Bare Bones (18 page)

Even better than the compliments, he started putting my show on affiliates inside the company. He put
The Bobby Bones Show
on in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Then it was Albany, Georgia. Soon, all in all we were on in more than thirty cities because Rod championed the show on a national level.

In the summer of 2012, Rod and I started talking about the idea of me putting my show on some country stations. Having grown up in Arkansas, I had country music in my blood. In fact, I got in trouble many times for putting country acts on my Top 40 show. I never worried too much about labels. It was just about finding the best music or best talent out there. Eli Young Band, Pat Green, Dierks Bentley, and Willie Nelson all came on when I was on pop radio. And man, did I get crushed by my Top 40 music directors for putting on “country and western acts.”

(Side note: it's so weird how things change but stay the same. Now I am constantly scolded for putting acts on our show that aren't “country” enough. So, like in real life, I never really fit in perfectly on the radio, either. I may be the only guy to play 2Pac into Luke Bryan into Lou Bega on a country station. I also bring in acts to perform on the country stations that aren't country at all. I've had Ed Sheeran in performing live. Even Shaggy came in to do a couple of songs. Yeah, “It Wasn't Me” Shaggy. The station managers were like “WTF?”)

Because Rod and I had been talking about my moving into a country format, I didn't think it was all that odd when he invited me to the Country Music Awards in November. “I know you're wanting to spread the word about your show,” Rod said. “So why don't you come to Nashville? Everyone's going to be in town at the same time. Station managers, company managers. Ordinarily it'd be tough to get all these people in the same room.”

He didn't have to ask twice. I booked my Southwest flight and off I went to do my Top 40 show from the heart of country music, and hopefully get station managers to see it was a good fit for their stations. Almost as soon as I landed in Nashville, Rod and his team (from the company then known as Clear Channel but later rebranded iHeartMedia) were wining and dining me. Well, just dining me. They took me to so many awesome dinners and cool places it was freaky. Maybe they just like me, I thought to myself. But that wasn't what it turned out to be at all.

On my second day in Nashville, Rod casually suggested we check out a shoot where all these top bands were doing national promos for our company. “Of course!” was my speedy reply. Tim McGraw was there; Lady Antebellum was there; Carrie Underwood was there. And everyone was super nice, and so clearly A-game. “Well, this is pretty cool,” I thought to myself. “I'm in Nashville to meet all of the bosses. And I get to see a few country stars, too!”

Right after I got done talking SEC football with Tim McGraw (and texting all of my friends, “I've been talking with Tim McGraw for the last twenty minutes about college football!”), Rod took me aside and gave me one of those serious the-police-are-outside-to-take-you-to-jail looks. “Listen,” he said. “You're about to be hammered. They're going to tell you something that will really shake you up. I shouldn't even be telling you this, but I just wanted to give you a warning, so brace yourself.”

What?

Thanks, Rod Phillips! I mean, what the heck did that mean? Was I about to get fired? You brought me out here to fire me? I imagined the worst flight home ever: being fired and then having to sit on a plane for two hours wondering why. I know it's not customary for bosses to take their employees out to big fancy dinners and promo shoots if they are about to fire them, but common sense wasn't floating around anywhere in my head in that moment.

It only got worse when I was taken over to a corner of the video shoot where huddled together was a group of bigwigs: Rod; John Ivey, the program director of KIIS FM in Los Angeles, one of the two biggest Top 40 stations in America; and Clay Hunnicutt, who was then the director of country for Clear Channel, were gathered around talking. They sat me down and said, “We want you to move to Nashville to be our national country morning show.”

And then I went deaf. Just like when something loud pops in your ears, I heard a loud
beeeeeeep
and then nothing after that. I was shocked. Their offer came out of nowhere for me. It was the last thing I was expecting. I really thought I was going to Nashville to
pitch
my Top 40 show, based in Austin, to any station manager who would listen—not to be asked if I wanted to broadcast the largest daily country morning show in the history of the format across tons of Clear Channel's markets.

