Kentucky Traveler (35 page)

Funny thing was, the label had wanted me to edit “Highway 40”—not the line that I tweaked, but 'cause of the fact that it had four instrumental solos in a row. They didn't think the public could handle all that hot picking on a country record, especially on a single targeted for heavy radio airplay. I said sure they could, if the solos were exciting enough, and sure enough, people loved it.

In that sense, “Highway 40 Blues” was a real breakthrough for '80s country radio, 'cause it brought the banjo and mandolin right up there with electric and pedal steel guitars. I know that Larry was fine with how it all turned out. He kidded me about how I'd fooled the public into digging bluegrass by adding the piano and drums and steel guitar.

After
Highways & Heartaches
did so well, with four number-one singles, Epic wanted to release another album as soon as possible to keep the momentum going. That meant it was finally time for those rough demos I'd made for Sugar Hill to get finished as masters for my third major-label release. Epic worked out a deal with Sugar Hill to purchase the tracks, and Barry Poss had been wise to wait, because Epic paid dearly.

There was one glitch. RCA, who had Dolly Parton under contract, found out that she'd sung on two songs, and there was no paperwork granting permission or approval or anything. RCA was a rival label, and Dolly was by then a huge crossover success on the pop charts. Rick told me I'd have to take off Dolly's vocals. I was so naïve about the record business, I couldn't believe it. I thought he was kidding.

“No, I'm not,” he said. “RCA's throwing a fit, and they're not playing around.”

So I went back in the studio and overdubbed Dolly's vocal parts, which is like trying to repaint the
Mona Lisa
. It about killed me to sing tenor that high. Pee Wee could have done it with no problem. The overdub sounded all right, it was just bittersweet that no one was gonna get to hear Dolly's angelic singing on these songs. So we were ready to go ahead and include the Dolly-less songs for release on the album.

Around that time, I saw Dolly and told her what had happened. She went through the roof, she was so upset. She said, “Let me take care of this!” Somehow she stood up to RCA and got it all worked out where in exchange for her singing on my record, I'd sing on one of her pop records later on, which I did.

This all happened just in the nick of time. We were able to restore Dolly's vocals to the master just before it went to the pressing plant. Thanks, Dolly—I still owe you one. Even before this situation finally got cleared up, though, there still wasn't enough material for a full album. We had to get in the studio and knock out a few more songs.

We'd been featuring a few bluegrass tunes on the road, “Uncle Pen” and “Keep a Memory,” and I knew we could cut those without much fuss. We got in the studio and soon we had our third album,
Don't Cheat in Our Hometown
.

The title track was the Stanley Brothers song that Keith and I sang together on our first album. This time, I sang solo and overdubbed my own harmonies, and it went to number one. Sharon and Cheryl sang harmony on my next single, “Honey (Open That Door),” a cover of the Webb Pierce record that Hank DeVito had put on a mix tape for me years ago when we were in the Hot Band together. It also went to number one! One of my heroes, Albert Lee, played the guitar solo for me, and Buck White laid down a red-hot piano solo, too. I couldn't believe my good fortune.

There was some discussion at Epic as to what to release as the third single. I remember one day I was listening to Bob Kingsley's
American Country Countdown
show on the radio. He was talking about the hits from the album that had already been released. He said, “I think there's another hit on this record. It's Ricky's version of the old Bill Monroe classic ‘Uncle Pen.'” Then he played it on his show! It gave me chill bumps. I thought,
Could it really be? Could this be a number-one country hit? Bob Kingsley thinks so!

That gave me the courage to go talk to Joe Casey, the head of radio for Epic. He was the guy you wanted in your corner fighting for your singles. Joe was skeptical. “I don't think so. It's way too bluegrass.” I knew he was right to a certain extent, but what was different now was my track record: eight number-one singles, some champions at radio stations, and a great listener fan base out there. “Let's try it,” I said. I knew it'd be risky having a bluegrass-sounding release that was different from my other singles. I told him I'd take full responsibility if it tanked. Joe said he'd hold me to that. Lucky for me, it went to the top of the charts. “Uncle Pen” was my third number-one single from my third Epic album. It was also my fourth number one that had originally been recorded as a bluegrass song.

