Honky Tonk Angel (13 page)

On April 21, 1956, backstage at the Opry, Patsy visited in the ladies’ dressing room with Del Wood.

“Hi, hon,” Del exclaimed. “How you doing?”

“Awful,” replied Patsy. “I still don’t have a hit.”

“You got to have patience in this business. Just don’t let ’em tie you down. How’s Gerald?”

“Who?”

“Gerald, your husband?”

“Oh, him! Hoss, I got some news. I met a boy my own age who’s a hurricane in pants! Del, I’m in love and, this time, it’s for real.”

The next day, in her third session, Patsy recorded the hilarious rockabilly “Stop, Look and Listen,” about current trends in music, Eddie Miller’s poignant, crying-in-your-beer ballad “I’ve Loved and Lost Again,” plus two gospel numbers,
⁷
“He Will Do For You (What He’s Done for Me)” and “Dear God.”

Musicians remember Patsy in tears at the end of the gospel takes. Opry announcer Grant Turner recollected Patsy’s visits to the Ryman Auditorium on Wally Fowler’s all-night sings. “She’d do those sacred songs with such feeling, there’d be silence at the end. Patsy’s face’d be covered in tears. She was as moved as the audience.”

After the session, as Patsy, Owen, and Cohen listened to playbacks, Teddy Wilburn, who with brother Doyle emerged from Webb Pierce’s band to record for Decca, came in. Patsy pleaded, “Hoss, stick around and listen with us. Let me know what you think.”

Wilburn reported that everyone had something to say. “Listen to ’em, Hoss!” Patsy said. “Everybody knows what I should and shouldn’t do, but nobody listens to me. It’s all in the material and I ain’t got no decent material.”

Patsy went home and back to the Town and Country shows.

The Lion’s Club didn’t invite her to ride in the 1956 Apple Blossom Festival Parade. She took it as a snub from her home town.

Gay had a solution. “Hell, Patsy, if you want to ride in the parade, why didn’t you say so? I’ll take care of everything—or they won’t get any more cars from my showrooms.”

In the Fireman’s Parade, which began May 4 late in the afternoon and ran into the night, Patsy—wearing one of her mother’s finest cowgirl creations—waved to the crowds lining the sidewalks. Sister Sylvia Mae was at her side. The banners on both sides of the convertible read “Town & Country T.V. Star PATSY CLINE . . . Courtesy Gay Oldsmobile, Warrenton, Va.”

She was back in Nashville for the July 8 release of “I’ve Loved and Lost Again” and “Stop, Look and Listen,” her first Decca single.
⁸
With help from Ernest Tubb, the label arranged for Patsy to debut her record that weekend on the Prince Albert Tobacco-sponsored portion of the Opry carried on the NBC Radio network.

She also appeared twice with friend Faron Young on “Country Hoedown,” a fifteen-minute show transcribed in Bradley’s studio for U.S. Navy recruitment promotion on several hundred radio stations. On the first program, Patsy plugged her new release and sang “Come On In,” “Turn the Cards Slowly,” and “The Wayward Wind,” a big hit that summer for Gogi Grant. On the second, she performed Sonny James’s hit “For Rent” and Webb Pierce’s “Yes, I Know Why.”

Later that month Patsy was on the West Coast in Compton, a suburb in southeast Los Angeles, to sing the A-side of her single on the syndicated “Western Ranch Party,” hosted by Tex Ritter. On an excursion to downtown Hollywood, she met someone who would play an important role in her career.

On her return to Winchester she waited and waited. Finally, seeing zero response from disc jockeys and record buyers on her latest efforts, Patsy decided she’d been patient long enough. She told her mother she’d been backed into a corner by McCall and Decca. “Something’s wrong and I don’t think it’s me. I’m trying to run forward and they’re holding me back. It’s time I took the initiative.”

That came in October, when Patsy was so fed up she talked Charlie into driving her to New York for another audition for “Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts.” Janette Davis still thought Patsy’s style was all wrong for her voice. Anyway, the show was booked for weeks. Before she left, Patsy told Davis not to forget her.

Charlie noted, “They gave us a song and dance which I took to mean, ‘Don’t call us. We’ll call you.’ I figured, ‘That’s the end of that.’ "

Patsy knew better.

