Country Music Broke My Brain (38 page)

As long as we're talking about shades of white, two colors are “radio” acts and “seat-selling” acts. Often they are one and the same. I've been friends for years with two great singers—Richie McDonald of Lonestar and Marty Roe of Diamond Rio. Both of those bands had enormous hit records. Lonestar's “Amazed” was a smash all over the world. Diamond Rio knocked it out of the park with “One More Day.” Their bands are filled with good-looking, intelligent, funny guys. They had hit after hit on the radio, and yet they never got to the stratosphere. I loved to see these bands coming through the door. They do have people who will drive across the country to watch them in concert. But they never got close to the supernova that Alabama was. Four dudes from Ft. Payne—Randy Owen, his cousin Teddy Gentry, Jeff Cook, and hired drummer Mark Herndon—rocked Nashville like an earthquake. Randy was charismatic, but his voice wasn't America's greatest. Teddy was gentle and a good bass player. Jeff played guitar and sang harmonies OK. But, somehow, some way, those songs and those boys made musical history.

Brad Paisley even had a hit just referencing “Old Alabama.” Brad, whose career has been over for years, knew that perhaps he could hang on just a little longer if he sang about a group people liked. Brad is a good judge. Why? It always struck me as odd that Alabama's signature song, “Mountain Music,” wasn't mountain music at all. It had a rockin' track and searing guitars. They sang about that good, old-timey music that took you to the mountains. I never heard Bill Monroe or anybody from the mountains who sounded like that.

Earl Thomas Conley was a slightly blue shade of white. He had soul. ETC wrote smash songs and sang with such heart and conviction, it was painful. Earl even had four No. 1 songs from one album. He played the game, recording and writing and touring and singing until it just wore him out. The white-hot spotlight was just beyond his reach. It never quite shone on him. I haven't seen Earl Thomas Conley in years, but I hope he's relaxing on a porch somewhere with a cigar and a glass of red wine. All those hits, and yet not enough folks picked his shade as their favorite white. It sure was mine.

If you'll excuse me for a moment, I have to go downstairs and move a lamp.

Marriage

I
ALWAYS LIKE TO INTRODUCE Allyson as my first wife. She happens to also be the only wife I've ever had, but it keeps her on her toes. We recently celebrated our 127th wedding anniversary.

You know you've been married awhile when you both agree
not
to buy each other anything for that special day and instead spend the dough on new wallpaper for the guest bathroom—you know, the bathroom nobody ever uses. The one with the “good” towels with the gold embroidery that say, “Welcome.” I once wandered in there accidentally and got in trouble for ruining the area for visitors. I have thought many times about putting some yellow police tape across the door in case a nonvisitor should try to desecrate the sanctity of the holy lavatory.

The only reason I've stayed married for so long is my cheery and forgiving attitude. My gift is having such a sunny personality. I never get upset with a brooding, sullen, moody, tortured soul living in the same house with me. Somehow I've managed to never fret over wasted days and wasted nights, not to mention wasted cash chasing some cockamamie dream. My future sainthood is guaranteed because of my unerring belief in life's blessings and celebrating the moment . . . living in the now. Never criticizing or doubting my partner, but always uplifting and reaching out when things get rough. Every sunrise is a precious prize and should be celebrated.

What? Why are you reading this and acting like something doesn't sound right? I'm serious. The only way this marriage has lasted is because of what I've just told you. You can believe what you want. I'm sticking to my story that only one person has held this thing together for our 127 years of wedded bliss. Don't you start trying to pick things apart this late in the game!

When I look back at how innocent we were when we got hitched, I get almost scared. I got a job in Ithaca, New York. I was working at a tiny, tiny station in my college town and got offered a job in New York. We had been living in luxury—a trailer built on a gravel lot in Richmond, Kentucky, that actually got whacked by one of the semis that used our front gravel yard to turn around. We returned from a short trip to find the front of the trailer cracked open. You could look inside and see all our stuff. It's a bad sign when thieves can actually reach into your house and take whatever they want . . . but they don't. It still depresses me that our belongings were so awful they weren't worth stealing.

We packed all our worldly possessions in a 4 x 6 U-Haul trailer and took off with about $200 in cash for New York. Allyson was pregnant, and I didn't even have enough of a clue about the dangers out there to be concerned about moving so far from anyone we knew. I do remember my daughter being born a Yankee. It was the happiest day ever. I just stared at this little bundle for hours.

I also remember having to finance the hospital bill for her special delivery. During the paperwork, I asked the administrator, “If we miss a payment, do you come and repossess our kid?” The taskmaster took her work seriously, and I didn't get the response I wanted.

Some people are lucky and find a partner early in life. I think most love stories are luck and geography. Everybody has a match somewhere out there, but finding it is a matter of timing and location. I just happened to grow up three or four miles from my longtime female companion. From elementary school to middle school and then high school and even college, she's always been there. Allyson always remarks, “When you've been together all that time, it takes away the ability to lie about the past. How can you make good stuff up when the other person was there, too?”

