Reba: My Story (39 page)

I
LOOKED FOR SOLACE IN THE PLACES WHERE I
’
D ALWAYS FOUND
it before—in the Lord and in my music. A couple of days after the memorial service I stunned the music community, and myself, by announcing I would be returning to work.

The question, inevitably, had come up even before we left San Diego, and I was not prepared to confront it. Mike Allen, our booking agent, didn’t know what to do about our dates. “Cancel everything,” I remember saying. “Cancel everything until July, and we’ll decide later.”

One of the dates was an appearance on March 25, nine days after the crash, at the annual Academy Awards, the Oscars. I couldn’t imagine how I could pull myself back together in time.

I remember thinking about it as I sat in front of the makeup mirror in my bedroom dressing room. It was Sunday morning, the day after. Narvel was in our sitting room watching TV while I was getting ready for that second day of visits with the families.

The song I’d been scheduled to perform was “I’m Checking Out,” which Meryl Streep had sung in
Postcards from the Edge
. “I’m checking out of this old heartbreak hotel,” it went, and I tried to imagine myself singing it.

Before the crash, the band, Jim, and I had talked about me singing at the Oscars. They’d been thrilled for me. And I got to thinking that that heartbreak hotel was the world, that “We’re checking out” was the band’s way of saying, “We’re not here hurting, we’re okay.” And I just knew in my heart that if I could have discussed it with them, the band would have told me to go on and do it. It was a gut feeling, a sign of their approval.

A peaceful feeling swept over me as I went into our sitting room and said, “Narvel, I’m going to do the Oscars.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I would do that show for the band.

Narvel called Sandy Brokaw, my West Coast publicist. Sandy called the Academy the first thing Monday morning and told them I would appear. He found out my name had never been taken off the list; another sign, I thought.

When I sang at the Oscars the following week, I think most of the audience knew what had happened to my band and Jim. The song took on new meaning for them, like it had for me. I sang it with all my heart.

Then, after the Oscars, I went back on the road. Needless to say, not everybody agreed with my decision. Some people accused me of being disrespectful, and others said I was money hungry. But I believed I was returning to work with full respect for the dead, and that money had nothing to do with it. I would have done no one any good by lying around; there were many people depending on me—the surviving band members, my stage and production crew, many of whom had families to support. And then too I feared that if I allowed myself to hurt that hard for that long (July was four months away), I might never return to work.

We had to put a band together in one week. That was barely enough time to meet, much less rehearse, six musicians and a vocalist.

Dolly Parton had called me at the office when she
heard of the crash. She said if I needed anything to tell her and that I could use her band and her whole organization if necessary. No wonder I’ve been a huge fan of hers from the beginning. I thanked her and asked if we could use the services of Gary Smith, her band leader and record producer who’d also played with Ricky Skaggs and Barbara Mandrell. He knew every good musician in Nashville. We asked him to form a band for us. No promises were made to the new musicians that they would have a job with me indefinitely. After what we’d been through, it was inappropriate to even pretend to think anything could ever again be definite.

I rehearsed with the new group and immediately realized how much pressure was on them. They knew that some fans would compare them to the old band. Narvel tried to reassure them by pointing out that these fans could not be objective, that their attachment was sentimental and understandable, under the circumstances. We all had to try to do the best job we could—it would be hard for all of us.

I mentally prepared myself for that first show in Columbus, Ohio. I knew that I would turn around and see Andre Reese instead of Michael Thomas playing lead guitar or Charlie Anderson on bass guitar instead of Terry Jackson. I knew that the sound would be the same but different. I knew that the new players’ body language would be new.

And I was pulling for them. Those guys held up like troupers, totally applying themselves to their playing and performing. I respect them for taking the job and respect them more for pulling it off so magnificently.

Vince Gill opened the show, then sat offstage with Sandi on instrument cases while watching my set. She had been so incredibly close to my former players, and she cried through the entire show. Vince put his arm around her and never took it down until I sang my last note.

T
HERE WOULD STILL BE MANY DIFFICULT DAYS AHEAD FOR US
all. Early on, before the Columbus date Narvel had told Joe McGlohon that he didn’t have to go back on the road with me. But he wanted to, and was one of the most understanding people about my reasons for going back to work so soon. So Narvel named Joe McGlohon band leader, and as part of his new role, Joe was to help teach our sound to the new players. But he missed his buddies greatly, and he began to bury his distress in alcohol.

