Country Music Broke My Brain (16 page)

People Who Call

BECAUSE
I GREW UP LISTENING to the radio and then wound up being
on
the radio, I always feel a friendship with people who've listened to me. I also believe there should be a little more quality control for people to call a radio station than owning a phone and a radio.

The overwhelming majority—I'd say 80 percent—of these people are wonderful. The other 20 percent are just nuts. Just in case you've never been “on the air,” I'll run down the drill for you.

The radio personality/DJ/host/jock, etc. is figuring out the time, trying to catch up on the news, grabbing some music, writing a joke in his head, and answering the phone. If you have a producer, you are lucky. Later in my career, I demanded a producer. I remember having the discussion with management about it. The GM said, “You don't need anyone extra.” I replied, “OK, next time you're in a sales meeting, answer the phone every time it rings instead of letting your assistant get it.” I got a producer. Actually, over the years, I had
two
fabulous producers—Devon O'Day and Richard Falklen.

To this day, I can't just let a phone ring. I
have
to answer it. I think it's important when you're on the radio to have someone actually talk to your customers. I've called stations myself, and nothing is more frustrating than hearing the phone ring and ring, and then have to hang up in disgust. Tragically, most stations are now like this. The dirty little secret of radio is that quite often, there's no one there. I mean
no one.
The guy you're listening to might have prerecorded the show that morning in St. Louis. Or he is syndicated out of Dallas. Computers and robots took over a lot of manufacturing jobs, and they also took over radio stations. I'm not saying it's bad, I'm just saying it's different.

Now, let's talk about answering the phone. Radio is immediate. They hear you say something, they call. You see somebody on TV, you can fire off an angry or loving e-mail/tweet, but you won't usually connect. P.O.'d at the editor of the newspaper? You e-mail or snail mail. You might catch them on the phone but probably not.

Radio dudes and dudettes? Unless they just won't answer the phone, you get the guy on the air. I answered the phone, so they got me. That's why we hired Devon and, later, Richard. I couldn't handle it because people only hear about half of what they think they heard. I did better when we could sort through the calls by having a filter—the producer. They answered the calls that said they couldn't live without me and loved me. They answered the calls from people who hated me and wished I would croak.

OK, that's the run-of-the-mill DJ stuff, but
now
let's talk about the fabulous people who called and I talked with
live
on the radio. People I will never forget. People who probably helped me win awards, paid for my blue suede shoes, and put my daughter through college. People I will never meet, get to thank, or learn about their kids. These regular, superior-quality radio listening types often left me laughing or amazed.

She said she and her daughter lived in eastern Kentucky. The mountains.

I've been to these areas and it is capital “R” Rural. I mean so far back in the woods, there ain't nothin' behind ya. This is the country where people think, when they die, that they're goin' to Atlanta.

Mountain People. I often said on the air that I loved Mountain Women. It usually got me several angry letters and one flirty one from a prisoner. The lady caller said she earned extra money by singing at funerals. I know. I thought the same thing:
What? A little fun money by singing at funerals?
Yes, often at funerals they have someone sing the dearly departed's favorite song as they are lowered to their final resting place. Mountain funerals.

She said it was near Hazard, Kentucky, for a Mennonite family. It there ever was a well-named city, it's Hazard. I know it's a lovely Southern town, but I used to travel through there when I was in college, and it gave me the willies. I'm actually an idiot when it comes to the Mennonites. I confuse them with the Amish, which probably gives
them
the willies. (People have died from the willies, don't ya know.) I am one ignorant boob for not knowing much about these good gentle people, but I don't. They are kinda like the Shakers in central Kentucky. I think
they
went out of business because of not having sex, for religious reasons. This makes it tough to keep the dealio going when they ain't makin' any new Shakers.

But let's get back to the funeral. This woman, in her forties, along with her twenty-ish daughter, went to the funeral on a cold and bleak January morning in Kentucky. As this solemn group stood before an open grave with their flat black hats in their hardscrabble hands, she quietly asked the apparent leader, “What was your grandpa's favorite song?” I imagine Gramps was ninety, tough, pure, and going to heaven, if anybody was. The grandson choked back a tear and said in a tortured voice, “Joy Bells”—an old Flatt & Scruggs song. She said she quietly backed away, stunned but respectful, and whispered the title to her daughter.

Here comes the problem. It was cold. It was rainy. The wind was howling. There were forty or fifty family members standing by to send Gramps to his reward. Hours later, at the wake after the funeral, she learned what the poor grandson had requested. She was close, but no cigar. The mother and daughter took a deep breath and then started singing in those high and lonesome Appalachian harmonies what they
thought
was the song requested for this solemn occasion:

Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh

O'er the fields we go, laughing all the way, ha-ha-ha.

Everybody!

Yes, Mom and her daughter performed, in full voice at this graveside with bereaved family members clutching memories of their dearly beloved and departed grandpa, “Jingle Bells.”

I still love the mom for calling.

Moms often figured into funny stories. My own mom was funny. She called me for years when I was on the air. People still mention her to me. Once I asked her what she'd been doing, and she said she had painted the toilet lid.

M
E
: “Great, I'm glad that got done.”

M
OM
: “Yeah but in the middle of the night I forgot about it and sat on the wet lid. Now I have the Blue Moon of Kentucky.”

I think my mom
wrote
that joke. I'm not certain, but it's still funny.

Another guy called to tell me how his mother came home quite distraught from a shopping trip. “What happened to her?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “Mom told me she was driving along and heard a terrible noise and stopped. Something apparently had fallen off the bottom of the car and she'd brought it home.” Mom led him out to the car, and there, in the backseat, was a sewer lid.

