The Grand Tour (23 page)

Brown relied on Nancy throughout the life of George's MCA contract. “She was the saving grace. She had his ear and she was just the factor that things would get done. 'Cause he would do it for her. She was the liaison that made the last few years of recording close to being somewhat easy with George, because at that point he was frustrated about radio not playing him. And so she would keep things on an even keel. I really give her credit, for anything that got done with George at MCA was because of her ability to talk him into it.”

In July 1994, the City of Beaumont and Jefferson County, spearheaded by Beaumont's Chamber of Commerce, suggested renaming the Neches River Bridge that separated Beaumont and Jefferson County from Orange County in George's honor. The bridge carried Interstate 10. Texas law stipulated both counties had to concur for the state to approve renaming the structure. Beaumont and Jefferson County officials, citing George's local roots, fame, and triumph over adversity, voted to support the idea. Mayor David Moore pointed to letters and other gestures of support, noting that five hundred responders approved and seven
did not. Jefferson County officials voted yes within days. The July 21
Beaumont Enterprise
printed an entire section of letters supporting the idea, leading off with one from former president George H.W. Bush, a Houston resident and longtime country fan: “George has fought some tough battles in his life; but he has fought adversity with courage and, I am told, he is doing well in all respects. His music, of course, is legendary.” Following that was a note from George himself, acknowledging the idea, expressing appreciation for the “show of faith,” and thanking everyone “for remembering me.”

The view couldn't have been more different across the Neches in Orange County. At a July 22 meeting, Orange County commissioners took the matter under advisement. The renaming generated not only a lack of enthusiasm, but some outright opposition. Residents who spoke against it cited the past George was still trying to live down. Three women involved with Mothers Against Drunk Driving claimed renaming the bridge for a notorious alcoholic would encourage drunk driving, one testifying her daughter suffered disabilities because of an accident involving an intoxicated driver. Another resident complained George had given nothing back to the county he called home for a decade. Citing the fact that George and Nancy located the Jones Country venue outside the county, she concluded that since he hadn't brought business to the area, he didn't warrant an honor. Another resident declared George “had no business being honored in this county” since he was well paid for his performances (an assertion that made no sense whatsoever). Commissioner Kell Bradford, who said he knew George in his Vidor days, supported the move, noting that “Elvis died as a pill head and they had a federal stamp to honor him; Janis Joplin also died a pill head and Port Arthur made a monument to honor her,” adding, “If we don't support
this, it looks as if we are turning our backs on one of our own.”

Opponents clearly had the edge. Commissioner Marcelle Adams advocated naming something else for George, noting that retaining the existing name for the bridge would end the controversy. Orange County judge John McDonnell claimed his messages ran three to one in favor of retaining the existing name. In an interview in the
Enterprise,
George fondly remembered fishing along the Neches and declared Beaumont his hometown, reiterated his triumphs over his addictions, and hinted he might decide to retire to the Beaumont area. But he clearly lost little if any sleep over the matter, declaring it an honor to even be considered. None of it mattered. Bradford made a motion for the renaming. It died for lack of a second. The view seems small-minded but not surprising, given Orange County's ultraconservative nature. Memories of George's local behavior clearly remained: the drunk driving, the stories about the alleged gunplay involving J.C. Arnold, and similar issues. At best it was a minor blip. He was about to face his biggest personal hurdle since freeing himself from cocaine.

Late in August, he appeared at a two-day Nashville talent showcase at Opryland, designed to showcase acts available for concert promoters and booking agents. On the first night, George grew more and more frustrated with a sound system that, to him, seemed seriously out of kilter. Finally, he stormed over to the sound board and attacked his sound man. It was the sort of episode that might have happened in the seventies. The media were all over it, sparking speculation that he'd fallen off the wagon again. He returned the next night and played without incident.

