Country Music Broke My Brain (13 page)

You Never Give Me Your Money

WHAT
A CAREER this dude has had. Darius is, of course, Hootie. As in, And The Blowfish. Mike Dungan at Capitol believed enough in the songs and Darius' charisma to let the Hootster make a country album. Smart decision. Mr. Rucker has had a truckload of No. 1s.

I like him a lot. I like his songs, I like his demeanor, and I like his sense of humor. I do
not
like the way Darius Rucker drives a golf cart. He's a menace to society and anyone within two fairways of him. When DR plays golf, he's a man on a mission. He's a fabulous swinger of the club and is ready to get on with it. If you happen to be along, please buckle up 'cause The Ruckster is gonna play some golf and move on.

I wrote songs with Darius (and renowned songwriter Tom Shapiro), and Darius is very patient. He sits there with his hands in his leather jacket and tosses off great lines. He sings and sounds just like Darius Rucker.

On the golf course, he likes to drive—the ball and the cart. This is where the trouble starts. I was barely in and he floored it. I just remember being tossed skyward and actually turning over while airborne. The cart propelled me into space. It was that surreal, “I'm floating upside down” moment. I landed on my head on the side of a hill.

Darius: “Come on, man, stop fooling around.”

Me: “Ohhhhh, I think I'm dead.” I shuffled, bruised and shaken, into the passenger seat.

Ever the businessman, Darius then announced, “You can ‘t sue me. My business manager says I can't afford it.” Says it all, doesn't it? There is no problem, and if there were a problem, he can't afford to pay for the problem. He's right. We laughed about it. I wasn't actually hurt all that much, except for the permanent neck damage and the ruination of my game, not to mention my irrational fear of golf carts. I still suffer from Cartophobia Extremus.

Besides, who sues anybody named
Hootie?

Mysteries of Life

THERE
ARE A LOT OF THINGS in the world that I just don't understand. Perhaps it's because country music has robbed me of all my reasoning abilities. The mysteries of life we've all pondered remain unsolved. Perhaps one day we might learn why Alan Jackson sings so much about fried chicken, why Garth Brooks gives that google-y eye when he's singing, and why Bruce Springsteen sings like he has fire ants in his Fruit of the Looms. When will Wynonna Judd haul off and cold-cock her mom? How did Tim McGraw land Faith Hill? How much does Ernest Hemingway? What makes Bud wiser? Who put the Ram in the Rama-lama-ding-dong? How much is left in Dolly Parton's shoes? Which smells better, Luke Bryan or Buffalo, New York? Where's the rest of Carrie Underwood's dress? Did the same person make Conway Twitty's shorts? Will we ever see Hunter Hayes go through puberty live on TV? Will there ever be another country song without the word truck in it? Is the hot new word in country music “hick-wad”? What are video directors on? Does Eric Church sleep in sunglasses? Will there eventually be a country awards show every week?

I'm certain you've thought of these same things yourself. Or what about these:

Why is it nearly impossible to get someone on the phone at a phone company? It's an enterprise dedicated to making sure we all are in constant contact with the world. A corporation that spends millions in advertising urging us to reach out and touch somebody, anybody, and do it on a phone. Then why can't we just pick up the phone and talk to someone on the other end at a
phone company?
I just want to ask a few reasonable, simple questions about my phone bill, which last month was around 600 pages. If you call, you get an automated voice machine. If you go to their website, they give you a list of questions the poor souls who tried to get answers before you asked.

I also don't really understand call waiting
and
caller ID. Are these to make sure you don't actually ever talk to
anyone?
And I am certain that once I leave their phone store, they get a call from the president's office, saying, “Did the idiot who bought our newest high-tech phone pay full price?” Once that's an affirmative, they immediately issue a newer phone and start offering the phone I just bought for free if you own a pair of shoes.

And while I'm at it (I'll get to country music in a minute. Calm down there, fireball!), when you call the cable company 'cause your internet is out, the recording tells you, “Calling is not necessary. You can just go to our website and get everything you need.” Thanks for that. But I can't go to the website
because my internet doesn't work, you idiots!
If I could go to the damn website, I wouldn't be calling you! It's just cruel, I tell ya. I realize Brad Paisley said he's a whole lot cooler “Online” (I told you I'd be back), but
I
am not online!

Oh, there are a lot of things that stupefy me. Why does my wife keep that old oven mitt with a hole in the thumb? I thought the idea of an oven mitt was to avoid turning your thumb into a “lit'l smokie.”

Why do people going to exercise at the Y drive around for ten minutes looking for a place to park right by the door so they don't have to walk very far? They are going inside to get on a treadmill and
walk very far!
Couldn't they just as easily park ten blocks away and not even go in?

Quite possibly the biggest mystery of life to me is over my head. In fact, it's over nearly everyone's head, especially in country music. It's the hat.

Why do so many country singers wear a cowboy hat? Granted, there are a few cowboys from Texas or Oklahoma who might have worn a hat growing up, but not many. Do you know anybody who actually wears a hat? I mean a big-cowboy-swaggering-“get along, little dogies”-bona-fide-Stetson lid?

I submit 90 percent of the singers of country songs have
never
been on a horse unless it was on a merry-go-round or a pony at the county fair.