Or the guy who called to say his wife had recently bought some 600-count silk sheets—the most fancy, expensive sheets they'd ever had. He said he wore pajamas to bed that first night, but didn't know she'd made the bed with the new sheets. He gave a little running start and dived into the sack. When he hit the headboard, he was doing eighty-five miles an hour.

Most of you won't know what this story means, but in the olden days, back when cars had engine parts you could identify, manual transmissions, and no computers, you could jump-start a car. You'd put the car into neutral and get a push on the highway. (This sounds like I'm talking about something in silent movies, but it's true.) Some friends would help you get the car moving down the road. You'd then “pop” the clutch, and that would turn the engine over and start the car. (With today's cars, I am not really sure how to open the hood, but I knew how to do this.)

So the caller went on and told me he needed to jump-start his car. He said, “Mom, I want you to give me a push in your car.” He explained the process to her. “I'll need to get going about thirty-five to forty miles an hour, and then I'll pop the clutch and get 'er started. You get in your car and give me the push.” He said he got in his car and prepared to “get 'er started.” He looked in the rearview mirror and, to his horror, here came Mom. She was doing probably forty miles an hour when she hit the back of his Buick. All he had time to do was brace himself.

Then there was the woman who called the day we were discussing “How did you break a tooth?” She said her father had had an idea. Dad also had hemorrhoids. Daughter spilled the goods. Dad was wondering how his hemorrhoids looked, so he got up on the bed to have a gander in the dresser mirror. When he bent over to get a better view, he lost his balance, fell forward, and knocked his two front teeth out on the nightstand. Some things you just aren't meant to see.

I once talked to a guy who painted houses for a living. I asked him, “What's your favorite color to paint?”

He didn't even pause. He said, “The same color it was before.”

Or the guy who called and said he used to work at a rodeo. The owner of the rodeo thought it would be fun to have a monkey ride a dog around the ring before actual cowboy action started. It would warm up the audience. The guy said he found a monkey for sale (as one usually does) and brought it to the rodeo. They had a big German Shepherd they thought would do fine subbing as a steed. During a test ride, the monkey got scared and pulled the dog's fur, making the dog stop. So, the night of the rodeo, they decided to tie the monkey's hands to the dog's collar to hold them down. The announcer introduced them as “Cowboy Coco and his trusty dog, Bullet.”

The crowd roared with laughter as Coco entered the ring on the back of Bullet. It was just so cute. The dog took off across the ring and did one lap. Adorable. Coco bounced from side to side. Then somebody on the other side of the arena, not watching the daring duo, slightly raised a gate. Bullet saw his way out of this situation. The monkey held on as the dog raced toward the barely raised opening. The crowd gasped in shocked silence. They knew the gate was too low for Bullet to go under with a tiny rider on his back. Then the monkey realized the gate was too low for passenger clearance. Coco let loose a high-pitched warning scream, “Eeeeeeee!”—monkey for “somebody raise the damn gate!”

With a resounding “bonnnnnggg!” Coco stayed with the fence and Bullet dashed to freedom. The guy said, “We kept that monkey, but he wadn't ever right after that. He walked sorta funny and jumped in your hair if he saw a dog.”

I won't wear you out with too many stories, but I do miss those wonderful moments of reality and indescribable joy upon hearing things like that.

Hope Coco is at peace now.

Randy Travis and Don Williams

MY
WIFE LOVES reality TV shows. She goes to the Woman Cave—the back bedroom you read about earlier—to watch
The Real Housewives of
(insert city/county here). I can take about five minutes of these shows. I really don't care if Tawanda is upset that somebody spilled merlot on her newly dyed poodle. I know these programs are successful and a moneymaking machine, and I really like that Andy Cohen dude who is behind all of the shows.

Allyson watches these intelligent video documents armed with a phone, so she can send texts to her friend Lori and e-mails to others. There is a flurry of AT&T conversation that goes on for hours. If they had a reality show called
The Real Housewives of Gassville, Arkansas
, I might watch that.
“On tonight's show, Irene's husband, Cooter, discovers those commodes at Target are for display only!”
I'm certain that's only weeks away from actually being on the tube. I am also really looking forward to
X-Tractor.

When my dad used to listen to or watch baseball or a boxing match on the radio or television, he'd jump up and call his friend Bob Requardt about every five minutes, and they'd agree or argue, and then return to the action. I think this is what Allyson does now when Shelly on
The Real Housewives
tells Caprice, “Bite me, bitch.” (Or whatever they say on those shows.)

I have said for several years now,
Jersey Shore
is the third sign of the Apocalypse and that we should all get our affairs in order. The End Is Nigh. That said, if ever there was somebody custom-made for a reality show, it's Randy Travis.

I've known Randy for decades. We're not close, but he'd call every now and then and I'd see him at Music Row events all the time. Randy had a brief brush with the law when he was pretty young. He actually did qualify for the “Outlaw” brand of country, but now he's as far from it as you can get. He's a sweet and gentle soul. Randy is also pretty laid back. He moves very slowly. Randy Travis is so slow, he's got a younger brother that is older than him now. He never answers right away. He sort of looks down and usually chuckles a little bit and then, in that unmistakable baritone, gives a good answer.

The only human who moves less than Randy Travis is Don Williams. Don is actually nicknamed “The Gentle Giant.” He's gentle, but he's not really all that big. Don has had an enormously successful recording career
—
way back from the folky days 'til he had hits on his own. My good pal Wayland Holyfield wrote classic songs such as “Some Broken Hearts” for Don.