Luck or Something Like It (6 page)

After the album came out, we were performing in Winnipeg, Canada, with Kirby. It was minus fifty degrees and I told Don and Bobby I would go to the club on Saturday morning and pick up our check. I walked out of the hotel, went about thirty yards, then turned around and came back. Now remember, I’m from Texas. I had on a sweater and a pair of jeans. When I returned, the doorman said that if had I gone all the way to the club and back, I probably would have had frostbite on my ears and nose. I had no concept about that kind of cold, but I did after that.

Aside from working with Kirby, we had managed to book a few jobs without him. One of them was at a little piano bar/jazz club on Sunset Boulevard called the Melody Room, better known today as the Viper Room, the same club where River Phoenix died. After a few nights there, we realized there was a regular customer at the bar every night. The customer was Clint Eastwood.

Chapter Seven

It’s Not All Wet Towels and Naked Women

I divorced Jean in
1963, and not too long after, I met my next wife-to-be, Margo Anderson, at Houston’s Bunny Club, the local equivalent of a Playboy Club, where she stood out as far and above the most interesting woman—quite an accomplishment for that place. She was different from anyone I had ever met. Not only was she beautiful, she was smart. I mean Mensa smart.

She had been married to an undercover narcotics officer from Corpus Christi before we met, so she was very street smart as well. By this point, Jean Massey and I were struggling to see what it was we had seen in each other in the first place. To say the least, I was susceptible, so I let Margo take full advantage of me. I really loved Margo’s parents. Her father was like an old salt—Scandinavian, I think—a big guy with a heart of gold. Her mom, Doris, gave you the feeling that she knew the whole story about life in general. They were always exceptionally nice and treated me with great respect.

Margo and I had an explosive relationship right from the start. When it was good, it could not have been better, but when it was bad—stand back. Margo didn’t really like to argue, she liked to fight, and she knew how push my buttons. She loved to regurgitate problems, things that happened from years before. Once I heard “do you remember,” I knew what was coming next and I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. There is no question I must have overreacted at that point. She had strong opinions about things I didn’t even recall, and she could remember the smallest details. If I had to guess, most of the arguments we had at that point in my life were about money, which was pretty typical of people of that age. It doesn’t make them less attractive or less explosive, but it does make it typical. I don’t ever like to blame someone else, but in this case, they were all her fault. The good news is, I didn’t have to remember my shortcomings because she did and didn’t hesitate to remind me. Other than that, our marriage was damn near perfect! I guarantee that if I walked up to her today, she would find something we could argue about.

Now I know I’ve been kind of hard on Margo, and in some instances she probably didn’t deserve it. And for that I apologize. However, some of our “misunderstandings” were, at the very least, comical. Sometime near the end of our marriage, which I might add this story had nothing to do with, I was working in Lake Tahoe, Nevada, in the dead of winter. Snow was everywhere and all the roads were frozen solid. I had absolutely no experience driving under these conditions.

So as we reached the top of the hill on a very narrow and icy road, I noticed I had no control over stopping the car. We were at the mercy of gravity and sliding sideways. Fortunately we were barely moving, but I could not stop. I don’t know about Margo, but I knew the outcome was not going to be good.

Aside from the slide, the road dropped off some twenty to thirty feet on my side of the road, and we were headed for the edge. I knew we had to do something. I said to her, “Get out, you can make it,” and I knew she could. At times she could be very athletic, and this needed to be one of those times.

Margo opened her door, jumped out, and started running alongside the car as I slowly headed for the inevitable. I was so impressed with her concern for my safety, and it really touched me. Could I have been wrong all this time?

I watched this little 110-pound woman hold on to the car door, dig her heels into the ice, and struggle to keep the car upright at the same time yelling to me: “Throw me my mink!” I guess she felt she needed that coat so she could live and go tell someone what had happened to me.

I didn’t throw it . . . she would have to freeze to death and I would have to die anonymously.

I have to admit we had some great times. We dated about six months and then we got married. It was in early 1964. Our son, Kenny Jr., was born on May 24, 1964. Do the math.

