is always gentle when one of our “babies” is there for the final “visit.” Is there anything sadder than taking that ride with a little furry thing that's been with you for fifteen or sixteen years? I've done it several times. Dr. Ladd pets his head and says, “He's a good little boy, isn't he? You want them to live a good life, and when that time is over, it's time to say goodbye.” I hate to cry in front of a good-looking man, but I've done it.

Over the years I've met a lot of elegant warriors. People who are so iconic and so famous you wonder if they ever “lived a good life” . . . or at least a normal life.

Spotting the warriors is amazing. It's watching Art Linkletter, in his mid-nineties (!), sweeping in to discuss his new book. This was a guy who hosted a milestone TV show,
Kids Say the Darndest Things
, and he was still working the room. It's Larry King asking me, “How long have you been local?” (I wasn't, by the way; at the time, I was national on XM Radio.)

It's flying next to Tony Bennett with Naomi Judd and laughing together about his days with Sinatra. I did one of the last interviews with Fay Wray. Fay is the girl who got famous being squeezed by King Kong. Yes,
that
King Kong. Empire State Building gorilla-meets-blonde. I asked Fay if she still monkeyed around, and she almost hung up on me.

Pat Boone is the whitest singer in the history of music. Pat was born in Nashville and became a singing sensation in the '50s and '60s. Pat rerecorded R&B songs in his “smoother and more acceptable to most of America” style and hit it big. He's a great guy—a milk-drinkin' family man. His kids were
not
milk duds. Daughter Debbie had “You Light Up My Life” and drove us all crazy with that classic. Pat was almost eligible for Social Security when he showed up shirtless in a leather vest one day. He had recorded an album of heavy metal songs in “Boone style.” As I recall, the album sank like a stone, but it was fun. I still get a thrill when I hear one of his earlier hits, “Moody River.”

It's seeing Jed Clampett standing in front of you. The patriarch of
The Beverly Hillbillies
came to see me. It was just surreal. He was so old that he was that sort of translucent-skinned, fragile thing we all become when we're ancient. Inside this frail frame, however, was the guy who danced with Shirley Temple and was supposed to be the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz
. (“The Tin Man” is also one of my favorite Kenny Chesney songs.) Buddy was allergic to aluminum dust (aren't we all?) and lost the part in that wondrous film. I was so dumbstruck by his appearance before me I never asked
one
question about
The Beverly Hillbillies
, which I know disappointed him to no end. He'd probably never been asked a question about Jethro or the cement pond before.

I noted earlier that when I was a pup living in Jacksonville, Florida, I performed in a play with George Hamilton. (Back then, I thought I could act and spent a lot of the audience's time proving I was barely acceptable.) George is a true Hollywood story. He told me he didn't have two nickels to rub together when he moved to Tinseltown, but he rented a Rolls-Royce and rode around as if he were richer than a king. Everybody bought his act because he was talented, tall, and tan. He made a gazillion dollars from producing a movie about Evil Knievel. The thought of George playing Hank Williams, however, is still hilarious to me. He is so far from Country & Western, he's in another dimension. Yet, you still see him sometimes on an old movie channel, all duded up in a Nudie suit and a big hat. It's like Donald Trump playing Fred Sanford.

My best brush with bumping into greatness was literally that. When I lived in L.A. in the '80s, I went to a lot of showbiz parties. I knew some folks who knew some folks. I remember standing with a glass of Champagne, and some elderly gentlemen backed into me, and I spilled my bubbly all over the floor. He sort of stammered and apologized, all at the same time. We've all heard that, “Well, uh . . . oh my . . . uh . . . excuse me there, pal . . . I . . . uh . . . did I do that? Oh . . . well . . . well . . . Jeez . . . I am so sorry. Let me get you a napkin . . . uh . . . you all right?” I laughed and said I was fine. Who could get upset at Jimmy Stewart?

Speaking of L.A., I was on the radio playing country music one early morning when the phone rang. I talked awhile with this guy, who wasn't really an old warrior then. In fact, he was on the most popular TV series in the world. Then, as if he was embarrassed that he hadn't introduced himself, he said he was Bobby Ewing from
Dallas.
Patrick Duffy loved country music, and he'd drop in from time to time before he went to straighten out J.R. at Southfork Ranch. He was just a ray of light to be around, and it's no wonder he became such a star.

Bob Hope is probably the most famous person I've ever met. We all know his story, and it's an amazing one: vaudeville, radio, movies, television shows, and all those USO tours. Has anybody not seen Bob standing on a warship or a rice paddy telling jokes to men who are fighting a war? Barbara Mandrell always calls him Mister Hope when she talks about him because she revered him so much. There is just something elegant and professional about people like Bob Hope that gives you faith in humanity and showbiz. He was a huge, worldwide star for sixty years. Leslie Townes Hope came to Nashville, and I introduced him.

The Tennessee State Fair is a quirky event, at best. When I got to Nashville, it was a lot less “quirky” than it is today. Ours is more like a carnival and farmer's market combo than, say, the Ohio State Fair. The midway is not exactly jaw-droppingly amazing. They have a guess-your-sex booth. The freak show has a bearded man. It's more low-budget, if you get my drift. Some of the prize pigs only have three legs. This is
not
a Hollywood production, our State Fair. One of the rides is a tractor with a flat. During the golden years of the State Fair of Tennessee, when I was a pipsqueak of a radio geek, they had some pretty serious acts appear on their stage. They hired the usual gamut of old musical acts such as Paul Revere & the Raiders or the Temptations. And in and among the goat-roping competitions and the ham demonstrations, they brought in a big name like Mr. Hope. (I was actually asked to appear at one of the ham demonstrations, for obvious reasons.) I was asked to warm up the crowd and then introduce Bob, as if the biggest star in show bidness needed to be introduced. Like most fairgrounds, the stage is atop a concrete bunker and next to a racetrack. The seats are bleacher-like affairs with a capacity crowd of about 12,000. So, the stage is set. It's late in the afternoon, and the radio guy, me, is ready to do five minutes and bring on the
real
comedy. I am so excited when I see a long, black limo snaking its way through the maze of buildings behind the fairgrounds.