“Are you kidding?” was all I could manage to say. They took a picture of me as they asked me the question. In the photo, I'm pink haired (it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month) and my jaw was on the ground. I was shocked, sad, and slightly excited at the same time. In that order.

I didn't say yes right away, not only because I was in shock but also because I really didn't know how to feel about the offer. On the career side of things, I had built this entire “empire” in the pop format. It was a small empire, but it was definitely expanding. I had already accepted the fact that I wasn't going to get a morning spot on Top 40 stations in New York or L.A. Elvis Duran and Ryan Seacrest had both just signed new contracts, and they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. They were giants. But I was content in continuing to grow from where I was. In addition to my regular morning gig, I had started cohosting a new national sports show on Fox Sports Radio with tennis champ Andy Roddick. (Let me sidebar on Andy, who in addition to having become one of my best friends is also one of the most obnoxious and best humans in the entire world. That dude can be a real dick on the tennis court or golf course. But man, he is a quality human being. One of the best people I've ever met.)

Despite the fact that I was comfortable with what I had done in Austin, I wasn't stupid. I recognized that there was much more room for me to grow inside of country—the biggest format in America and one in which I felt comfortable because of my background and my deep appreciation for the music. But there was one other major factor that kept me from jumping at the promotion: I loved Austin. I mean I really loved Austin.

I was supposed to hate it, because I'm from Arkansas, and when you grow up in Arkansas, you are taught to hate Texas. Texas is the bigger and better brother—particularly when it comes to sports. So as an Arkansas sports fan, I was pretty wary when I first moved to Austin. But the people there are so great. The city embraced us, which was particularly unbelievable for as cool a place as Austin to do to a small gang of—well—idiots, who had never done a morning show like ours. In a city where everyone is always trying to be the biggest hipster in the room, my approach was always to keep it real. I mean I-hang-out-at-Chili's-and-shop-at-Walmart real. And people loved us for it. I couldn't imagine anything better.

I thanked the Clear Channel execs, who expected me to answer “yes” right away, and immediately went back to my hotel room, where I called Betty.

“You're not going to believe what just happened,” I said to her. “I was just offered a national show from Nashville. They want me to move here and be the national country guy.”

I know that it had to be hard for her to hear, because the offer meant I would have to move away. I already wasn't the easiest boyfriend in the world; a long-distance relationship would only make things more difficult. Still, because she cared about me so much, her immediate reaction was to think only of me.

“You have to do it,” she said.

It's crazy just how supportive and unselfish she was. I don't have that inside of me. But she did. She didn't need to think about it. In a beat, her response was “You have to take the job.”

I was scared—not to go to country, because that was awesome. And not to go to Nashville, because Nashville's awesome. It was because I had to kick down everything I had spent the last seven years building from the ground up and start all over. It felt very much like the move from Little Rock to Austin. I'd never been there before, but I had to do it.

“You're right,” I said to Betty. “I have to do it.”

A few days later, I told the execs at Clear Channel that my answer was yes.

Of course, it wasn't quite as simple as that. These kinds of offers are always followed by a lot of negotiating on both sides. One thing that wasn't up for negotiation, however, was the rest of my crew on
The Bobby Bones Show
. I wasn't coming unless all of the team could come too. If they wanted the show, well, Amy, Lunchbox, Ray, Eddie, and the rest of my crew
were
the show. Thankfully, that wasn't a sticking point.

Even though the gang had new jobs in Nashville if they wanted them, they still couldn't know for a long time, which was weird for me. It went from uncomfortable to problematic when Amy and her husband picked a house to buy in Austin. Luckily (for me), something happened and the deal on the house fell through. But I went to Rod and said, “If we don't tell Amy now, she's going to buy another house.” So I got special dispensation to tell her months before everyone else. She was in immediately. Because for Amy, the bigger her platform, the more good she can do in the world. Also, despite how much the rest of us drive her nuts, she still likes being part of the gang. Crazy girl.

Eventually I was able to call in each person on the show one by one and tell them that I had some information I needed to share, but I had to have them sign a nondisclosure agreement first—which scared everyone. As soon as they had put pen to paper, I told them the news quickly. I didn't take any pleasure from torturing people.

