Hillbilly Heart (24 page)

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed.

I knew without looking that Miley’s head had hit a branch. Blood flowed from a gash in her head. I raced home and Tish helped me wash her down. I thought the worst, like possibly I’d broken her neck. Fortunately, she was laughing by the time Tish swaddled her in a fluffy towel. But I still remember this with a shudder as the day I almost took her head off.

The mishap did nothing to dim my passion for the outdoors. Nor Miley’s. The land touched my soul in a special way. It was the freedom that came with it. There was no end to its beauty. I had recently tried to purchase twelve additional acres next to my property, which would have given me about fifty in total. But when the sellers found out I was the buyer, they doubled the price. I was insulted. I walked away and put out word that I wanted to move.

The next day my real estate agent found a house she described as “perfect.” It was the former residence of architect William B. Cambron, who had lived there from 1972 until his recent death. The house was a replica of Andrew Jackson’s Nashville mansion, the Hermitage. But it wasn’t so much the house that made it perfect for me as it was the land, 212 acres of rolling hills and woods, which she described as unbelievable.

“The house even has an indoor pool,” the realtor said enthusiastically.

“Sounds like I’ve got to see it,” I replied.

The next morning I rode my motorcycle to the house. I was in the country when I came upon the driveway, which snaked up past fenced pastures and tree-covered hills. It was green for as far as I
could see. The actual house was still up ahead, well out of sight, yet what I could see gave such an instant sense of calm and comfort that I said to myself, “Cyrus, you’re home.”

My real estate agent and Mrs. Cambron were waiting for me when I coasted up to the front of the house. They invited me inside for a look around.

“I don’t need to,” I said. “I already love it.”

A gravel road went past the house and disappeared into the woods. Mrs. Cambron said I was welcome to explore it. I said thanks and roared off. About twenty minutes later, I returned, grinning as if I had found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The women wanted to know what I thought.

“I’m in,” I said. “Let’s work it out.”

The real negotiation was with my wife. As far as Tish was concerned, the Federal-style mansion was too far out in the country. She also thought that it needed a ton of renovation, and she hated the indoor pool. That crushed me. I thought that was the coolest part. It kind of made us like the Beverly Hillbillies. I was already practicing hollering, “Hey Miley, get the monkey and meet me at the cee-ment pond.”

Tish had no desire to be like the Beverly Hillbillies. I don’t think she watched that show.

Still, I couldn’t resist the temptation and bought the home and all 212 acres that came with it.

However, by the fall of ’94, we still hadn’t moved in and the house sat empty. We even talked of selling it since it seemed like I might be too busy to generate enough enthusiasm and energy for the family to make the move. I was getting ready to release my
Storm in the Heartland
album. The fourteen songs covered social issues like the struggle of America’s farmers (“Storm in the Heartland”), appreciation of the earth (“Geronimo”), intensely personal topics like child abuse (“Enough Is Enough”), and the trials of raising a family (“I Ain’t Even Left and It Already Don’t Feel Right”).

We shot the video for the first single, “Storm in the Heartland,” at my farm. The footage included my neighbors and their kids, all
farmers, doing the work their families had done for generations. At the center was Mr. Harris, a proud, lifelong farmer who cut my hay. He was straight out of Central Casting: big and strong, with sun-weathered skin and eyes that reflected the wisdom of an eighty-year-old man who’d worked the soil his whole life.

The first day of shooting was wonderful, but we didn’t finish until late at night. I had a call for sun-up the next morning, so instead of going home, I called Tish and said, “You know what? I’m just going to stay out here in this house.”

“But it’s empty,” she said. “There’s nothing in it.”

“I got me a little food from the caterer,” I said. “I’ll borrow a coffeemaker. I’ll be fine.”

I woke up the next morning, put on some coffee, and walked out the front door, where I came face-to-face with a rising sun, a blanket of fog lifting off the field, and the diamond-like shimmer of morning dew. It looked like heaven. I walked slowly off the porch and into the field, and took a leak. Why not? There were no paparazzi, no tabloid reporters or snoops of any kind.

