Country Music Broke My Brain (4 page)

Dusty came to my high school for a sock hop. Sock hops were the hormone-infused dance parties from the early days of rock ‘n' roll. There is nothing more valuable in the world than the gym floor of a high school. The wood is apparently some kind of rare African rosewood that must be protected at all costs. Walking on it in shoes would ruin this protected and highly polished collection of planks, and thus, “sock hops” were invented. Kids could hop around on the floor, flailing to music, but only if they were wearing their finest white cotton footwear. Shoes were verboten.

To celebrate a sports victory, be sure to have one of the biggest celebrities known to man in honor of the occasion. At the time, I never realized what Dusty Rhodes was required to do. Dusty drove the winding country roads to a hick-filled high school on a Friday night. He was by himself, so he had to haul in some old speakers and an amp to produce some noise. He had boxes of 45s and some radio station junk to give away. Dusty was probably in his twenties and getting twenty-five dollars for the opportunity to watch acne-ravaged, dance-challenged hillbillies leap to and fro. “Louie, Louie” blared from the speakers, and we twisted and shuffled in our stocking feet in what seemed like heaven. Dusty was amazing. He'd ask, “Are you all having a good time?”

Are you kidding, Dusty? What could possibly be better than this? Every fifteen minutes, he gave away another highly coveted station bumper sticker and asked if anybody had any requests. The guy was a born entertainer. Three hours later, we were exhausted, Dusty was out of stickers, and we were out of time. I had witnessed show business at its highest level.

I imagine the school principal slipped Dusty a five and a couple of tens outside. Mr. Rhodes likely hauled all the equipment to his car and drove home at midnight. Surely, he was as honored to have this chance as we were to have him there. Talk about a win-win for everybody. Years later, I learned firsthand how much of a thrill radio “personalities” get from going to a remote location.

But it was on that evening in a small high school in Kentucky when I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I never walked into a radio studio until I was in college, but it was always my plan . . . my dream . . . my future.

The other side of all my tomorrows was also there at the hop. She was blonde and beautiful and a dancing machine. Little did I know that I would still be married to the girl who agreed to a dance that golden evening. Love is a wonderful thing, especially if you can find it while saving a gym floor at the same time.

Who did I hear say the following: “Pud me dine, Goh dim eet. Pud me dine”?

A)
  
Mary Chapin Carpenter

B)
  
Hunter Hayes

C)
  
Michu, The World's Smallest Man

Don't Bother Me

DURING
A LIVE TV show from the Tennessee State Fair, I did one of the most bizarre interviews in the world. Our guests were the geeks. My producer thought it would be “good TV” to welcome the sideshow people working for the traveling carnival. We had a guy who could pop his eyes out of his head. I just remember thinking how he probably used a gallon of Visine. He actually sort of focused and then protruded his eyeballs 'til he looked like me the first time I saw Sara Evans changing clothes backstage. (That's another story I may never tell.)

We also had Miss Nude Teenage America—a title to make any parent proud. I did the entire conversation with her while her “manager” held her by her bra from the back so she wouldn't bolt from the set. I felt sorry for her, and when she asked in a panic, “Can my mom see this in Jackson?” I knew we were in trouble. I hope the “manager” is in a small room somewhere with bars on the door.

Our first guest was Michu, “The World's Smallest Man.” I'm talking small—Sleepy and Bashful small. When Michu puffed up, he was two feet, nine inches tall. You may have seen him portraying ALF on the network show of the same name. My cohost was a lovely but slightly daffy girl named Valerie Lindell. She was fabulous because she had no filter. Valerie rolled with whatever goofy thing I had to say and asked questions of guests I wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole . . . or one the length of Michu, for that matter.

We were instructed rather harshly by Michu's manager/handler/gofer. In the thick Hungarian accent of Michu's homeland, the lady told us how to talk to Michu. “He is a full-grown man. Do
not
treat him like he's a child. Do
not
speak down to him [which was almost impossible, I pointed out]. And above all, do
not
touch him.” Got it: man, grown, and untouchable. I was cool with that.

Now we're on live TV. We welcomed Michu, “The World's Smallest Man,” to Nashville, Tennessee. Michu scrambled like an elf toward a waiting and very low chair, whereupon Valerie proceeded to pick him up and said, “You are
so
cute. Who makes your little pants?” She then plopped the obviously enraged Michu on her lap. The director, in a panic, cut to me while Valerie began struggling to hold her cute, little, and extremely pissed-off prize. I sort of said to no one in particular, “Michu is a full-grown man and is from Hungary.” That's when I heard his tiny, elfin voice going out over live television.