Except Lunchbox. He was the only person I messed with.

“There's going to be a lot of changes,” I said.

“What kind of changes?” he asked nervously.

“The changes involve you.”

“Okay.”

“It's tough for me to tell you this . . .”

I dragged it out forever. I took many deep breaths. I even faked a half cry. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I wish I had taped it!

“I'm going to be leaving,” I said.

His eyes got real big.

“I'm really sorry that I have to leave. I don't know what you're going to do . . . but I hope you're going to come with me, because they've offered us a national show out of Nashville!”

He didn't know whether to hug me or kill me. It was awesome.

On Monday, February 4, 2013, we formally announced that
The Bobby Bones Show
was moving to Nashville; Friday was our last show in Austin. I know this might not seem like big news to most of you reading this, but it made some waves in the city that built our radio show. As the
Austin Chronicle
's Abby Johnston wrote about me: “He assembled his own dream team and turned KISS FM's negligible ratings into a national goldmine, far outscoring any other local show. . . .

“The show feels like a conversation between friends, and that's what kept me listening. I love to hate Lunchbox's antiquated and misogynistic attitude toward women and his party-boy lifestyle. . . . Lunchbox's foil, Amy, has captivated listeners with her struggle to have a child, and as she chokes up on air, I've shed tears with her. . . . Mostly, though, there's Bobby, who through the years has revealed himself as one of the most genuine and open hosts on the radio.”

Not everyone was as emotional about our leaving. As someone's comment to a post about our announcement on a local TV news channel's Facebook page shows:

“I'll miss Bobby, but if he's taking Lunchbox with him I'll throw him a party!!”

Lunchbox is an acquired taste.

Jokes aside, it was a monster when we left. That Friday, my last day on the air, I cried like a baby. Lunchbox and Amy each said some final words on the air, and then they left the room, until it was just me. Alone, I just cried and cried. It was my second time sobbing on air. The first was when I had been jumped and feared for my life. This time it was because I had loved the show so much.

We hadn't been the funniest on the radio. But in the land of hip and SXSW, we broke the mold and proved that you don't have to act super cool in a city that is super cool. We talked about stuff like our love of the unlimited salad at Olive Garden. Austin embraced us because we were real humans, and none more so than me. Austin was the place where I grew into adulthood.

Less than a month after I said good-bye to Austin,
The Bobby Bones Show
arrived in Nashville. When we launched, we were in thirty-five country markets with more than two million weekly listeners and set to grow almost immediately to fifty markets nationwide.

The singer-songwriter Chris Janson was our very first guest once we went over to country. I had seen him play for like thirty seconds and thought, Wow, that guy's pretty good. Quite frankly, we needed someone to come and make sure our equipment was good, so I invited him up to play. Our equipment was good and so was Chris.

It was easy for me to slide into the new genre, because as I said, it wasn't all that new to me. The way I talk, the way I act, where I'm from—is country. Even when I was heavy into alternative or hip-hop in my life, I was still always a country music fan.

The only hard part was that everyone who considered himself a real defender of country music hated me. A writer for the alternative weekly
Nashville Scene
summed up the general opinion of me: “I have a hard time seeing how a thirtysomething-year-old Top 40 DJ with no noted background in country music shilling for Clear Channel with a sidekick named ‘Lunchbox' is anything to get excited about.” Nobody wanted me there. Nobody accepted me. It was just like in junior high and high school, all over again.

Part of the anger toward me was simply change rage. I was taking over for the legendary country DJ Gerry House, who had been on in Nashville forever. He was a very traditional, old-school, inside-the-industry, deep-voiced, cowboy-hat kind of country guy, who had been broadcasting from Nashville for almost forty years when I showed up. I didn't actually replace him; there was a show between his and mine, but it didn't last long. Anytime you follow a great anyone—football coach, CEO, talk show host—it's really hard to succeed. Anyone who comes in after him, it doesn't matter how good they are: they really don't have a chance. And I feel bad for them.