Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (11 page)

Before long, record company executives and artist managers
were going to be out of the loop entirely and the damn artists would be in
control of everything.
 
This was not the
kind of world in which Big Bill was equipped to live.
 
One minute he was at the top of the charts, the
next he was an eight-track tape in a digital download world.
 
It wasn’t supposed to end this way, he
thought.
 
He just wanted to get across
the finish line with some dough in his pocket, but he’d gotten lazy and fallen
behind.
 
He looked again at the
Nashville Scene
and knew he couldn’t let
it end like this.
 
He had to find somebody
to help get him out of this mess.

18.

Two days after the funeral Eddie was still in an emotionally
blunted state.
 
He calmly packed his car
and headed to Nashville.
 
He got a cheap motel room his first night
there.
 
The next day he found a one-bedroom
unit at the Country Squire Manor Apartment complex, a sprawling series of
cheaply constructed apartments offering three floor plans.
 
Eddie took apartment number nine, the
smallest available.
 
He signed the
documents and put down his deposit.
 
He
moved his stuff in and drew the curtains.
 
Five days later, Eddie was still inside with the curtains drawn.
 
He hadn’t arranged for phone service or
cable.
 
He had a pizza or two delivered,
but otherwise he was a complete recluse.
 
The only way his neighbors could tell he was there was the sound of his
guitar.

Eddie was troubled.
 
In his mind everything had gone to pieces.
 
Nothing made sense.
 
His emotions were all over the road, like
George Jones behind the wheel of a lawn mower on his way back from the liquor
store.
 
He felt abandoned, cheated,
guilty, violated, confused, remorseful, anxious, and saved, all at once.
 
Eddie didn’t know how to deal with the
emotional chaos, except with his guitar.
 
He was scared half to death and he knew he had to find words for his
confusion or it would consume him.
 
But
words wouldn’t be
enough,
the emotional turbulence had
to be set to music.
 
The dissonance in
his mind had to be translated into melody. Minor chords seemed inevitable.

Eddie couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time.
 
When he did, he dreamed of Tammy, twisted and
choked by the poison.
 
The shot to the
head would jar him awake and he’d pick up the guitar and try to pry the thing
out from inside him.

By day five, Eddie was in the grip of a powerful force and
he knew what it was.
 
He just hoped he
could survive it.
 
He wondered if this
was what great songwriters suffered every time they wrote a great song.
 
Eddie remembered an interview of a writer
whose work he admired.
 
She said, “
a
lot of us have good songs inside, the trick lies in
getting one to come out.
 
Every time I
manage to get one out, I’m immediately struck by the terror that I’ll never be
able to do it again.
 
Or
worse, that I will.”

Late on the fifth night, the song poured out of Eddie like
hot oil.
 
The words,
the melody, the lonesome harmonies.
 
It was sorrow set to music.
 
It
wasn’t a blues, but it was in the neighborhood.
 
It was a requiem, a confession, and a guilty celebration.
 
And it had a great hook.

It was over in an hour.
 
Eddie seemed to wake from a fugue state.
 
He looked around, unsure of where he was.
 
He set his guitar down and wiped his sweaty
hands.
 
There was a pad of paper in front
of him.
 
There was a song, written in
Eddie’s hand, though he only vaguely remembered writing it.
 
He stood and stretched his muscles.
 
Eddie felt a relief he couldn’t
describe.
 
He felt cleansed and purified,
but it was more than that.
 
It was a
purge.
 
It had to be what women felt upon
giving birth.
 
Or maybe it was what Tammy
felt when she finally died after suffering through the poison and arriving at
relief.

Eddie knew he’d just forged a great song out of emotional
turbulence and suddenly the pall lifted, whatever had happened was over, and
the air was calm and clean.
 
It was just
past dawn.
 
Eddie went to the curtain and
pulled it back.
 
He saw trees and
sunshine and he knew he had a song that could launch a career.
 
Now he just had to take it out for a test
ride.

19.

Buddy Glenn wrote a beauty back in 1974.
 
He called it “Good Old Daze.”
 
Carson Fletcher recorded it on his debut
album with Big Bill Herron producing.
 
It
went to number one on the country charts and crossed over to become a number
one pop hit as well.
 
Carson Fletcher’s
career took off and soared for six good years until he had a heart attack in
1980 and retired.

After “Good Old Daze” Buddy Glenn spent
the next twenty-seven years trying to write another hit.
 
Yet despite his prolific output Buddy never
wrote another song that earned him more than a few thousand dollars.
 
He wrote a lot of good songs during that
period but, as sometimes happens, nobody recognized them.
 
Fortunately Buddy had retained his half of
the publishing rights and “Good Old Daze” still brought him about $15,000 a
year from radio play and record sales.
 
But that was about all
Buddy
had coming in and
lately nobody was particularly interested when he had a new batch of songs to
plug.
 
“Too old school,” they said.

All of this chipped away at Buddy’s spirit, eventually
crushing his confidence and stealing his gift.
 
But things really fell apart a year ago when Buddy’s wife, Lynn, was
diagnosed with cancer.
 
They didn’t have
any insurance and they ate through their meager savings in short order.
 
Buddy took a second on the house to cover
medical expenses.
 
He started giving
guitar lessons and working as the night manager at Shoney’s but it wasn’t
enough.
 
When the money ran out he turned
to his publisher for a loan.
 
The terms
were simple.
 
Big Bill loaned Buddy ten
thousand dollars.
 
