Country Music Broke My Brain (17 page)

Don Williams could be lapped by a Galápagos tortoise. You could tell Don, “Hey, Don, your pants are on fire!” and he'd get to that eventually sometime the next day. Whenever Don was on my show, I always felt like he was on a delay system. Sometimes when you watch the news, the anchor is talking to a reporter who's someplace like Tanzania, with his hand to his ear. The anchor asks a question and about ten seconds go by before the reporter answers. That's a satellite delay. Don Williams is always talking to you from Tanzania.

The easiest job in the music business is working the “follow” spotlight at a Don Williams concert. Stars have people who man the spot as the star moves around the stage, following them. At a Don Williams concert, you turn it on. Make sure Don's in the light. Two hours later, you turn it off.

When Don talks, he's hilarious. Unfortunately, by the time his answer oozes out, everybody is home asleep.

I know Don has had back trouble, and I don't make fun of that, but I know he didn't throw his back out making any sudden moves. Don is also a huge star in Europe. They don't like sudden moves in Europe, either, so I guess it helps him.

If Don reads this, I'm certain I'll get a warm response eleven years from now.

“Hey, Don, you're about to be attacked by a rabid sloth! LOOK OUT!”

I never knew what the dealio was with Randy and his wife/manager Lib Hatcher. Lib was considerably older (sorry, Lib) than Randy. It always seemed like a mom/wife/handler/manager/custodial relationship. Hey, whatever works for somebody is good enough for me. Sadly, I know they've broken up, and I hear it's not one of those “friendly breakups.” Don't you love it when people announce they are separating and say they will remain the “very best of friends.” I always think,
Yeah, they're good friends, but omebody wants to use rat poison if they get the chance.

Randy Travis made some of the most wonderful records ever. He was authentic-sounding because he
is
authentic-sounding. Nothing more, nothing less. What you hear is pure Randy. “Forever and Ever Amen” was so simple and yet so endearing, heartfelt, and such a great song and record that people were drawn to Randy. As you know, I have a lot of theories. I've got my Randy theory, but I'm gonna let you make up your own theory. You hear things, you sense things, and you let it go because RT is so lovable.

Randy and Lib had a place in Hawaii for awhile. They raised macadamia nuts. Yes, Randy lived on a nut farm. I'm just sayin' that's reason right there to have a theory. (Roseanne Barr was required by law to live on a nut farm.) There is nothing in the world like that Randy Travis voice saying to you on the phone, “Gerry, now don't go makin' fun of my nuts. I heard you were doing that, and I'm proud of my nuts.” Lib would be screeching in the background in that unmistakable “Lib” voice of hers. He'd hold the phone away and say, “Lib, he's laughing at my nuts.” And, of course, I was.

I always thought I saw somebody else behind Randy's eyes. Almost like someone else who wanted out, to say something or do something else. Just my theory.

I really like him a lot and I think we might see that Randy one of these days. He recorded a song called “It's Just a Matter of Time,” and I believe it is.

THIS JUST IN: Randy Travis wins “Worst Police Mug Shot in History” contest, displacing previous winners Glen Campbell and Nick Nolte. As I write about Randy, he goes and gets arrested for being naked in the road and resisting arrest. I hope our guy finds his way. I think there is a decent human in there.

THIS JUST IN: Randy has had a serious physical setback. I truly hope he recovers and can sing for us again. Most of all, I want to hear that baritone laugh. A glorious chuckle that tells you he's truly finding something hilarious. The world needs that voice and that laugh.

As we go to press, “It's Just a Matter of Time” now has a whole different meaning.

Who actually gave me the definition of torque?

A)
  
Gene Watson

B)
  
The Band Perry

C)
  
Dario Franchitti

It Won't Be Long

GENE
WATSON IS ONE of the “old school” country singers. For the first fifteen years of my radio career, most of the country singers I talked to were nice but rarely very educated. They were blue-collar guys who broke out of the factory line by singing. They were the real honky-tonkers.

You may not even know who Gene Watson is, but he had several great records. His distinctive tenor voice gave us “Fourteen Carat Mind,” and, earlier, one of the most suggestive songs I ever heard get past the country audience, “Love in the Hot Afternoon.” But his signature song was “Farewell Party.” It's one of those songs that ends on a powerful high note. We all waited for it. At concerts, you could see people hoping he'd make it one more time.

So, you get the picture. When you interview people over and over again, sometimes once or twice a year, it can get tiring. Boring for the artist to get asked the same questions and boring for the audience to hear the same answers. I usually tried to work the guest into the conversation we were already having before they arrived. Almost all of them seemed relieved to talk about anything other than “life on the road.”

It so happened we were talking auto repair when Gene arrived one day, and I knew he'd been a mechanic working in a Houston body shop. We jabbered away about auto work until he mentioned he still had his old torque wrench.