In those days, I'd see Mr. Monroe around, either at the Opry or at some event somewhere, and he was always supportive and complimentary. He'd encourage me and say in his customary few words, “You're doing a fine job. You're keeping bluegrass in your music.” It thrilled me to hear him say that. He was appreciative, and he recognized what I'd preserved, not what I'd thrown out. I'd be thinking,
Mr. Monroe's happy with what I'm doing! I'm still in the bluegrass family!

When “Uncle Pen” came out as a single, I didn't see Mr. Monroe for a while, and I wondered how he'd react to drums and piano and a steel guitar solo on one of his signature tunes. Well, one night at the Opry, I got my answer. He walked over and said, “Ricky, you can record all my songs if you want to. I got a powerful check on that ‘Uncle Pen' you did.” It was sort of tongue-in-cheek, you know, his way of saying he was fine with it. I knew he didn't care for drums and electric instruments in his band, but I don't think he minded 'em in my band, and he sure didn't mind getting the royalties!

'Course, there was a big difference between my countrified cover versions and the real thing. There were bluegrass overtones in my music, especially the singing, but it wasn't bluegrass. It was an homage. People would say, “I love your bluegrass,” and I'd tell 'em, “Thank you, but if you really want to hear some real bluegrass, you should listen to Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers.”

During shows, I tried to build up bluegrass and educate the audience as much as I could. I'd ask, “How many folks out there ever heard of the Stanley Brothers? How 'bout Bill Monroe, the Father of Bluegrass?” I'd talk about the history of the high, lonesome sound and play a song to help illustrate. Whenever we were on the same show, I'd invite Mr. Monroe to sit in on our set for a few songs. I wanted my audience to know who he was, and I wanted to share the spotlight with my hero. He was a hoot, and he loved the attention. I got to see what a consummate showman he was, and how funny he could be. He was past seventy and slowing down, but we'd gotten close enough to where he felt free to loosen up around me.

One time in Florida, I introduced him and he walked across the stage wearing these crazy-looking glasses fitted with penlights beaming on the side. It was a total surprise. He looked like something from another planet, but he still had his Bill Monroe hat on. The audience was roaring, and he was a perfect straight man playing right along with the joke with a classic
What's all the fuss about?
look. Sometimes we'd be singing together and he'd take off his hat and put it on my big ol' hairy head.

That playfulness was another side of Monroe that wasn't too well known. He had comedy in him if you could bring it out. He was a good dancer, too. If Monroe was feeling his oats, he'd show off his Kentucky back-step and bring the house down. It looked like hillbilly break dancing, feet facing forward but body goin' backward. Back in the '30s, he and Charlie used to dance on the WLS
National Barn Dance
broadcast in Chicago.

During my country heyday, I was mostly playing rhythm guitar. I'd gotten away from mandolin, 'cept for a couple tunes in the show. One time I walked into Mr. Bill's dressing room at the Opry, and he was resting on a couch with his mandolin next to him in its open case. I couldn't resist. I asked if I could play the legendary Loar, and he said go right ahead! I hadn't played it since I was six years old. Lord. When I picked up the mandolin—which, you have to remember, was almost as old as he was—it was like holding a living, breathing thing. In all their years together, he'd endowed that wood and steel with an aura that I could feel. It was his partner in life.

It felt and sounded so good. I went up and down the neck playing these little licks. I kept at it for a good while and finally laid it back in the case. He looked at me and said, “Did you find anywhere on that mandolin where it didn't sound good?” He was bragging on his precious ol' mandolin, and let me tell you, he had a right to. “No, sir,” I told him. “It sounded great on every inch of it.” I got Mr. Monroe in the studio for my next album,
Country Boy
, 'cause I wanted him to play mandolin on our rendition of his classic “Wheel Hoss.” We had to overdub his part on the track we'd already cut, something he wasn't used to doing. To make him comfortable, I took out the piano and lowered the drums and cranked up the acoustic guitar in the mix he heard on his headphones, and he nailed it in the first few takes.