Buddy agreed to pay it
back in a year with five thousand in interest.
 
If he was unable to repay the loan with the interest, Big Bill would
take ownership of Buddy’s half of the publishing on “Good Old Daze.”
 
Now the loan was due.

Buddy walked into Big Bill’s office that afternoon drawn and
tired.
 
He’d aged badly in the past few
years.
 
Lynn
was at home dying and just about everybody had stopped returning his
calls.
 
He recently sold his last two
guitars.

“Hey now!”
Big Bill said, gesturing
at a chair.
 
“Come on in, take a load
off.”
 
Big Bill sat down behind his
desk.
 
“How’s Lynn
doing?”

Buddy sat down and took off his hat.
 
He couldn’t look Big Bill in the eyes.
 
He just worried the rim of his hat as he
spoke.
 
“Not real good,” Buddy said.
 
“The tumors didn’t respond to the last round
of chemo.”

Big Bill frowned slightly.
 
“Mmmm.”
 
There was an envelope in front of Big Bill.
 
He picked it up and began tapping it on the
top of the desk.

Buddy tried to sound optimistic.
 
“But we just heard about a new, experimental
treatment that might help.”

“Well all right,” Big Bill said, pointing with the
envelope.
 
“Sounds like things are
startin’ to turn around for ya.”

Buddy shook his head.
 
“Problem is they can’t do the treatment here ‘
cause
the FDA hadn’t approved it yet.
 
We gotta
go down see this doctor in Mexico.
 
He does the treatment at this special
clinic.
 
It’s real expensive.”

Big Bill nodded.
 
“Boy, I tell you, they get you comin’ and goin’, don’t they?”
 
Bill casually opened the envelope and removed
the document inside.
 
“Look,” he said, “I
know you wanna get back so you can take care of Lynn, so let’s just go ahead
and do this and then you can head for the border.”
 
He gestured toward the south.

“Bill, I ain’t got the money.”
 
Buddy just blurted it out.

Big Bill sat there, expressionless.
 
“You ain’t?”
 
He said it real flat, almost like he knew already.
 
“Well.
 
Hmmm.”
 
He unfolded the piece of paper and glanced at it.

“The bank won’t do a third on the house,” Buddy said.
 
“Fact, I’m a couple months behind and they’re
gonna take it if I don’t catch up by the end of next week.”
 
Buddy’s voice was wavering, like he might
crack if he had to talk about it any more.
 
“Lynn’s real sick,
Bill.
 
I gotta keep that publishing.
 
I need that money real bad.”

“That’s a shame,” Big Bill said flatly.
 
“I’m real sorry, that’s the truth.”

Buddy finally looked Bill in the eyes.
 
“I’m begging you.
 
I need your help.
 
Lynn’s
gotta get that treatment or I’m gonna lose her.”
 
He looked back at the floor.
 
“Ask yourself what Jesus would do and I know
you’ll do the right thing.
 
That
publishing money’s the only thing I got left.”

“That’s tough all right,” Big Bill said, “but listen, this
ain’t Bible School
and I really don’t appreciate you dragging all the personal stuff into
this.
 
It’s unprofessional.
 
I mean, you don’t hear me pissin’ and moanin’
about all the bills I gotta pay, do you?
 
All my personal problems?
 
And believe
me,
I
got more’n I can say grace over.”

Buddy put a hand to his face to hide his tears.
 
“I’m sorry, but I don’t wanna lose her.”

Bill held up their agreement.
 
“Buddy, we’re just gonna do what we agreed
on,” he said.
 
“That’s all.
 
Only thing left to do here is figure out the
multiple.”
 
The multiple was a factor
used when determining the value of the publishing rights on a catalogue of
music, though in this case it was just for the one song.
 
Depending on the marketplace, the multiple
typically ranged anywhere from three to fifteen times the current annual revenues
the publishing generated.
 
The agreement
stated they would negotiate the multiple according to the market as of the due
date of the loan.

Buddy hated to do it, but he didn’t have much choice.
 
He just hoped Big Bill would consider his
situation and help him out.
 
He took a
moment to compose himself, setting his jaw, steeling himself for the
business.
 
“Well now, I’ve been asking
around,” Buddy said, “and just about everybody I talk to agrees ‘Good Old Daze’
has got some legs on it and, well, I think we oughta be talking about a
multiple of at least ten.”

Big Bill shook his head like a disappointed teacher.
 
“Ten, huh?
 
He scratched the back of his neck.
 
“I guess me and you must talk to different
folks ‘
cause
my survey says it’s more like a one.
 
It’s not getting the radio play it used to,
nobody else is recordin’ it, and Lord knows Carson Fletcher’s records ain’t
selling much any more.
 
Things is
just flat out there, Buddy.
 
You ask around town, nobody’s making money on
anything.”

Buddy looked up, startled.
 
“One?
 
One’s not a multiple!
 
Stop
horsin’ around with me, Bill.
 
You know
that song’s worth a lot more’n that.”

“I sure wish the market was in better shape,” Big Bill
said.
 
“Just bad timing, I guess, but I
don’t think I can go any higher.
 
I’ll
give you fifteen grand for it right now.”

“I can’t take that, Bill.
 
That don’t
get me outta my hole much less get
me down to Mexico
to get Lynn her treatment.
 
I can come down to nine, but that’s it.
 
I just can’t do it for less than that.”

“Well, damn, that leaves us about a hundred’n twenty
thousand dollars apart.”