Getting to know and
work with Kirby Stone during this period turned out to be so important on so many levels. For example, Kirby was the first person to encourage me to take a serious interest in photography, something I have developed a deep passion for over the years. The Bobby Doyle Three—Bobby, Don, and I—were staying at Kirby’s house with him and his wife, Julie, in New Jersey sometime in the early 1960s while doing some performances in the area. It was fall and the landscape was beautiful. I don’t know that I had ever seen a fall day in that part of the country before. For a boy from Texas, it was really something.

Kirby’s backyard was full of colorful fall foliage and I really wanted to photograph it. I was using an old camera that I’d had for I don’t know how long, a Brownie Hawkeye, nothing fancy, but it worked.

“Why don’t you use my Argus C3?” Kirby asked. “It’ll give you a sharper image.”

So we spent a little time going over it, and he showed me how simple it was to use. I tried it, and I must admit, those were some of the best color photographs I’ve ever taken. To this day I can remember the thrill of seeing those pictures, even though at the time I had to wait seventy-two hours for the film to be developed. It just felt good knowing I had taken them.

This was the starting point of my lifelong love of photography. Kirby believed that most musicians did themselves a disservice by getting so far into the music that they had no outside interests. Because of him, I have tried to get involved with other things, like photography and sports, that could motivate me. Boredom is a huge factor in the lives of most musicians. The onstage show gives you such a high that the rest of the day can’t compete with it. So, feeling down, you start experimenting with things that you hope can match the feeling you have onstage, but you just can’t. Performing is a high like no other.

Kirby was also the first person who was adamant about me seeing the business side of music. I think it was at the Thunderbird Hotel in Las Vegas that he first broached the subject.

“You’ve got to look at music as a profession,” he told me, “not as a path to fame or instant wealth. See it from a business standpoint and treat it like business.

“Remember this,” he went on. “You pass the same people on the way up that you pass on the way down—and people don’t forget.”

It was an important lesson. After all these years, I am still amazed how much some people will do for a person they like and how little they will do for a person they don’t. Kirby’s attitude was, you’ll be able to work longer in this business simply because you treated people fairly. And you’ll hang on to more of the money you make if you approach it with the right attitude.

My mother’s advice about finding a job that I loved helped me choose music as my career, and Kirby Stone explained in one short sentence that I was entering into a business, not a lifelong party. In his immortal words: “It’s not all wet towels and naked women.”

There’s no question that a lot of guys start out playing in bands to party and attract women. I understand it all too well, because that’s exactly what I did all through school and when I played with the Scholars. I was always a sucker for a pretty face, and playing at parties every night seemed like a smart way both to make a living and to pursue my passion. The passion was intense from a very early age and only got stronger over time, especially when my focus shifted to earning the respect of fellow musicians. At some point, though, if you want to survive and grow as a musician, you need to get serious about the business side of the music industry.

Kirby was as much an entertainer as a musician. The Kirby Stone Four included a lot of humor in their stage shows, and Kirby explained to me early on the showbiz etiquette that you never tell a joke or make a gesture that excludes your audience. No inside jokes. But go for the laughs, he said, even if they are at your own expense. If people are laughing, you can pretty much assume they’re having a good time, and having a good time is really all they ask when they pay their money. It took me back to the Ray Charles concert I had gone to with my sister when I was twelve and the way the audience had loved both his music and his jokes.

Despite the solid performances alongside Kirby, things at this point were not looking great for the Bobby Doyle Three. Little by little, the group was falling apart. Bobby was depressed and dealing with a lot of personal issues. He was drinking a
lot
. There were times that I was afraid he might fall off the stage. His alcohol consumption was at a level that made me increasingly uneasy. At his worst, though, he was still better than anyone I had ever heard. The three of us, feeling the constant tension, thought that if we opened our own club in Houston, it would create a more comfortable atmosphere where we wouldn’t be constantly traveling yet could continue to build a following. That kind of a work situation would still allow us to work out on our own, away from the Kirby Stone group. If we needed to hook up with Kirby to generate extra income, that was always an option.

The Act Three Club, as we called it, was our own after-hours place. Unfortunately it didn’t last long. The waiters got rich, and we made nothing. When you’re onstage, you can’t watch everyone who works for you and they knew it. You can’t stop the hired help from stealing if that’s what their mission is. We fed them as long as we could; then we quit.