“Pud me dine. Goh dim eet. Pud
me dine.
Air vas your miners, beetch lady!
Pud me dine!
”

Slowly, Valerie and I began to realize what he, in near-Hungarian, was actually saying: “Put me down. God damn it, lady! Put me down!” He was spitting mad. I started laughing at the scene.

Valerie slowly began to unravel his mysterious noises as a string of “cussin' like a sailor” in his thick accent. She handled it well. Valerie leaned away from him and, with both hands, gave him a shove off her lap. OK, it was more how you would get rid of a wild monkey, which he kinda was. Poor Michu was propelled through the air like a sack of small potatoes and landed six feet away.

And for the finale, an elephant from the carnival had recently left quite a pile of pachyderm “exhaust.” Teensy Michu was not only insulted, he was also flailing around on live television, in his little silk pants, in elephant shit. He actually handled it better than I would have. If you need someone who can show class flailing in elephant shit, Michu is your man.

Always the pro, Valerie then turned to the camera and said, “We'll be right back with more from the State Fair. We'll get to meet a teenager who is famous for being naked.”

We never did another live show from the State Fair.

Country Music Causes Brain Damage

COUNTRY
MUSIC CAUSES brain damage. Yes, I know what you're thinking: if this doofus can write a book, I'm certain it will prove his theory. You're right, of course. I am, however, writing as a observer and battle-scarred veteran of the hillbilly wars. For more than thirty-five years, I've been subjected to country music. I've been immersed in it. I am the lab rat on the other end of the mountain music ray gun. When I say brain damage, I mean the usual things that I've seen people do or say that leave no doubt that a steel guitar and three chords will change the cerebral makeup of a person.

I'm talkin' about lyin' and cheatin' and drinkin' and smokin' folks. And those are just the religious ones I know who listen to country music. In fact, they are usually the worst. I'm talkin' about stealin' ideas, fistfights, drugs, divorces, car chases, cussin' and spittin', not sleeping for a week, ordering mail-order chickens, dying your hair prematurely jet-black, wearin' headgear you don't qualify for, murder, mail fraud, wacky 'baccy, liar's poker, bottles of Jack Daniel's, and pyramids of beer cans.

I specifically know that this blessed genre of hick art will eventually result in shoplifting, sex in convertibles, jumping out of windows, snake handling, potshots, bacon grease, illegal bus stops, immoral business practices, and peeing in the sink. If you'd seen as many backroom-dealing, wife-hugging, fake hair, three-timing, coke-sniffing, radio-bribing, carjacking, golf-cheating, mansion-buying, horse-trading, whacked-out cowboys as I have, you'd know I ain't lyin'.

I've always said that there are two things that cause the most grief in the world: somebody's gettin' somethin' I ain't gettin', and my God is better than your God. On a global level, that's probably true,
but
country music and brain disaster are a very close third, ahead of global warming, the economy, and today's modern radio.

I'm only here to serve as an early warning system. As the tornado siren of Nashville, I'm going off at full blast just so you can't say, “Why didn't you warn me?” So here I am. This is your final warning. It's singers and songwriters, publishers and managers, and record people and radio people, all interconnected like some giant dysfunctional family and all joined at the hip by their involvement one way or the other to what's been called “America's Music.”

It's no wonder this country is in trouble. Country is more popular than it's ever been. Oh, sure, it's inspiring and touching. It honors God and family and kids and horses and riding around in a truck. That's all well and good. I'm just saying, from what I've observed with my own lyin' eyes, there's something going on between C & W and an MRI.

I also want to say I wouldn't have had it any other way. I love 98 percent of these people. Like Lot's wife, they are the salt of the earth. The other 2 percent I hope are abducted by aliens and have their buttocks probed.

So here we go. My story. My evidence. Country music causes brain damage.

Johnny Paycheck

BEFORE
JOHNNY PAYCHECK left this planet in 2003, I had not seen him in a few years. He is a great example of “my country vs. your brain” theory. Johnny was a genius at singing and questionable at life. He truly was an outlaw. He actually went to prison. Johnny was old-school. I'm also fairly certain Johnny was no-school. His greatest recording achievement was “Take This Job and Shove It,” a true two minutes and thirty-five seconds of blue-collar, frustration-busting music that nearly everyone felt in their soul and a one-finger salute to every bad boss we've all ever had. Johnny also could get slightly out of control.