Hillbilly Heart (17 page)

I gave her a cassette of “All Night Love” and “Remember” and watched as she put it in the stereo system next to her desk and pressed
PLAY
. After listening to the songs, she asked if I would play another on my guitar. She watched me intently. Our eyes never moved from each other’s. Afterward, she smiled.

“I like you, Billy Ray Cyrus,” she said.

I just stared back at her.

For a little while, I wasn’t sure if she was talking about my music or something else, or both.

We talked about music that afternoon, that night, and for days afterward. We spoke on the phone frequently and at length. Always about music—my shows, my songs, other people’s songs, the business. My favorite thing about Kari was that she really loved music. She knew every Grand Ole Opry star; she knew Nashville. She knew the performers onstage and the power brokers behind the scenes. She knew bands and songwriters. She knew talent.

As the daughter of a certified country music legend, she was on the inside—or at least she had access to the inside—and that impressed me. I was both intrigued and intoxicated when Kari said she thought I had talent and charisma and said she wanted to help me become a star.

“You want to help?” I said.

“Yes,” she said, smiling.

“No one’s ever said that to me in this business,” I said. “Maybe not ever.”

“Then I’m glad we met,” she said.

Kari had a little cabin on her dad’s farm and also a funky old house on Belmont Boulevard, just off Music Row. One night she invited me to her house. Kari lit candles, opened a bottle of wine, and we played songs all night long. She told me how my songs made her feel. We bared our souls to each other, and then things started getting a little crazy.

CHAPTER 15

“Opening Doors”

I
NEVER CLAIMED TO
be perfect. I knew what happened with Kari was wrong in the context of my marriage, but the sanctity of those vows had been broken long ago and I couldn’t tear myself away from Kari. She wrote about me in a Nashville music magazine, arranged for me to record my songs “Baby Sitter” and “Whiskey, Wine, and Beer,” and before the year was over, she persuaded her father to see me at the Ragtime.

That was a big deal. By then, Terry Shelton and I had written and recorded the song “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.” (I gave Cindy writer’s credit on it, because why not? I gave her credit on a lot of songs in those days, figuring if I ever made it big and they earned some money, she would deserve it for putting up with me.) Two local radio stations—WTCR out of Catlettsburg and the WLGC out of Ashland—played that single (it was actually a demo) and announced that Del Reeves was going to check me out at the Ragtime.

Back then, the radio stations were part of the whole thing. They were plugged into whatever was happening. The people at the Ragtime were their fan base, and they were digging the songs. They played the hell out of “All Night Love,” “Remember,” and “It Ain’t Over,” which became a hit in Huntington, West Virginia.

That was the first time I started hearing one of my songs on the
radio, and it was cool, way cool. It made me feel like I was getting somewhere.

That night Del came to the Ragtime, the place was on fire. Packed to the walls. People waiting to get in. The dance floor overflowed when I segued into “Whiskey, Wine, and Beer” and “Snooze You Lose.” Then every BIC lighter in the room was lit when we played “It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.” My opening set was nearly all originals, with maybe a couple of cover tunes at most, like Restless Heart’s “Fast Movin’ Train.”

Del was unmistakable—a very tall man with a head of silver curls. He saw two sets and stayed until about midnight. Before leaving, he shook my hand and said, “You got something, kid.”

Then, with the pressure off, I let loose in the third and final set of the night. “Send me up one of those drinks on fire,” I said. “We are going to party down.” And we did. By then, that drink wasn’t the only thing burning.

Del wasted no time signing me to a standard production agreement. Under the terms of the contract, he provided interim management duties in exchange for a percentage of my earnings. Then he produced a more polished version of “It Ain’t Over” at his Allisongs Studio in Nashville.

For all the excitement, though, nothing happened for a few months. The holidays and New Year’s passed. In February 1989, drummer Steve French, an old classmate of mine in Flatwoods, and keyboardist Barton Stevens joined the band after David Baxley and Doug Fraley went their own way. I kept hammering away at the doors on Music Row with nothing to show but black-and-blue knuckles.

I was ready to bust down a few of Nashville’s locked doors when Del arranged for me to meet Buddy Killen. The head of Tree Publishing, at that time the largest in Nashville’s history, Buddy was a musician, songwriter, and executive. And most of all, he was a legendary song man.

Out of respect to Del, Buddy let me play a couple of songs and then gave me his feedback. Later on, I told Del and Kari that nothing
had happened. In retrospect, that wasn’t true. First, he allowed me into his office and listened to me play. What can you give someone that’s more valuable than your time?

He also gave me advice that I use to this day. After I finished playing, we talked about the songs and songwriting in general, and then he said, “When you’re writing a hit song, say as much as you can say in as few words as you can say it. If you don’t need a word, take it out.”

Brevity required the strength of a lumberjack, the detachment of a surgeon, and the gentle touch of a poet.