Finally the Bobby Doyle Three closed up shop and moved on. Don Russell and I, without Bobby, joined another pop/jazz vocal group, The Lively Ones. The lineup was Don; Don’s sister Leigh; her husband, Paul Massaro; and me.

To set the stage, Leigh and Paul were Jehovah’s Witnesses and didn’t believe in things like singing “Happy Birthday” for religious reasons. Now I understand that, but I’m telling you, at three o’clock in the morning, most good ol’ Southern boys don’t. If Bubba wants you to sing “Happy Birthday” to Sally, by God, you better sing “Happy Birthday” to Sally.

One night, at the stroke of midnight just as we were packing up, Bubba wanted to hear “Happy Birthday” and wasn’t going to take no for an answer, religion or no religion. To their credit, Paul and Leigh stood up for their principles, which I truly admire, and just about the time Bubba was coming over the piano bar for Paul, he chose to make a quick exit. I admired that, too. Now that left just Don and me—a drummer and an upright bass player—to sing “Happy Birthday” to Sally. It actually sounded pretty good in two-part harmony, with just bass and drums, and Bubba decided not to kick our asses, which he would have had no problem doing.

In 1966, Kirby’s group
was managed by two entrepreneurs, George Greif and Sid Garris, who had recently purchased controlling interest in the very successful folk group the New Christy Minstrels. Greif and Garris had just begun looking around for new talent to replace the original members who had either quit or become too expensive for them to continue paying. The Christys had already launched the careers of some of their earlier members to a national stage, including Barry McGuire, who had a big hit with a protest song, “Eve of Destruction,” and Gene Clark of the legendary rock group The Byrds.

Hearing about their recruiting, Kirby advised his managers: “You ought to call Kenny Rogers. He’s a very versatile singer and plays stand-up bass.”

So as a courtesy to Kirby, they did just that. When they caught up with me, however, I was in a busy hotel lobby. They asked if I would sing something for them over the phone so they could get a sense of my range and the quality of my voice. So here I am, in the lobby of the Houstonaire Hotel, people everywhere, on a pay phone, about to start singing. It doesn’t get any better than that, in my book. I took a deep breath to start.

“Hold on,” someone said. “Let me put Mike Settle, our musical director, on the phone.”

Mike was a well-respected folk singer and guitar player as well as a great songwriter. So Mike comes to the phone.

“Okay, Kenny,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

There was no “Hello, I know this must be awkward for you,” just “Let me hear you sing.”

I’m not sure you’re ever ready for that, but like a fool, I start singing.

“Green, Green, it’s green they say . . .”

Now people were starting to turn around and look at me singing a folk song in the lobby of a hotel on a pay phone. I was trying to sing softly so as not to create too much of a disturbance, but Mike wouldn’t have it.

“Can you sing a little louder, Kenny? I’m having trouble hearing you.”

I said to myself,
You bet I can. After all, this might be the difference between having a job and not having a job next year.

Lobby or not, I started singing at full volume:

“ . . . on the far side of the hill! . . .”

That’s about all I got out, thank God, when Mike interrupted me.

“Okay, you’ve got the job. I’ll see you in L.A.”

But things weren’t totally finalized yet. Greif and Garris wanted me to leave Houston, move to Los Angeles, and join the Christys, all for the grand sum of $500 a week. I told them I couldn’t do it for that. Once they said that was their best offer, I didn’t even stick around for any further negotiations. For obvious reasons, I wanted out of that lobby. Quickly.

Kirby Stone was my mentor. He’s the guy that took me under his wing, and when he said, “Pay attention to me. You need to do this,” I usually did whatever he recommended. But, come on, as a twenty-year-old I was making $600 or $700 a week in Houston. I had been making $500 at the club where I was working, plus I had a couple of other jobs a week. This was 1966 and I was now twenty-seven. I needed more than $500. I needed $750 a week or I couldn’t go.

Finally, Greif and Garris agreed to match that offer. Actually, when I went to the club in Houston where I had been working and told them about the Christy Minstrels’ offer, and that it was a great opportunity for me, they really shocked me. They offered me $750 to stay. As much as I appreciated the offer, it was too late. I was now up to the challenge of performing folk music, which was, after all, much closer in form to the country music I heard as a kid. And I wasn’t afraid to explore a new form. I had already done that with jazz.