Country Music Broke My Brain (40 page)

The hits started, and so did the press. The Big Machine was cranking up and starting to fire on all cylinders. TS was no BS and on her way. I even suggested she was about to get so successful she would soon make a gospel album called
Lord and Taylor.

One day, we were preparing some commercials to hype the station, and the star who was originally going to do the promotional “spots” with me had to cancel. Yours truly suggested that we ask the new young blonde singer to do the commercials with us. Let me be clear: we were very much the recipients of goodwill when Taylor agreed to do them for the little exposure she received in return. The spots were funny and goofy and promoted her. The ads also promoted us as connected to this social whirlwind; it was a win-win for all.

Even then, three short years into the process, Taylor was fast becoming a star. Once, as she left the studio after a short visit, I said, “You're getting so big, in six months we'll never hear from you again.” She apparently put a note into her phone, and six months later, to the day, she called just to prove us wrong. It was delightful. It sounds calculated, but even more, it was smart, professional, and just plain good.

Taylor started to orbit further out from us after that. I couldn't have been happier for anybody. I used to worry a little that she'd become the “dog that caught the pickup.” I've seen that happen: somebody wants it so badly, and then suddenly they get it, and it all breaks down. Stardom is power. At a fragile age, it can often just ruin a person. We all know the drill. But I had no fear for Taylor. If ever there was somebody with her feet so firmly planted in reality, it was her. I never even heard a typical Music Row rumor about her. The Golden Girl was truly gold.

One morning I arrived at the studio to find a package lightly wrapped, addressed to me. It was a painting—a heart with wings, flying into a blue, starry sky. Written across the top were the words, “Because you believed in me.” It was hand-painted and signed by Taylor. It meant so much. A gesture like that, so personal and carefully done . . . it was amazing. I put it on the wall and looked at it almost every day. The truth was, I really hadn't done anything other than talk to her, interview her, and enjoy her from afar. But she appreciated it and sent me a little reminder of that. Taylor Swift is that rare person who rode the rocket to stardom at such a young age and never lost her balance. Wow.

I
WILL TELL THIS STORY
from my side. It's all I got.

It's another BMI songwriters' awards banquet. The same Music Row event where I'd first met a young, blonde teenage wannabe eight years before. At the bar I bumped into a guy who said, “My daughter loves you.” Of course, I immediately wanted to hear more from this intelligent speaker of wonderfulness. It was Taylor's dad. He regaled me with the old “family/aluminum hat” stories again. The conversation ended with, “She wants to see you. Come over to our table and say hi.”

Now let me describe the BMI Awards. It's not the Kennedy Center Honors. It's a big deal, but it's the music business. People are roaming all over the room during the ceremonies. Jody Williams, the head of BMI's Nashville operations, happily calls out a song title, and the writers leap onstage for a picture. Fellow writers applaud and jeer and hoot. Half the crowd is standing at the bar as if it's a honky-tonk. Major country stars mingle around and look for their table numbers, just as everyone else does. It's kind of like the Golden Globe Awards with hats. A good-time free-for-all of glitz and camaraderie and too much wine. My idea of a perfect evening.

Halfway through the night, I slipped out of my chair and plopped down between Ms. Swift and her pa. Now, I might have walked into something. I know she had just gotten an award. It could have been bad timing. There was a lot going on. Oh God, little fifteen-year-old Geraldine is about to surface. But I did not get the reception I thought I would. It was not a massive, warm-loving hug that was my usual greeting. Not even a quick hug. Not a gentle welcome touch on the arm. Dad stared straight ahead and Ms. TS gave a short sideways glance and a noncommittal, “Hey.”

I looked around for the cameras. I was thinking,
This is pretty good. I've been set up. Dad asks me over, and they are going to act like they don't know me.
But there were no cameras, there was no setup. They just acted like they didn't know me. After a long and embarrassing few minutes, I slowly did the walk of shame back to my seat. I remember legendary songwriter Don Schlitz yelling at me, “Hey, you working the room?” Apparently not, Donnie Boy.

I had noticed a sadness once before in Taylor during an interview. It was one of the times she was on the show and had broken up with “insert-name-here.” I didn't know it at the time, but it was her birthday, and her heart was a little broken. I felt sorry for her. But she was a pro and said all the right things. She was a little cryptic, but she hung in there.

On this evening, however, Taylor was the
last
person I ever expected to be brushed off by. Again, to be fair, I might have wandered in at the wrong time. My choice of timing could have ruined a good moment. Usually, though, making the effort to tell someone to “hold on 'til this is over” is a fairly easy thing to do. If you're in the middle of something else and an old pal drops by, at least acknowledge their existence with a “Love ya, but gotta do this now” moment.

I'll survive somehow. I was a little bummed, as my wife will attest, but I've managed to overcome a small incident in a star's life. I really can't think of another instance like this one. It was surprising and unsettling, to say the least.

I know that even in my small walk of fame people have told me I didn't speak to them at the grocery store. I usually ask, “Did you say ‘Hi' and I ignored you?” “No, you just walked on by on your way to the cereal aisle.” Of course, this is from someone I do not know at all. They knew me and were offended I didn't use my psychic powers to recognize them and say, “Hey.” So, little fifteen-year-old Gerry Girl needs to learn to understand people are busy. I'll also say Gerry Girl has never made a career out of songwriting and acceptance speeches that enigmatically target one heart-breaker after another. There's that.