Shortly afterward, George Hamilton IV auditioned for “Talent Scouts,” was selected to go on, and won. “That this kid, whom Patsy had criticized over and over, beat her to the punch was too much for Patsy,” commented Del Wood. “She was madder than a wet hen. I thought she’d bust a gut.”

That only made Patsy more determined. She expected a call any minute, any day, any week. It didn’t come, but she was used to waiting. Mrs. Hensley prayed that God in His eternal wisdom would let the Godfrey people call so she could get some peace.

. . . I’m hungry for love,
Like a hobo for food,
Like the devil hunts for bad,
Like the angel looks for good . . .

—“Hungry for Love” by Eddie Miller and W. S. Stevenson
 (© 1957 Four-Star Music Company;
copyright renewed by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc.)

I
n 1956 Donn Hecht was trying very hard to make it in Los Angeles. “I probably wore out four pairs of shoes carrying my song folder to every music publisher in Hollywood. In those days Coffee-Dan’s, near the corner of Sunset and Vine, teemed with every would-be songwriter and singer in the world. The country singers hung out there, too, but weren’t considered part of the family. They were thought of as hicks who sang through their noses and couldn’t read music.

“It was there I first met Patsy Cline. Not often, but enough to remember her without knowing her name. She had quite a presence and would be hard to forget. Not beautiful, not plain, she walked like a dancer and something played off her that made her stand out from the crowd. We were two unknown fish in the same lake.

“Later on [June, 1956], I was thin and broke and sitting before Bill McCall at Four-Star Records at 500 South Fairoaks Avenue, Pasadena, California. ‘You’re a comer, boy,’ he told me. ‘I think you’ve got real talent, and I’m gonna gamble on you,
but
. . .’

“That ‘but’ meant a seven-year contract, guaranteeing a six-hundred-dollar
monthly draw against royalties. It stated McCall could fire me anytime, but that I couldn’t quit! My car was up for repossession, my rent past due, and I had less than three dollars in my pocket. I signed.”

By the time Hecht met him, McCall’s hair was thin and half gone over the forehead. His once stocky build was pouched and wrinkled from weight loss to keep down an aggravated heart condition. His small, steel-gray green eyes peered from his small-framed glasses so coldly and without feeling they seemed artificial. His thin lower lip had a distinct downturn from years of smoking cigars, and his cheap suits looked “a little carny.”

“But a speaker he was!” the songwriter declared. “His delivery, tone, and emphasis could charm a grape from the vine and make you wonder why he wasn’t sitting in some governor’s chair or a seat in Washington.

“A cheat? A thief? Perhaps. I’ve heard this stated by virtually everyone. From what I witnessed, I can’t say he was. Do I believe I should have made more money than he paid? Yes. However, I saw the good things he did, such as help writers who were down on their luck.

“Eddie Miller, for example, would haunt the Four-Star offices and regularly confront McCall with urgent pleas for money. Others came, offering to sell songs for twenty-five dollars, eighty dollars, a hundred and fifty dollars. If they were alcoholics, Bill took them across the street for a meal, handed them ten dollars and ordered, ‘Go dry out.’ They’d return the next morning, soused, angry that he didn’t do a ‘buyout.’ Bill would finally agree, in disgust, and call in Ruth, his Oriental secretary, and dictate a release of all title for the demanded amount of money.

“Bill would sulk. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you people? That stupid bastard signed away everything! A genius of a man pissing his money away on booze, destroying his liver, fucking his life away. And you can bet your ass, I’m the one everybody’ll say was responsible.’ McCall would tear a contract to shreds and say, ‘After the booze does him in and if the song hits, don’t you know he’ll be surprised when some money rolls in.’ ”

When Hecht inquired why McCall would offer to buy all rights to a song, he replied, “What the hell you expect me to do? Don’t you know the jackasses’ll go to [competitor] Hill & Range and sell their goddamn songs for pennies? And that Jew’ll add six or seven more songs to the contract for less money!”

“Of course,” noted Hecht, “Bill didn’t tear up all such agreements, but there is that other side. Though I didn’t always agree with him, he possessed instincts which I’ve never witnessed the equal of.”