Nancy threw him a lavish sixty-third birthday celebration at their home in Franklin, with three hundred friends present, including Little Jimmy Dickens, Connie Smith, and others. George, not feeling well, made a brief appearance, then retreated to his bed
room. On September 11, he visited a local hospital for tests. Some ominous readings sent him to Nashville's Baptist Hospital, where doctors found three blocked arteries requiring surgery. George, no fan of surgery, dismissed the idea until doctors explained he had no choice if he wanted to live, but he still had misgivings. Since Waylon and Cash both had similar procedures at nearly the same time in 1989, Nancy thought advice from a friend might help. She got a message to Waylon on the road. He called in from Vicksburg, Mississippi, and later remembered Nancy telling him, “George isn't going to stay in the hospital unless he talks to you.” When George got on the phone, Waylon alerted him to the realities of the situation. George agreed to go ahead with the operation.

On September 12, his sixty-third birthday, George underwent triple bypass surgery. The hospital waiting area was filled with family, including his sister Helen, friends, and fans. Georgette, a registered nurse, had a level of expertise that helped everyone understand what was happening. A week later, he was home. Given a regimen of diet and exercise, he battled to regain strength and it returned slowly. Getting him to exercise proved challenging. Again Waylon, who'd been through the same thing, offered encouragement. George had been drug-free for a decade, but surgeons had cracked his chest and spread the ribs, which meant he had to deal with pain medications. After decades of running at the edge, he faced his own mortality in a way he never had before. In November, he battled through his first concert in Davenport, Iowa, and clearly needed more recovery time.

When MCA released
The Bradley Barn Sessions,
the album was not a huge seller despite the album's diverse blend of personalities. But the remake of “Golden Ring” with Tammy generated enough buzz to inspire another idea: a George and Tammy reunion album twenty years after the divorce, in an era when both watched the
country music industry, to which they had dedicated their lives, pass them by as new voices emerged. Tammy faced her own severe health issues. Her recording career had taken a precipitous dive just as George's was tacking upward in the seventies and eighties. The couple had resolved their longstanding differences and entered into an easy friendship, so the idea of teaming up made solid commercial sense to them and to their respective spouses, Nancy and George Richey. After George recovered, they recorded
One,
a new duets album and their first since
Together Again
in 1980. With Tony Brown and Norro Wilson coproducing, the notion was to combine new material with a couple of oldies.

Brown explained the rationale for the album. Tammy's hits, he said, “had completely gone away, basically. And in a sense it made more sense for her to do this with George . . . But the two together were such a force to be reckoned with . . . And they agreed to do it. It wasn't a great record, and they weren't both at the top of their game. And the songs—we got some good songs, but we didn't get the best songs.”

For Brown, who'd performed with Elvis, recording these two icons proved both exhilarating and daunting. “I was so intimidated by the fact I was workin' with George and Tammy. Thank God Norro was there, because he knew them both . . . There was a little bit of a rub going on . . . because I don't think their heart was in it as much as [MCA's] heart was in it. It came off a bit [for them] like, ‘We've done this. Why are we doin' this again?' . . . But they gave it their all, I will give them that . . . I don't think they had near as much fun as I did trying to cut that record.”

At the time, George was still dealing with aftereffects from his heart surgery, and Tammy's health was failing in general. “They were really frail, and . . . Tammy was like skin and bones and just real fragile, not only physically but I think even mentally. That's
why it was so hard for me. I was in awe of them . . . There was a dichotomy of Norro, who was friends and had a working relationship [with both], and me being the new guy who sort of luckily got to slip in on the project because of Norro. They weren't at their best. You can hear it in their voices, too . . . They both were not at one hundred percent of their game, but I'm glad we did [the album], because it was at least one last documentation of the two together.”

Wilson had similar sentiments, noting, “They'd been split up, of course—she'd been sick and he'd been sick. It was kind of a tough project. Tony and I had such respect for them, and I'd known them longer. I was a little bit of a comfort zone [for them]. We did better by recording the [backing] tracks and gettin' one at a time and puttin' them on the record. And for some of it we actually got 'em [together] in one day. We did everything in our power to make that project easy. There's some discomfort with people when they've been married and had this happenin' to them in their lives. You just have to be careful.” With George and Tammy recording most of their vocal parts separately, hearing the other only through the headphones, Wilson saw the continued respect they had for each other's talents. “If we got him on first or her, the cool part of it was, when each of them would hear the other sing, even though they weren't there, that was a turn-on [for them]. Once again, it was that admiration society. They admired each other so very much. I'm really happy I got to work on that project.”