Del also connected me to heavyweight manager Jack McFadden, who was famous for guiding Del’s career as well as the careers of Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Lorrie Morgan, and Keith Whitley. Like Buddy, Jack met with me as a favor to Del. Afterward, he agreed to help. But to say he was my comanager would have been a stretch. He never came to see my show, didn’t listen to my music, and didn’t understand what I did. He hardly returned my phone calls. But his wife, Jo, kind of took me under her wing. “You just keep gettin’ in front of him,” she told me. “Sooner or later he’ll get it.”

I once stopped by Jack’s office, hoping to get a word with him. His office door was open a crack, and as I peeked through, I saw a couple standing in front of his desk, talking. The guy turned around. It was Keith Whitley. He was with his wife, Lorrie Morgan. Jack regarded Keith as his surrogate son. The brief look Keith gave me seemed to say, “Sorry, brother, I have a feeling I’m blowing your moment, your chance to meet Jack.”

I turned around and began to walk out, disappointed. Jo caught me before I reached the door and promised to speak with Jack. She listened to my songs, liked ’em a whole lot, and told her husband that he needed to meet with me.

And he did. Jack called me in and agreed to help me navigate Nashville’s tricky waters. He even arranged to take me to a meeting at CBS Records. I circled the date on my calendar: May 9, 1989. It was the biggest day of my life.

I woke up early that morning with Kari in the cabin on her father’s farm. I left the house eager and hopeful. I wanted to get to the parking lot about thirty minutes before Jack. Unfortunately, as I drove to our meeting spot, I turned on the radio and heard that Keith Whitley had died.

“Oh my God! This can’t be!”

As I recall, the DJ was careful to say the report was not yet confirmed but it appeared to be accurate. I drove to Jack’s office, where I found Jo, in tears. Stan Barnett, another agent there, was also crying over the tragedy. A moment later, Kari arrived. She’d tried to catch me on the road.

All of Nashville and country music fans around the world cried a river of tears that day. A great talent had left the world, and needless to say, the meeting never happened.

I was due onstage at the Ragtime at 8 p.m., and I had a six-hour drive ahead of me.

By noon, I was in my car, heading north. I drove in a trance. When I got to Morehead, Kentucky, close to Keith Whitley’s hometown of Sandy Hook, I tuned the radio to WCTR, and through the static of the signal coming in, I heard their tribute to Keith. When they played “I’m No Stranger to the Rain,” I shed a tear. How could I not?

As I went along, I gave myself a talking-to. Though, to be honest, what I was hearing was that voice within. But since I had just passed the Sandy Hook exit, I imagined Keith was talking to me: “Hope I didn’t mess you up, hillbilly. I just want to tell you that you’re out of control. You don’t need that whiskey tonight. Don’t be like me. Pull yourself together.” I wish I could tell you that I’d imagined that voice. But I knew it was for real when I heard one more thing: “You got to be there for Jack. Jack’s going to need you.”

Holy shit, I thought I was done hearing voices. I guess not.

I didn’t stop drinking or partying that night or anytime soon, but at the Ragtime, where the smell of beer and whiskey greeted me like a somber handshake, I opened my set with “I’m No Stranger to the Rain”—and boy, those words never rang more true.

CHAPTER 16

“Some Gave All”

T
ALK ABOUT A HELL
of a week. It was early summer, and after my fourth set on Wednesday night I lingered at the club and partied all night. It was still early when I got to
my
house; the sun was just starting to crack the morning sky.

As I pulled into the driveway, I saw a bunch of stuff piled up in the front. It looked like Cindy was preparing for a garage sale, until I looked closer and saw that all my worldly possessions were on the grass. I guessed Cindy was pissed. OK, more than pissed. As I stared at the pile, I saw my neighbor leave his house and walk to his car, heading for work. He was wearing a suit, and I was in the clothes I’d worn onstage the night before, reeking of alcohol and whatever else.

Our cat, Mr. Sly, was also watching me from the front window. He seemed to be saying, “Man, you really blew it this time.”

This wasn’t my first time rolling in late. Cindy and I had different schedules. I’d sleep in the morning and get up around three or four in the afternoon. Then I’d hit the gym and wait for Cindy, who got home around 5:30. She’d make dinner, we’d eat, then she got in bed, and I’d go to the Ragtime.

It was complicated, and now, with my belongings on the front lawn, my life was even more complicated.

I sat in my car wondering where I was going to live. Two seconds later, I grabbed my microcassette recorder and began to sing:

Wher’m I gonna live when I get home?

My old lady’s thrown out everything I own.

She meant what she said

When she wished I was dead

So wher’m I gonna live when I get home?

I continued to sing and went into a verse.

I knew our road was gettin’ kind of rocky

She said I was gettin’ way too cocky

She waited till I was gone

She packed from dusk till dawn