In September, McCall had Hecht set up to produce for his country artists. “I groaned, ‘Me? A writer of semi-classical music?’ He told me, ‘Yeah. No problem. Nothing to worry about.’

“My assignment was to pick a star from among the hopefuls and write that person a hit. I told McCall, ‘Sorry, I need the money, but I’m afraid I can’t write this stuff.’ He glared at me and barked, ‘You’ve heard the worst, now listen to this, and listen good.’ ”

McCall put a record on the phonograph, and before it made ten revolutions, Hecht was hypnotized by the girl’s voice.

“Who is she?” the lyricist wanted to know.

“Her name’s Patsy Cline.”

“I’ve never heard anyone sing like that before.”

“There’s a problem. Her contract’s about to expire and I don’t know if I want to renew. I’ve spent a fortune releasing her stuff and she’s bombed every time. Can you tell me why?”

“Hell, that’s easy. She’s not a country singer.”

“She’s got the same tear in her voice you have in your material.”

“Bill, that’s the problem. The stuff you’ve got her singing. She shouldn’t be doing hillbilly. You really have something there.”

“Not if she bombs out one more time. I’ll have to drop her.”

“Let me give it some thought.”

“Bring me in something and I’ll give it the test.”

Hecht explained that McCall had a “sure-fire” method of knowing whether songs were good. “He played them for his ‘chief A&R executive,’ Truly, the night cleaning woman. His theory was ‘This woman mops my floors for a living and knows as much as I do about the business. You bet your ass I’ve got to be interested in any song she likes well enough to go out and spend her hard-earned money on.’

“And so they’d sit, in the light of a desk lamp, McCall in his high-back executive chair, and Truly, her mop and bucket resting nearby, from eight to often past midnight, listening to demos offered by an army of writers.”

The writer went home and searched through a stack of unpublished songs until he came across a yellowed lead sheet of a song nobody wanted. He’d cowritten it with Alan Block, an electronic engineer, who composed mainly as a hobby. The song was for Kay Starr, but Capitol Records’ A&R chief wouldn’t let her do it.

Hecht couldn’t get Patsy’s voice out of his head. He sat down with the sheet music and made minor changes. A day or two later, he had a singer come in and do a demo session. He took the tape to McCall. When he heard it, McCall “almost fell off his chair,” and Truly loved it.

“Let me call that gal in Virginia,” McCall said, rushing to the phone.

“It’s about time you had some exciting news for me,” cracked Patsy. “What’s the title?”

“ ‘Walkin’ After Midnight.’ ”

“I don’t like it.”

“Not so fast! Not so fast! You ain’t heard it yet. Hell, gal, give it a chance.”

McCall played it with the receiver next to the hi-fi’s speaker.

“I hate it!”

He played it again.

“I still hate it!”

McCall was so angry, he almost swallowed his cigar. “Listen, goddamnit, you work for me. I’m sending you a ticket and you’re coming out here all expenses paid. We’ll talk about it—”

“Ain’t nothing to talk about—”

“I said, we’ll talk about it!”

In early October, Patsy arrived in Los Angeles to meet with McCall. On the side, she contacted the Town Hall Party representatives in Compton to appear on the popular three-hour country music variety show, which was telecast regionally. She was a featured guest Friday and Saturday, October 12 and 13.

At the Four-Star meeting on Monday, McCall, Hecht, and Patsy clashed. Hecht
reported that McCall played “Walkin’ After Midnight” again and again, making Patsy angrier and angrier.

“I won’t do it!”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” yelled McCall. “I’ve spent a fortune on you and got nothing to show for it.”

“But it’s nothing but a little ole pop song.”

“And you’re nothing but a little ole pop singer who lives in the country,” countered Hecht.

“Now I’m going to leave you two alone,” McCall informed emphatically, “and let you work out the details.”

He stormed out Patsy looked at Hecht, He looked at her. Silence. She glared. He glared. Then Hecht broke out laughing and Patsy did, too.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Look, Mr. Heck—”

“It’s pronounced like Hector without the o-r.”

“Look, Mr. Hector without the o-r, it’s just that for two years I been singing what everybody else wants, and when it flops, who gets the blame? Me! It ain’t fair.”

