Kentucky Traveler (32 page)

I told him how friendly and down-home Merle was to talk with, how he knew I was from the coal-mining area of eastern Kentucky, and how he'd thanked me for recording his songs “Sweet Temptation” and “So Round, So Firm, So Fully Packed.” That thrilled Dad to pieces, 'cause he idolized Merle and had such respect for his singing, songwriting, and musicianship. Having a hit single was nice and all, but meeting Merle Travis, well, that was about as good as it got in Dad's book.

When Mom got on the phone, she started crying and praising the Lord. “Son, you know who got you here, don't you?” “Yes, Mama. Jesus did.”

“Don't you ever forget Him. Always put Him first in your life. He'll always bless you and take care of you.”

I knew she was right. And I knew I wanted to honor God in everything I did. My mother was such a powerful prayer warrior. She knew how to pray, and she knew how to believe in what she prayed for. That's as important as praying: If you don't believe, you won't receive. She'd prayed for me all my life. She prayed that God would make my gift of music a blessing to others and that Jesus would get the Glory for it, not me. I don't think the rest of us could hardly believe the boy from Brushy Creek had finally started to make it in Music City, but Mama sure did!

What a long strange trip it had been from the top of a soda-pop cooler in Butler's Grocery store, and the journey was just getting started.

Dread not the things that are ahead
,

the burdens great, the sinking sands
,

The thorns that over the path are spread
,

God holds the future in His hands
.

—“God Holds the Future in His Hands,” by the Monroe Brothers, 1936

T
hings got crazy pretty dang quick, and it happened on a large scale. I was getting a crash course in the music business, and I made sure to pay attention. We'd come to a city somewhere that I'd never been before, and we'd have a sell-out show. It was hard to believe all those people in the seats were there to see me. I'd look out from the stage at all those faces and think,
How'd y'all even know I was coming?

This experience opened my eyes to the incredible reach of radio and to what a powerful medium it was, at least at the time. With radio and promotion, the market was primed and ready for us ahead of every gig. People knew the songs and sang along with me. It was like you were friends with thousands of strangers, all because of the music. You never forget that sense of community. They all wanted to help this ol' country boy.

Waitin' for the Sun to Shine
cost fifty thousand dollars to make, a piddly sum compared to standard production budgets in Nashville. All I'd wanted to do was make a record with good songs that I wanted to sing and, hopefully, people would want to hear. Boy, did they ever. Rick Blackburn guessed it'd sell maybe fifty thousand copies at the most, but it sold more than five hundred thousand. And the music critics came to my side and cheered me on, too, 'cause I was sort of a young renegade waging battle to bring back the hard-core, traditional country sound.

The success of the record was a nice surprise for the executives at Epic, and it was a shock to the industry. It was new territory for me, and I felt like a pioneer. I got pitchforked to the top of the heap, and I came out of the pile fighting for my music and my beliefs both. It's been a whirlwind ever since. Success is a tricky business, and it can fool you at every turn. I was lucky I had Sharon to keep me grounded while my career took off. Honestly, I don't know if I'd have survived without her. See, it wasn't till after we married that I started
really
trying to live my Christian faith every day—the best I could, anyhow—and it couldn't have come at a better time. When the Lord opened those doors for me in Nashville, I needed to be focused on Jesus, not myself, and to walk as best I could through the miry clay of Music Row.

I'd been attending services with the Whites at Holiday Heights Baptist Church, their little church in Hendersonville, Tennessee. One night the preacher was talking about this one simple truth: Christ alive in us is the hope of Glory. His words hit like a ray of heavenly light in a Bible picture card, breaking through the confusion I had about my faith. Imagine, Christ living His life in me and through me!? The preacher made me think about my situation, and the spiritual journey I'd been on since I was a boy.