Torque for some reason is a funny word to me. I asked him what torque really was. He said he knew but couldn't tell me on the air. I had no idea what he was about to say and figured it couldn't be that bad. His eyes started darting around, and he was stammering a bit. I thought,
Uh-oh, let's take a break, and
off
the air you tell me what torque is. Then we'll come back and explain it to everyone.

It turns out it's an old joke, but I hadn't heard it at the time. So it's a new joke if you haven't heard it, right? Off the air, Gene said, “A guy gets up in the middle of the night with an erection and has to take a leak. If he's standing in front of the john and pushes it down, and his feet fly out from underneath him,
that's
torque.”

I laughed for the rest of the interview. And I spent the next hour and a half explaining to callers why I couldn't tell them
on
the air what torque was. I remember telling one kind little old lady
off
the air what Gene had explained, and she said, “Oh, that's a good one. Wait 'til I tell my bridge club.”

Religion and Country and TV Preachers

THE
BANKLICK CHRISTIAN CHURCH in Independence, Kentucky, was the social center of my universe for the first fifteen years of my life. It remained so for my parents. Dad was a deacon. Mom was in the Eastern Star. I know a deacon is a big deal in a small church. I'm still not sure what the Order of the Eastern Star does, but Mom did it for years. I remember it was mostly organizing suppers after church.

Everyone brought potluck, which meant you'd have thirty fried chicken legs, one small bowl of pork ‘n' beans, and a whole lot of that Jell-O with an orange floating in it. I hated potluck and often asked my mom why somebody couldn't organize it so there'd be steak and mashed potatoes or pork chops and mashed potatoes. My mom used to say steak was too expensive for most folks. She bought cube steaks for us for dinner a lot. She had a silver hammer with square edges and pounded the cube steaks into submission. I knew we were having cube steak hours before dinner because of the massive hammering I heard from the kitchen. I'm not sure what cube steak is. From square animals, I guess, but this stuff could easily have been worn as a bulletproof vest in emergencies.

The church was your movie-set little white church—a 100-year-old building where about a hundred or so souls sought salvation every week. These were all good, decent, blue-collar people who were put through the wringer by a fire-and-brimstone preacher every Sunday morning. My electrician pop installed fans in the church that he “borrowed” from an old Kroger store, and it was probably the only time anything cool ever happened in that building.

We had a succession of preachers, but the ones I remember most vividly were Brother Carver, Brother Lemon, and . . . get ready for it . . . Brother Love. Yes, the guy's name was Love, and he was a preacher, so he actually
was
Brother Love. Neil Diamond song or not, we had a regular salvation show every week with Da Bro of Love.

Brother Carver was a seminary professor in Cincinnati. He was a diminutive man who was perhaps the meekest person on Earth. If “the meek shall inherit the Earth,” Brother Carver will be first in line. He delivered a studious, detailed, and sleep-inducing sermon every week. This guy could give Xanax a run for its money. Heads were drooping moments after he hit the pulpit.

Snoring was a regular occurrence. The heat, the fans whirring, and that professorial explanation of what Deuteronomy meant to today's world knocked you out quicker than you can say Nebuchadnezzar.

When Brother Carver left (to become a motivational speaker, I imagine), we got Brother Love. He was a young guy, full of common sense and the spirit of the Lord. His wife was a babe, so I welcomed the Brother and Sister into our midst with open arms. I skipped the “lusting in your heart” part and, therefore, felt no guilt over wondering what Sister Love looked like in lingerie. They left when Brother Love got a gig in a church in Nevada. I know firsthand there's a lot of sinners in and around Las Vegas, so he had his work laid out for him.

Then we got Brother Lemon. Never a truer name in all of mankind. Brother Lemon was a gangly “street preacher” type. He could become possessed of the spirit like no one I'd seen before. Not even the guys who came back as missionaries from the Congo could match the Lemon Fervor. This guy could sweat and shout with the best of them.

Now, understand, this was the whitest church in America. Even a tiny bit of emotion got them riled up, but the Brother had the choir jiggling and people in the last pew listening. They were awake. No one could sleep, of course, through his shout-fest. This guy
wailed!
When he got to the end of his sermon, you just waited for somebody to come forward to the congregation singing “Softly and Tenderly.” It's a sweet moment.

Only one thing was wrong with our Lemon De Brother. He suffered from a speech problem. I believe it's called Substitution Syndrome. At the very peak of his sermon, when everyone was listening with rapt attention, he'd deliver one of these “And so, my brothers and sisters, remember it is as the Good Book
stainly plates
. . .” followed by a pause, and then he'd plow forward hoping nobody noticed. This was when it got good for me. A few seconds later, a sweaty Brother Lemon would then drop, “His word is a famp unto my leet.” If anybody knows me, I think I fostered my love of awkward situations in that little white church. The shaking shoulders, the squelched guffaws, and choked-back tears of laughter are still with me to this day.