That record got me a Grammy Award for Best Country Instrumental. I gave my Grammy to Mr. Monroe, because he hadn't yet won a Grammy, and I thought he deserved one. He was thrilled to death, but the thrill was mine to get to bless him that way. I loved him more than any award. Here was a man who started a whole new genre of music and had never been properly honored for it. I wanted my fans to know he was cool. It didn't matter what I was doing; I wanted to include him. Even in a music video.

I remember planning the video shoot for the “Country Boy” single. In the video, I played a hayseed-turned-yuppie lawyer in New York City. The director, Martin Kahan, said he wanted to get an old guy to play the part of my grandpa. That gave me an idea, and I said, “Hey, how 'bout let's get Bill Monroe to play my Uncle Pen!” I explained about the song's bluegrass origins and how Monroe would be perfect as a cranky old cuss in the big city, chewing me out 'cause he thinks I've gotten above my raisin'. Martin asked, “Can he act?” and I said, “Sure. He'll do anything you tell him.” I fibbed a little on that.

Honestly, I wasn't sure how he'd do in front of a camera, or if he'd even want to get involved in a video, and I was a little nervous about it. Martin came to Nashville and met Mr. Monroe, and afterward he told me not to worry, 'cause we had our Uncle Pen, all right! We went to Manhattan for the shoot, and we rented out a swanky lawyer's office for the morning, a downtown street for the afternoon, and a subway car in Times Square from midnight to 5 a.m. It was going to be quite a day.

The day of the shoot, we took a limousine to the hotel to get Mr. Bill, and he was there in his work pants, just as the director had asked him to be. “I don't know why I'm dressed like I'm ready to go out and work on the farm,” he said. “This is for television, ain't it? You've gotta dress up for that.”

He was used to sporting a suit and tie to perform. I explained that he was acting a part, and that we'd be starring in a little skit built around the song, for broadcast on a special channel on TV. Music video was a new format in the 1980s, and ol' Bill had been around since the days of vaudeville. Once he got the concept, though, he went right with it.

You might even say he stole the show. I mean, I had fun hamming it up, but the real star was Mr. Monroe as Uncle Pen. He laid down his Kentucky back-step like a pro, and it really impressed those break dancers. They said, “Man, that is a cold-blooded step!” Same with the female dancers on the set. They were classically trained, but Mr. Bill really showed 'em a thing or two! In between the filming, he was throwing 'em over his shoulder and dancing up a storm with these gals. They loved him!

This video turned out to be a winner all the way around. There was even a cameo from the city's mayor, Ed Koch. He played a New York cab driver chomping on a bagel and lip-synching,
“I'm just a country boy, country boy at heart
.” He was perfect. The “Country Boy” video was the first time a lot of people in my generation had ever seen or heard of Bill Monroe. It gave him a chance to get his feet wet in the pop-culture mainstream, and he made a real splash. It was the second video that VH1 broadcast when it first went on the air, and it's now sort of a classic. CMT still airs it once in a while.

My favorite moment during the shoot was when we took a lunch break and went to Chinatown. Jerry Rivers, the fiddle player for Hank Williams, was helping out as Bill's wrangler on the trip, and he found us a Chinese restaurant. He ordered Bill some chicken and vegetables, and Bill told the waitress to make sure and fry the chicken until it was real done to get all the juice out of it. He'd had food poisoning too many times from uncooked chicken he'd eaten in diners on the road.

She brought him a plate and set it down and was walking away when Bill hollered at her, “Ma'am, ma'am, you got any bread?” She came back to the table and smiled as polite as could be and said, “No have bread, only rice.” Well, Bill couldn't believe he couldn't get a biscuit or dinner roll or even a slice of Wonder bread. He got as mad and grumpy as Uncle Pen does in the video. “That's the stupidest thing I ever heard of,” he said. “A restaurant that ain't got no bread! That ain't no part of nothing right there.”

That would have been a great scene to get in the video.

F
rom shooting videos to making records to playing shows, I was busy. As my dad used to say, busy as a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes. But it was a different kind of busy from my days as a sideman. Now it was me calling the shots and dealing with the repercussions, and the stress was double. I was realizing what Ralph and Emmy and other bandleaders had to deal with—lots of new responsibilities, and lots of new things to worry about.