I'd grown up in the old Free Will Baptist faith, where they believed that you could lose your salvation if you didn't live right, and that you could keep it if you did all the right things. I thought, “Where is the free will in that?” I didn't like the way that tasted. It felt like it wasn't the whole Gospel, 'cause it didn't square up with all the Scripture, in which Jesus said He'd never leave us or forsake us.

I had long doubted the salvation I experienced at the revival when I was thirteen. For years, I thought God was mad at me. I didn't talk to God for a long time.

The preaching I heard at Holiday Heights helped me finally understand. My salvation was a done deal. I'd made my commitment to Christ and He had not forgotten it. I realized He wasn't mad at me. I had to understand that salvation is not about what we do or don't do. It's about His grace and sacrifice on the Cross, and about the fact that no matter what, Jesus loves me and lives in me. I rededicated my life to the Lord at Holiday Heights. I was baptized and, along with Sharon, finally started my walk of faith. It's easier for two to walk together than one alone. One can help the other. And we did.

Part of that walk of faith meant taking stands on morality and worldly things. I was a public figure, and I knew that kind of publicity and media exposure made you into a role model whether you were ready or not, especially when it came to younger people. I didn't want to be a hypocrite.

I remember the first time
Country Music
magazine ran a cover story on me. It had a huge national readership—it's like
Rolling Stone
for country music fans. I was leafing through the pages when I got to the classifieds in the back. I couldn't believe how crude some of the ads were! There were people you could call on phone-sex hotlines, lewd photos you could order, and all kind of filth for sale. It bothered me.

I phoned the head editor of the magazine in New York and asked him what all this stuff had to do with country music, family values, and the Grand Ole Opry. He was nice and polite and said I had a good point. I think for a while he made a concerted effort to cut back on some of the more suggestive ads.

Maybe I was a little starchy or square, but I didn't care. Nowadays, of course, kids see much worse things on TV and the Internet.

I knew that if I felt that way, others did, too—only they didn't have a say in it. I decided I was gonna speak up for those folks and myself. I felt the same way about the music I was making. I tried to find songs that could reflect my beliefs about what was proper and morally right. Otherwise, I'd be selling a lie. I believe traditional music and traditional values go hand in hand. To me, traditional country music has a wholesomeness and decency that's part of our common heritage and represents everything we're about as a people.

In the tradition I came out of, there were cheating and drinking songs, but there was a price to pay for sinning. When Kitty Wells sang about those things, she sang about it in a way that let you know she thought it was wrong. Kitty always had strong morals in her material. So did so many of the greats, from Roy Acuff right down the line. I wasn't trying to be self-righteous, but I just felt like there was an audience for clean country music, and a place on the radio for good songs if they were done right. I figured I could sing about some other things that would interest people, things like faith and love and honor and a relationship with God.

T
aking a stand made me a target once in a while, but I didn't mind the scrutiny. That comes with the territory. Add to this the fact that I was suddenly in the public eye for the first time. I had a strong tailwind behind me, not just the chart singles, but an Academy of Country Music award for Best New Male Vocalist. Things were heating up for me in Nashville, in more ways than one.

There was some strong opposition from some groups to tobacco products, with bans against smoking in public and what not. Marlboro wanted to get in the good graces of country music. They launched a package tour with Hank Williams Jr., Ronnie Milsap, Barbara Mandrell, and other country stars, and I joined up. There was a public outcry against a bunch of singers on a big-money, barnstorming national tour that was sponsored by a cigarette company. People wanted to know what I, a nonsmoker, was doing out there promoting unhealthy habits that could hurt people, especially young people.

Well, it wasn't easy defending myself. I tried to explain that I wasn't encouraging anybody to light up or take a chew or dip snuff. Marlboro never told me or even asked me to promote their products from the stage or anywhere else. To my mind, the company was giving me an opportunity to take my music and a positive message to the mainstream.