“Freedom,” I thought. “Here it is.”

Later that day, I spoke with Tish and told her that she and the kids had to come out and stay just one night. She did, and we never left.

I was devastated when the single “Storm in the Heartland” stalled at No. 39 on the radio chart. Though I did all the press I could to ensure its success, the song fell off the charts as quickly as it appeared, and the album itself just missed the top 10. It hurt. I loved that album; I’d poured my soul into every song, and so I’d expected more enthusiasm. I didn’t get it, though, and there was plenty of blame to go around. But it didn’t matter. I knew I’d hit the flip side of having so much success. The song “Throwing Stones” from the previous year said what I had already known: “What goes up, must come down.” And I was on my way. Upset, frustrated, and hurt, I called Jack McFadden and said, “I ain’t going to the CMAs. If they’re going to allow ‘Storm in the Heartland’ to disappear, the hell with it. I don’t care. If it ain’t about the music, then I don’t care.”

On the evening of the CMAs, I rode my Harley to the highest part of my land and was sitting there when I spotted Mr. Harris in the field, cutting the hay. The sun was about to go down, the shadows were stretched across the ground, and I said to myself, “Cyrus, you know what? I bet Mr. Harris ain’t going to be around here that much longer. He’s probably never been to the CMA Awards. Why don’t you go down there and ask him if he wants to go tonight.” And I was just crazy enough to do it.

I zipped down the hill and invited Mr. Harris to the show. He took off his hat and thought about it a moment.

“Is there time for me to throw on a pair of jeans?” he asked.

He was wearing overalls.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

Tish looked at me like I’d lost my mind when I told her that I’d changed my mind and was going to the awards show with Mr. Harris. But soon Jack McFadden had a car picking us up and my farmer neighbor and I were cutting through the star-studded crowd inside the Grand Ole Opry. When we arrived, Mr. Harris turned heads. Wynonna Judd said, “That’s the man in your ‘Storm’ video, right?” George Jones stopped him and asked, “Don’t I know you?”

“No, sir,” Mr. Harris said. “I cut hay for Billy Ray Cyrus.”

“Oh my God,” George said. “You’re in his video. I know who you are. Let me shake your hand.”

And Mr. Harris lit up when the Oak Ridge Boys, who’d also joined me on “Storm in the Heartland,” had a photo made with him.

Storm in the Heartland
ended up selling more than 500,000 copies, enough for gold-record status. However, I still think of it as one of the tragedies of my career. I battled with the label over song selection, sequencing, and the cover photo, which I hated. None of the singles went top ten. “The Fastest Horse in a One-Horse Town” died at the starting line.

All of a sudden I couldn’t buy a hit. I was no longer Mercury’s favorite son.

My family kept me focused on what was really important, and
my friends provided much-needed support that kept me believing in myself as an artist. Ray Walker from the Jordanaires, guitaristsongwriter Ed King from Lynyrd Skynyrd (he cowrote “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Saturday Night Special,” among other classics), and Carl Perkins, the Sun Records rockabilly legend who wrote “Blue Suede Shoes,” were among those who visited me at the farm.

None were more supportive than Perkins, who became a close friend and confidant. We had met a few years earlier on Ralph Emery’s
Nashville Now.
We clicked on the air, and during a commercial break, Carl leaned close to me and said, “I really like the way you approach things, hoss. You don’t fit the mold, and I like that.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You see all these cats in Nashville, and they’re just chasing each other’s tail,” he continued. “They all want to know what the other guy’s doing and then they go do that. But I don’t see that in you. That’s never been my thing, either. Or Sun Records’. The history of this town is about artists who live the music and keep it real and do what they’re doing because they love it.”