Life goes on. I still watch Taylor with curiosity and wonder. What will she do for her next act? I hope it's all good. She's a big star who once painted a picture of a heart.

I gave the painting away.

The CMA

ONE
OF THE GREAT ADVANTAGES country music has over other kinds of music, such as jazz, Gagaku (Japanese classical music), and Klezmer (Jewish dance music circa 1900) is that country has the Country Music Association. Search high and low, and you'll find no Gagaku Music Association. The Gagaku people just don't care. You could start with saying Gagaku or Klezmer causes brain damage and you would go unchallenged. Try it next time you're among friends. Denounce atonal punk rock as dangerous to your mental abilities, and everyone will just go along. They'll let you trash atonal punk rock (which is, frankly, not a bad thing to do).

I am perhaps the lone voice in the wilderness, which includes both the sticks and the woods, pointing out the dangers of country. I have been stalked, harassed, threatened, and, yes, even looked at funny by members of the CMA because of my stance. They also don't like the mention of brain damage and country in the same sentence, either.

They are a wonderful bunch of folks who work so hard to defend and browbeat or, should I say, gently persuade the world that country is good. This was the organization that, you may remember, created that wonderfully powerful slogan, “Country: Admit it. You love it.” Sure, that has a hint of reluctance. Yes, it does bring in the argument that there is a considerable group of humans who can't stand it. It's a bit defensive, to be honest. It always reminded me of when your mother wanted you to go out with a girl who had a face that would frighten a warthog. Mom thought she was cute, the girl's mother was her friend at church, and Mom would say, “Come on. Admit it. Olga. You like her.” Everybody, except your mother, knew that wasn't true, but you would smile and tell myopic Mom that you'd think about it. The CMA slogan had that kind of “feel” to it.

The truth is, country is wildly popular all over the United States, in parts of Canada, and in small pockets around the world. I've received checks for country songs I've written that were played in Sweden, Ireland, and Denmark. I cashed those checks and went immediately to buy myself one Chili-Cheese Pup at Krystal.

The CMA has managed to squash the brain damage thing for a long, long time now. I'm proud of them. Considering the success of the singers I know who play to 75,000 screaming cowboys and cowboy-ettes some nights, they must be doing something right.

I have written hundreds of letters to the Country Music Association detailing my ideas and theories for improving the profile, acceptance, and promotion of this twangy genre:

   
•
   
If they could just work out a deal to get Ford to give everyone a truck. Imagine the excitement of a new F-150 owner being able to turn on a country station and immediately hear a song about the very vehicle he was driving.

   
•
   
I think if more country & Western lyrics were readily available to tattoo parlors, country would have more skin in the game. If people in New York City were on the subway, riding behind a woman with every word to “She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy” tattooed on her back, they would be hooked for life.

   
•
   
Why hasn't the CMA done more to convince the Baptists to replace hymns with hits? There are a lot of Brad Paisley songs you can sing during Bible school. Why don't these people think? It's right there—free country promotion.

   
•
   
What if McDonald's replaced Happy Meals with Hick-y Meals? You see how easy it can be? Simple move, and the CMA comes out looking like a hero.

   
•
   
If you took any person who expressed a dislike for the music and simply let them ride on Willie's bus for an hour, they'd emerge as fans of country. They would also emerge much more cheerful and probably asking for a bag of Dorito's.

Advertising on Kenny Chesney's head, more alarm clocks that play banjo music, get the First Lady in some Daisy Dukes, a few mud bogs in the middle of the Indianapolis Speedway, Beyoncé and Jay-Z hosting the
CMA Awards
—these are all fabulous ideas I've suggested. They've all fallen on deaf ears. Sad, isn't it? A well-heeled, well-supported professional organization dedicated to promoting country music, and all I get are crickets.

The only thing that saves them from my wrath is that perhaps they have all been brain-damaged so much, they can't remember to call me.

Does anybody know if there's a Hard-core Elevator Music Society?

The Mother of All Headaches

IT
BEGAN JUST LIKE every other day, with a gentle knock on the bedroom door. I stirred slightly and noticed golden shards of sunlight cracking through the brocade curtains. It was going to be a glorious one. Leopold came backing through the door, holding aloft the hammered pewter tray with my breakfast. He had been with us for years as chef, housekeeper, and general assistant. It was clear that he'd also had quite a snootful last night. I knew I would ask if he'd been drinking, and he'd say perhaps one glass of sherry. It was how he got the nickname “Leo the Lyin'” from my wife.

The Mrs. was a vision of elegance, out like a light with her Bose noise-canceling earbuds and silk sleep mask. I noticed the “chaw” of Red Man had fallen from her mouth and would probably leave a nasty stain on that pink Halston peignoir. I slipped out of bed just as she began to snore like Larry the Cable Guy.

Breakfast was the same: evenly toasted eleven-grain bread with two local (no more than five miles away) eggs, poached. This came with a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice and one hand-chosen macadamia nut in a tiny silver serving cup. The coffee had to be made from civet beans and served steaming. Civet beans are coffee beans eaten, digested, and excreted by small Indonesian mammals and collected to make the best brew in the world. Leopold pulled out my chair and, with a flair, flipped the white cotton napkin into the air. There was just a whiff of Mennen aftershave coming from Leopold as I started to lift the Waterford cup to my lips.