When I talk about elegant warriors, I mean showbiz vets who are always prepared and have only the best people to handle stuff for them. My proof is that, when the limo rolled to a stop, and I stood by to welcome the star, Bob Hope had been prepped. Door opens, out steps Old Ski Nose, and he says, “Hello, Gerry.” I nearly fell over. The pros know how to do it right. They get names of local towns and local hot spots and local personalities and sprinkle them throughout their act, and everybody leaves thinking they are the greatest people who ever lived.

Here's when I proved I am
not
a pro, that I am really more qualified to run the Tilt-A-Whirl than I am to emcee a packed show at the State Fair. I went onstage a little shaky, did a few jokes, and actually got some laughs. I was as thrilled as the crowd to see Mr. USO standing in the wings. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please, a big Tennessee welcome to America's favorite star, Mr. Baaaaaahhhhhb Hope!”

When an emcee typically finishes his clichéd intro to insert-famous-name-here, he usually walks off the stage and normally watches from behind a pile of public-address equipment. Me? Do I shake hands with Bob Hope and graciously cede the stage to him?
No
. I am so enthralled with the star and the stage and the night and the fair that I walk about five feet and then just
stand there.
I'm still on the stage! Hope looks at me and smiles and shrugs and goes into his act. I'm still there like a giant doofus for all the world to see. More Bob . . . more geeky/gawky boy not moving an inch. Bob, being the pro that he is (after all, he has done shows where people are shooting at him), is hardly fazed by his new co-performer. He plows on, and the King of Awkward continues to grin like a moron from stage left. After about fifteen minutes, I feel a tug on my elbow and then the words I will never forget: “Son, come on over here now. Only Mr. Hope belongs onstage.” It was the show producer, and he was kinder than I probably would have been. Bob Hope
killed
that afternoon. He sang and he did patter and he reminisced and made everybody love him more. I stood behind that pile of PA equipment 'til “Thanks For The Memories” rang out and his show was over. The movie star of the
Road To . . .
comedies made his way toward the car. As he passed, he stuck out his hand and said in that famous nasally tone, “Thanks, pally. If it hadn't been for you, I would've bombed out there. And believe me, I've bombed and been bombed onstage, and it ain't pretty.” With that, he was gone. The elegant warrior.

H
E LOOKED LIKE SOMETHING OUT
of a hairdresser's western. It was an over-the-top outfit at six in the morning. Who goes out dressed in full frontal horse opera regalia? Marty Robbins, that's who. “Out in the West Texas town of El Paso” rang in my ears every time I saw Marty. At the time, he had a Frito Bandito mustache and a leather jacket and pants to match. Along his arms, he had fringe. On his pants, he had fringe. He had . . . (drumroll) “Fringe in Low Places.” (Insert bucket-o-fish, the inside studio musician joke for a rim shot.)

He was glorious and western, and he was a gentleman and a star. Marty Robbins was part of my childhood soundtrack. “Devil Woman” still kills me. “Don't Worry” was the first time a fuzz-tone was used on a record because somebody played through a broken mixer.

Marty wrote most of his hits and had what I call an emotional tenor. Like Roy Orbison and others, Marty delivered what Bruce Springsteen so brilliantly called “three-minute operas.” I think that's what is missing from today's country music. I don't think it has to be that old-timey mountain music, but it would be nice to hear somebody deliver a great song once in awhile. How many times can somebody be happy in the mud in the sticks in a truck with some chicks?

Marty's son, Ronnie, had the family office across the street from my office. Ronnie did a really great stage impression of his dad. I imagine that's what Ronnie actually sang like, but it always looked like he was “doing” Dad. Nobody can re-create Dad. Frank Jr. couldn't do it. Paul McCartney's son suffers because of it. Does anybody remember Doug Hitler? Of course not. Originals put such a stamp on their image that trying to follow it is impossible—what a burden to bear. Look at what Chaz Bono went through, or, as I call him, Partly Sonny.

Marty was so graceful. He laughed his way with such ease through a crowd. He stopped to hear for the thousandth time how much somebody loved “El Paso.” He wrote songs and sang and drove race cars 'til the end.

Brentwood is just a hop and a skip from Murfreesboro Road, where my radio station was located. Marty often did a television interview downstairs and then just popped in on me. I was always glad to see him. The last time I spoke to him, he was wearing his cowboy getup. I saw a lot of costumes in those days. Marty had a closet full of ivory-white suits with red flowers and yellow cacti and embroidery for days. When he arrived in his “outfit,” I prodded him with, “You look like Gene Autry's limo driver.” He thought that was hilarious and, after shooting me the bird (it was radio, after all), pronounced, “And just for that, I'm singing one of the boss's songs.” He had a little gut-string guitar with him and proceeded with “Yesterday's Roses,” written by Gene himself. He sang it like he was in front of a million people. Not long after that, his heart let him down. My heart was broken, too. He was an elegant warrior.