Although Joe was never drunk onstage, he’d head for the nearest bar immediately after the shows, and often went down the road drunk with the band that was looking to him for leadership. As Joe recalls, “I didn’t know which end was up.”

Narvel told Joe he understood the tremendous strain he was under and sympathized, but that he could no longer drink heavily on the bus. Then, not long after he was named band leader, we went on an extended tour of Canada. “And I left a swath of empty whiskey bottles in many bars,” Joe said in 1993. “I tried dealing with it that way.”

His behavior was also changing in ways that made us all concerned. He didn’t talk much to the new guys and seemed to be making an unconscious effort to recover the past. He began to wear his hair like Tony. Then he’d do his hair like Kirk’s. He had kept a lot of the guys’ clothes from the bus. “I wore some of Michael’s clothes,” Joe said. “I wore all of those guys’ clothes. I did that for about a year. A shirt here, something else there. I wore Tony’s hat for a while. I don’t know, it was just some tangible piece of them I was trying to hold on to. I definitely hung on to bits and pieces.”

Throughout his trauma, Joe always thought about the band members’ families. He called them regularly and talked to them for a long time whenever they came to recover personal property. The goodness he showed was helping him, but not enough.

I had lost too many friends to death. I didn’t want to
lose another to grief. So it came to the point where Narvel told Joe to straighten up or leave.

That probably saved Joe’s life. He finally came around and is still my band leader to this day. Joe is a terrific father and a very happily married man. We’re very proud of him.

A
T THE END OF 1991, NARVEL AND I HAD TO CONSIDER WHAT WE
were going to do about a band for 1992. My musical organization has a history of changing each year. It’s common knowledge in Nashville that I—and other entertainers—add and subtract players at the beginning of each year. I think that change helps maintain a band’s freshness; I even go so far as to change my entire show every year—costumes, choreography, videos, and, of course, songs.

We asked a number of the new band members—Joe, Charlie “Chopper” Anderson, and Andre Reese—to return with us in January. The others, six altogether, were given ample notice, along with our heartfelt appreciation for all they’d done for us. That was on December 4, 1991. As most Nashville entertainers hire their bands at the beginning of each year, we wanted these people to have plenty of time to find new employment. We also invited them to play my New Year’s Eve show at double salary.

All but one member of the band took a professional attitude. The disgruntled musician talked to a reporter and a big story followed. It said I had fired my band two weeks before Christmas and suggested that I didn’t care about the players or their families. It made no mention of my considerations.

The story was a distortion and an embarrassment for me. It was an unfortunate end to a painful, difficult year. I had to wonder at the time if the fallout from the tragedy we’d suffered would ever stop.

B
UT THROUGHOUT THIS SAD TIME, THE OUTPOURING OF
support from my fans was overwhelming. Let me tell you how much I appreciated your kindness in helping me get through it. I love each and every one of you for your love and support, as well as for your financial help to the victims’ families.

I’m very grateful to members of the country music community too—for the flowers, letters, donations to the families, phone calls, for coming by, for being at the memorial service, and for being my friends, I thank you.

And I owe a special expression of gratitude to C. K. Spurlock, Kenny Rogers’s international promoter. C.K., who was very close to Michael Thomas, was the one who organized the benefit to provide financial help to the crash victims’ families.

C.K. staged the benefit at Nashville’s Municipal Auditorium, which is where I hold my annual Fan Fair party each June. In addition, a second benefit starring Merle Haggard was held at Pheasant Run Theater in Chicago. All the proceeds, including contributions mailed in by fans, went directly to the survivors.

To organize the Nashville show, C.K. got on the telephone and simply asked entertainers to appear. Word of mouth about the program spread like wildfire on Music Row, and artists began calling him asking if they could perform too. Eventually, there was more talent than time to present it, and a few acts had to be turned down.

Entertainers on the show included Ricky Van Shelton, T. Graham Brown, Gary Morris, Patty Loveless, K. T. Oslin, Eddie Rabbitt, Willie Nelson, Exile, the Oak Ridge Boys, and Kenny Rogers. Ralph Emery, the former “Nashville Now” host, was the master of ceremonies.

Each performer donated his or her time, and a few passed up paying engagements so they could be at the benefit concert. Willie Nelson was in the middle of a recording session, left to do his set, and then returned to the studio.