So, what is with the hats? We've even had women wearing cowboy hats. If you are a woman and you wear a cowboy hat, you had better damn well be in a rodeo at the moment. It's been this way for the thirty-five years I've been in Nashville.

I know it says, “I'm a country singer,” to anyone who might be wondering who you are, strolling down the sidewalk, but is that necessary? Judges don't walk around in their robes. Doctors take off their scrubs. Ballet dancers don't go to church in their tutus. Even people who work at McDonald's take off their paper lid when they're off duty. But if you are even t
hinking
of singing something twangy, the rule is,
Put on a hat!

I know, I know. Some guys need a hat for a reason (see Dwight Yoakam). I'm cool with that. I could use a cover-up myself. Ball caps are passable, but I also don't understand actual artists who have their press shots made with a ball cap turned around backwards. Why go to the trouble of hiring someone to take an expensive picture of you looking like the guy who unloads bananas at Kroger? There's nothing wrong with unloading bananas at Kroger, but girls don't scream at concerts for the banana boy. (That didn't come out like I planned it, and could be wrong.)

It's been the state of music for decades, the eternal argument—to hat or not to hat. And while some guys look damn cool with it pulled down low over their eyes, most singers look like something out of
City Slickers.
Here's the bottom line: if there ain't something in a saddle in the parking lot, take off the hat. (At this point, I want to extend an apology and issue a hat approval release to George Strait and Alan Jackson.)

I hope during the next few hundred pages to answer all these questions and more. But mostly, I blame country music.

The Oaks

WHEN
I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I was in a singing group. It was actually one of my first shots at a singing career. I'm still workin' on that. I can sing, but I have one of those “Broadway” voices. You know, the type nobody really wants to hear for very long.

I was in a group with three other wads of testosterone called the Comedians. We thought we were the greatest vocalists ever. Our name was actually a little too accurate. I introduced the songs and told a joke or two. We did a lot of wonderful gigs: before dramatic readings at the Masonic Lodge (Allyson did the dramatic reading), opening for guests at the high school fund-raisers, and . . . I think that's it. We actually had two performances.

Because of my membership in various groups and bands, I've always felt a kinship with country groups. Being in a band is hard. I find it very similar to being on a chain gang. You
have
to be with people who smell odd and you often don't like very much.

I always find it weird to interview bands. You find yourself usually talking to the lead singer. The lead singer is the de facto leader of the band. This typically makes all the other guys in the band upset except the bass player. The bass player in the band is just happy to be there and is often the most laid-back musician. Drummers are a little wacky, while the piano players are the intellect of this configuration.

But that's a
band.
What about the Comedians? Or even more to the point, what about those pure vocal groups like the Oak Ridge Boys? I have known the “Oaks” for more than thirty years. They are each and unto themselves unique and wonderful people—gentle, caring, and fascinating. And they are stunning showmen. It's hard to stand beside three other guys night after night and shine. But all four of them do.

Duane Allen is the “lead” singer, I guess. Duane listens when you say something. He's a great talent and wants the best for everyone. Joe Bonsall is the firecracker tenor of the group. He sings lead also and has been a friend for a long time. Richard Sterban is the unearthly bass singer. He's quiet and smart and has to walk behind a wheelbarrow to carry his testicles so he can sing that deep.

Then there's William Lee Golden. William Lee is the “Mountain Man” of the group—the one who is most identifiable with his long, long, gray hair, and leather-stocking pants, wild jackets, and, yes, a cowboy hat. His beard is a forty-year effort and a work of art. I once saw a tourist bus screech to a halt on Music Row, and all the sightseers inside rocketed to the front. William Lee was crossing the street, and these people streamed out of that bus, snapping pictures and screaming like they'd spotted Bigfoot.

Now that I think about it, maybe William Lee Golden
is
Bigfoot. I know you never see the two of them together. He's got a sweat lodge in back of his house. If you've never seen him, this will tell you about his appearance:

I remember William Lee once excitedly (or as excited as he ever gets, which ain't much) telling my friend Bob and me about how he'd just been to Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee. In that slow, Southern drawl, William Lee Golden said, “Guys, it was amazing. There are bald eagles all over up there—beautiful majestic animals flying right over our heads. I'm telling ya, they sat there on those tree limbs, and we floated right up
next
to them, so close we could almost touch them!”

Bob listened and said, “Hell, Golden, you got that close 'cause they probably thought you were a
nest
.”

I love the Oaks. They were one of the first artists to ever record a song of mine called “Old Time Lovin'.” It was their first album, and I couldn't have been more excited. I remember getting that first check—that first “mailbox” money—for probably $1,500. Al and I opened it on the porch and hugged and jumped up and down like kids.

We got a washing machine and some carpeting.

The Oaks Elvira'd and Bobbie Sue'd their way into the hearts of America. I know that George Bush the Elder (doesn't that sound like he was King of Prussia or something?) always had them perform at the White House. The Oaks have entertained everyone and anyone from leaders of the Western World to drunks to Boy Scouts

Full disclosure: when I was around twelve, I was in the Boy Scouts in Kentucky. Our Scout leader got us a gig washing airplanes. There was a private airport near our old Kentucky home and we little peezers would load up in a big truck and spend all day washing some rich guy's Piper Cub. It was hard work, but we did it for the Troop. Our Scout leader urged us on and praised us mightily for such great diligent work.