“I’ve got to tell you, the song’s perfect for you. Your voice is pure B-flat blues. It’ll work.”

“I don’t think so. It ain’t country.”

“Why don’t you try this on for size. You say you been singing what everybody else wants. Okay, tell McCall you’ll do this one if he lets you pick one you like for the flip side.”

“Don’t think I haven’t been through this before. He never lets me pick a song.”

“I’ll back you. He likes me!”

“I still hate the song. But I like you.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment, but that other part won’t do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You singing a song you don’t like will never come over to the audience.”

“Okay, I’ll try to like it.”

McCall returned with coffee and doughnuts.

“Bill, Mr. Hecht and I have decided. I’ll do one side I really like along with ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ and you release them back to back.”

McCall nearly knocked his coffee over. He arched his eyebrows and studied Patsy and Donn.

“Then if your side sells, I’ll never argue about material again. But if my side sells—”

“This is blackmail!”

“If you say so.”

“What if neither side sells, what then?”

“Then you just get yourself another singer. Is it a deal?”

McCall bit into his doughnut. “It’s a deal.”

Before returning home, Patsy saw McCall again. Chronically short of money,
she asked for an advance. Gladly, he replied, in exchange for an additional one-year renewal. It was dated and signed July 2, 1956. Patsy got two hundred dollars. She was tied to McCall through September 29, 1958.

Everything was set. Patsy would go to Nashville the week of November 4 for her fifth recording session and to attend the WSM Birthday Celebration and disc jockey convention for Decca and Connie B. Gay Enterprises. Charlie would join her.

Doyle Wilburn and brother Teddy saw Patsy Monday and Tuesday at WSM, where they did interviews, posed for photographs, and handed out product, and at the old Andrew Jackson Hotel, where Decca had its hospitality suite.

“On the second night,” recalled Doyle, “my voice was shot. I needed a break from all the hand-grabbing, so I headed for my room for a catnap. I ran into Patsy in the hall. She was real upset. I invited her to the room for a drink.”

Patsy sat on the bed and started to cry.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Doyle asked. She couldn’t stop crying to answer him. “Patsy, honey, you got to stop. This ain’t good. Now, come on.” Doyle gave her some water and a towel to wipe her face. “What’s got you so bothered?”

“I’m madder than hell at that bastard McCall!”

“That bald-headed runt’s the biggest crook in the business. He steals us country folk blind!”

“He’s making me record this song I just can’t stand. It’s awful. I hate the goddamned thing! Doyle, it’s pop and I don’t want to sing pop. I’m a country girl!”

“Patsy, just tell him you don’t want to do it.”

“What do you think I been doing? I’ve told him till I was blue in the face. He says I don’t have a choice. One of the little stipulations in my contract states I can only record Four-Star songs. He’s got me over a barrel. He and Owen got the session set for Thursday night. What am I going to do?”

“Sue the bastard!”

It was too late. November 8, Patsy was in Bradley’s studio. She and Donn Hecht spoke by phone.

“We talked about her Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia and how she loved to go fishing and hunting,” he reported. “She was upset she wasn’t able financially to do things for her mother. She really got to me. Here was a girl, simple but complicated, with a heart as big as those mountains that made her eyes shine each time she spoke of them.

“She told me, once again, of her intense dislike of ‘Walkin’ After Midnight.’ She didn’t take the session lightly and was under a lot of pressure. I didn’t envy Owen. I knew Patsy could tax a truck driver.

“She was stubborn, and any material she recorded had to be pure country. She considered everything she recorded like an entry in her diary. ‘It’s like writing a lot of personal things down on the page,’ she told me, ‘and wanting them just right so that when other people see it, they’ll see how it was and how you really felt. Doing something I don’t believe in makes me feel like a whore.’”

Patsy recorded two country songs, “The Heart You Break May Be Your Own” and “Pick Me Up on Your Way Down” in addition to “A Poor Man’s Roses (or a Rich Man’s Gold)” by pop writers Bob Hilliard and Milton Delugg. The latter was “her song”—the non Four-Star Music tune—in her pact with McCall. Then came “Walkin’ After Midnight.”