Maybe I was naïve, but I didn't know any better. Promoters were booking us into arenas and stadiums with twenty thousand people, a huge crowd for a new artist. These weren't the crowds of bikers, bluegrassers, hippies, and outlaw types I'd seen at shows with Emmylou. They were Middle Americans with families: older people from my parent's generation, young couples my age, and those couples' kids, who were just discovering country music for the first time. Being on this tour allowed me to play my kind of music for far bigger crowds than I would have otherwise.

You see, I was young, too. I was fresh-faced and long-haired, full of the joy of my faith and wanting to share it with everybody. Yeah, I was probably a little full of it, too. I thought I could use the stage as a soapbox to speak my mind and heart. Not that I tried to make speeches or sermons. I just had things I wanted to say, especially with my songs. I was following my heart and my Christian conscience.

There were a lot of venues where I wasn't inspired to talk about the Gospel. But whenever I felt moved, I did. If a little story came to mind, I told it. Looking back, I'm sure I said things from the stage I shouldn't have said. Learning to speak out in public is a hard thing. It takes lots of tries and lots of mistakes.

But sometimes it felt like I was forcing it on people—I thought it'd please God if I did—and for that I'm sorry. The spirit of God is nowhere close when you have to force Him on someone. I was young and immature, and I realize that now.

There was every sort of response, from people thanking me to drunks yelling for me to shut up. I even had finger-wagging church ladies tell me I needed to offer a plan of salvation if I was going to save people at my shows. These well-meaning Christians thought I oughta be singing at churches instead of on stage. So I had to contend with both sides: believers with good intentions, and nonbelievers who didn't want to hear a gospel message at a show they'd paid to see.

When I look back on this period, I feel like I did my best to follow my conscience. Tell you what, though, it could be a lonely place sometimes. Back then, there wasn't anybody in country music, or even in bluegrass, willing to talk about Christ from the stage. Except for the Whites. When they sang “Help Me” and “Follow the Leader,” they told the audience what these gospel songs meant to them, and how they believed in what the songs said. They had the courage of their convictions, and they still do.

You have to remember the way things were in the old days. Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers and every bluegrass band worth its salt, they all sang gospel music. But they didn't talk about the faith—most of 'em weren't living it, and they didn't pretend to. For them, “Hymn Time” was great music but just part of the show.

When I started evangelizing at my country shows, I knew it wasn't a cool thing to do. I could see I was losing some of the audience. I might talk about Jesus, or sing a gospel song without saying a word, and it was offensive to some people. They were drinking and partying and here I was bringing the church, the name of Jesus, into their party. It went against their notion of a good time.

Most of 'em were good loyal fans. They appreciated the kind of old-school music I was trying to bring back, but they weren't too pleased with the old-fashioned values I was trying to promote along with it. Anyhow, I had my stadium-sized soapbox, and I had my say—and there was a price to pay. Back in the '80s, it was scandalous to some audiences for an entertainer to be a Christian and to be vocal about it. Speaking about your faith, especially in the record business at that time, was an invitation for people to mock your beliefs. There's nothing new about this. You know, the apostles Peter and John, they were rejoicing in prison, happy for the chance to suffer for the sake of Christ. Believe me, I don't try to pick a fight with the Devil every day, or try to pick a fight with the world. I just have the desire to live my faith as Peter and John did. Now, you won't win a popularity contest by doing that. But God called us to be faithful, not famous.

These days, I'm glad to say, you have proud, strong Christians in public life—whether in entertainment, sports, or politics—who are encouraged to be up front about their faith.

I've learned to go on faith, not feelings, and I'm still learning. Trying to put the Gospel salt into a show or a stage presentation is no easy thing. There's an artful way to get your message across. For example, I'd never tell an audience they need to go to church. What I might say is, “We're gonna do one more song for you tonight, 'cause we need to get out of here so we can get back home and get to church in the morning. Haven't been to church in a month!” I am just dropping that subtle hint that I think there's value in going to church. My hope is that maybe this is enough to reach someone in the audience who has strayed from the fold.