Brown said the relationship between Nancy and Tammy was never an issue, but when Richey entered the picture, that dynamic changed. Richey “didn't hang around, but you could tell there was a little oil-and-water thing going on with George and him and Nancy and him. He was just the opposite kind of person as George. His presence—when he showed up, the air got a little bit
stiff. George Richey was a flashy guy. And Billy Sherrill wasn't a flashy guy . . . and I think that went against the grain of George Jones.”

MCA released the album on May 30. On June 6, 1995, George and Tammy performed together at Fan Fair, and a concert tour was announced. The couple did joint interviews, noting their new maturity. The album cover was carefully designed in an attempt to mask the frailty Brown and Wilson noted. George was white-haired and bespectacled, Tammy bewigged and heavily made-up. Masking their frailty proved more difficult onstage. The shows received a mixed reception. The
Hartford Courant
's Roger Catlin noted an “uneven show” in Wallingford, Connecticut, mentioning the presence of teleprompters and the weakness of the new songs. Catlin criticized the entire premise of the show and the idea of two divorced people singing hits relevant only to the time when they were married. “Time has taken a toll on their voices,” he commented. George got the better end of Catlin's review, which noted that his voice was far stronger than Tammy's and that his solo spot came off considerably better than hers did.

George had other problems. Terms of his divorce from Shirley required him to share 50 percent of his songwriting royalties from 1954 to 1968 with his ex-wife. Bryan and Jeffrey would split that money upon her death, which took place in 1991. The royalty payments ceased in 1992, with Broadcast Music, Inc. claiming the payments reverted fully back to George. On September 5, 1995, both sons filed a lawsuit to regain their half of the royalties.

Following the bridge-renaming debacle, Beaumont officials, still anxious to honor George, decided on something requiring no input from Orange County. On October 1, the 300 block of Fannin Street, in front of the Jefferson Theater, where George did some of his first street singing over half a century earlier, was
renamed George Jones Place. George, Nancy, and Tammy were present for the ceremony.

After George's Hall of Fame induction, Nashville author Tom Carter began urging George and Nancy to consider writing an autobiography. At first reluctant to do one, George eventually entered into a collaboration with Carter, who'd worked on memoirs with Glen Campbell, Reba McEntire, and Ralph Emery. Jones talked freely about his ups and downs and seemingly drilled deep into his drunken behavior from the start. He had no inhibitions about relating tales decidedly unflattering, like the incident with Porter Wagoner in the Opry restroom.
I Lived to Tell It All
was released in May 1996. Carter did his own research and interviews. Reviews were mixed. Jack Hurst, who had traveled with and interviewed Jones during the bad times, verified many of the stories, including those about Dedoodle and the Old Man. Others were less charitable. Candice Russell of Florida's
Sun-Sentinel
concluded, “The self-condemnatory writing gets old upon repetition. Even diehard Jones fans are likely to tire of the umpteenth remembrance of another blown show date, another rash of firings of band members and managers, another self-pitying binge.”

Russ Corey of the
Times-Daily
in Florence, Alabama, wrote an article addressing the stories in the book regarding drug dealers, in collusion with local lawmen, forcing George to snort cocaine. Peanutt Montgomery, asked to comment, begged off, noting, “Some things are best left alone,” and adding, “A lot of people have been killed around George.” Billy Wilhite went on record as noting some Alabama cops were friendly with George and had brought him beer confiscated at the Tennessee state line. Lavern Tate, the former Lauderdale County district attorney who had charged him for shooting at Peanutt but later dropped the charges, claimed he'd never heard of George partying and doing coke around local cops.
Rick Singleton, then Florence's acting police chief, expressed “serious doubts” about the stories. A particularly scathing review came from Alanna Nash in
Entertainment Weekly,
who noted the lack of serious discussion about his music and declared, “Throughout these tales of self-destruction, and eventual sobriety, Jones comes across as alternatively despicable and selfish—walking offstage and causing riots, leaving his family stranded by a rural roadside and more wasted and pathetic than he ever let on.”