John and Martina McBride have a great relationship—a sound engineer and a singer with a voice as big as the world. They got started early, just as we did. They are great friends to us, and we've spent a lot of time together. They move like fish together through the troubled waters of showbiz. You know the drill: finishing each other's sentences and laughing at each other's habits. Being married to your best friend is good. John always has her back. When Martina is onstage wailing her heart out, John is on the other end of the microphone making sure everybody can hear how great she is. A team.

Now, I don't want to start the “How Small Martina Is” jokes here. Yes, she's the last one to know it's raining. It's true, her picture on the cover of her CD is life-size. What other star shops for clothes at Gymboree? Who else calls Paul Williams “Stretch”? I'm not going to get into those jokes because I know she's sick to death of them. SICK TO DEATH, I said. But how on earth such a little person can have tequila and not get affected is beyond me. I always think it's a trick. Every rare occasion, we've had a tiny bit of Patrón. Not all the time, but every now and then, you have something to celebrate—like finding a new piece of Beatles memorabilia.

John McBride is the proud owner of the Beatle Bunker. He has more Beatles artifacts, albums, tapes, and pictures than Ringo. It's one of his passions. He has the original tape of the first Beatles recording with the original notes. He's that kind of Beatlemaniac. Because I'm one, too, I think it's amazing. When I wanted to give a friend a copy of the Beatles'
Butcher Cover
album as a gift, I called John. For a pittance, he offered to sell me a real copy of that rarified album with the Fab Four and meat and baby dolls on the front. What they were thinking when they did that picture is beyond me. It was snatched from public view pretty quickly and thus became a real collection piece. I told John I felt bad taking from his personal stash such a rare and precious item. He shot back, “Oh, don't worry about it. I've probably got a hundred of them.” You see what I mean about being The Collector.

I am almost certain the tequila thing is a trick. I slam one back. Martina pours hers in a potted plant when I'm not looking. I have two, and I get wobbly. Any more than that and I start seeing visions of José Cuervo or the Alamo. Martina doesn't change even a little bit.

Speaking of little bit, I'm not going to mention the fact that it's hard to drink someone under the table who's already at table height. She is SICK TO DEATH of any “little” humor. Martina is actually just two lungs and a larynx.

Look, all I want to say is how happy I am for my friends, who still hold hands and have three beautiful daughters. Some of my favorite moments ever have been sitting around Martina's kitchen as she flutters about in a little sundress, cooking for us. She loves it, and I'm always willing to accommodate. I'm just that kind of friend. She is a fabulous chef, which is no small thing.

I also remember the last time Martina and I had lunch. We went to Noshville, a Nashville deli. Martina was dressed all in black and wearing a shiny red leather beret. She was just standing there by the counter when a fat lady sat on her head.

Who had the most amazing baby ever?

A)
  
Chris Cagle

B)
  
Inez Godzilla

C)
  
Nicole Kidman

Here Comes the Sun

SOME
PEOPLE GET INTO the music business by sheer force of will. It's not as if they are incredibly beautiful or sing like an angel. They aren't the songwriter of the century, nor are they so clever they defy logic. These folks just
will
themselves into some form of stardom. It's really kind of admirable how drive, desire, and a driven need get them a record deal. They just won't go away. Chris Cagle is like that to me.

I first saw Chris Cagle perform at a New Faces Show at the Country Radio Seminar, an annual industry conference in Nashville. He had a sort of Tim McGraw–lite act and moved like he was the biggest star in the world. Sometimes it's fun to see a singer take the stage and perform as if he's opening the Olympics. Chris had all the confidence in the world.
Good for him,
I thought, as he blasted his way through “Play It Loud” and “I Breathe In, I Breathe Out.” I had seen hundreds of people stand on the tiny stage in front of radio program directors and DJs, and usually they soon dropped out of sight. Chris didn't do that. He kept on making records and forcing people to get in line. I watched with fascination how some pretty good songs—and Chris singing them—kept getting in front of the radio public.

I got a glimpse of what Chris thought of himself during a conversation early on in his career. He kept referring to these “Cagle Heads” out there who “keep demanding more of my music and me.” Now, Jimmy Buffet has “Parrot Heads” because he is a national treasure and has a forty-year history of hit making and worshipful concerts. I wasn't sure this early in the game there were that many “Cagle Heads” storming the gates.

My second indication that things were a little inflated was when I dashed into the men's room outside my studio. Radio people always make a dash for the john during a record. My club soda habit usually caught up with me about 8
A.M
. There, standing and taking care of business, was Chris Cagle. Then I noticed he was singing and singing a song I sort of knew. It was “What a Beautiful Day.” Cagle was by himself, taking a leak, and singing his own song at the top of his lungs. I guess we all hum our own song once in awhile, but that's in the shower or the car, maybe? I don't know of another person who takes a whiz and sings one of their hits at the same time, especially alone.