After the taping of
Nashville Now,
Carl said he wanted to hang out some more. I was getting set to do the video for “Talk Some” off my second album,
It Won’t Be the Last.
The shoot was in Memphis.

“Is there any way you’d want to come over?” I asked.

“Oh, man, just let me know when and where,” Carl said. “I’d be honored.” Then he added, “And you know what else? I want to write a song with you.”

Carl Perkins, with his hall of fame history, wanted to write with me? I composed myself real quick.

“It’s funny you say that,” I replied. “On the way here I thought of a good hook—‘Truth is I lied.’”

“Truth is I lied,” he said, trying out the words on his tongue. “Truth is I lied… huh, I like it.”

A few weeks later, Carl joined me in Memphis on the set of the video for “Talk Some.” The centerpiece of the video was a live performance of the song, but it was bookended by Carl and me arriving in a black ’56 Chrysler and me leaving in a private jet at the end.
As soon as Carl saw the old car, which had been trucked in from a junkyard, he turned to his wife and exclaimed, “That’s Judy! By God, that’s Judy!”

Evidently, back in the ’50s, after getting some money, he had bought a car like that Chrysler and named it Judy. In fact, he thought this exact car
was
Judy.

“You have to give it to me,” he said.

“Give it to you?” I asked, confused.

“Yes,” he said. “You give it to me. Then I’ll give it to you. I want to give you
my
Judy.”

Lo and behold, I ended up with Judy at my house. I also ended up with a good friend in Carl. He enjoyed coming out to my farm and walking the trails, letting his dogs run and chase rabbits. It cleared his mind and helped mine when I began to doubt myself after
Storm in the Heartland.

“Cyrus, just do one thing and you’ll be all right,” he said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Stay true to your music,” he said. “And be real. Be who you are. Don’t be chasing trends. Don’t be chasing the next thing. Don’t be trying to win the favor of whoever is in the big chair. Just write what’s in your heart. Write what’s you.”

I never got around to working with Carl on “Truth Is I Lied.” I still gave him partial writer’s credit, if only for his enthusiasm and friendship. But Don Von Tress and I wrote the song and put it on my next album,
Trail of Tears.
For that album, I started going to my guitarist Terry Shelton’s house and working there.

He understood where I was emotionally. He also knew the antidote for what ailed me.

“Come on, man,” he said. “Let’s just make some music.”

Terry was always on the cutting edge of technology. Years earlier, when we were on the road, he would disappear into his hotel room, set up his computer—the first one I’d seen—and look for ways to get on this new thing called “the Internet.” Now, in his log cabin, he had what passed for the primo home recording studio. It
was perfect for a rock-and-bluegrass album—what I thought of as homegrown music.

Michael Joe Sagraves joined us on guitar, mandolin, and harmonica, and step-by-step we discovered a sound. We began with what would become the title track, “Trail of Tears,” and added “Tenntucky,” “Truth Is I Lied,” and “Call Me Daddy,” my most personal song to date.

I’d written it in August 1994, between shows in Myrtle Beach, where my son Cody lived with his mom, and Virginia Beach, where I taped my second ABC TV special. My dad had been with me in both places. Filled with the conflicting emotions of trying to be a good father one day and leaving my son the next, I basically wrote the story of my life…

Little boy running through the yard

Fell and skinned his heart

And later climbed up in a tree

As he looked into the sky

He began to cry

And said, “Daddy, why’d you leave?”

Call me daddy, I’m feelin’ blue

Call me daddy, I need to talk to you

Call me daddy, help me through

And then he bowed his head to pray

Call me dad

The little boy became a man

Found a bride and took her hand

And made a baby all their own

As he looked in that baby’s eyes

As the baby cried

He swore, “You’ll never be alone.”

Call me daddy, when you’re feelin’ blue

Call me daddy, and I’ll talk to you

Call me daddy, and I’ll help you through

And then he bowed his head to pray

Call me dad

Another life has come and gone

Another baby’s grown

And stands alone against the world

As he looks into the sky