Diary of a Player (19 page)

I called my friend and promotion rep at Arista, Lori Hartigan, and told her how I was feeling. It was a Sunday night, and I was on my way to the airport to leave again for a week. “I don't think I can do this anymore, Lori. Who am I kidding? I can't take it; I really want to quit.”

She said, “You're just tired. You belong on the radio, and you belong in country music. I understand that this is awfully draining. You know what? I think you need a sign. Do me a favor and pray for one. Ask God to show you that you are on the right track. Now, go get on your plane and call me when you land.” So I bowed my head and did just that.

I went through security and sat down at the gate. I remember I was going to Phoenix. A girl wearing a Vanderbilt sweatshirt was sitting across from me reading a Bible. We made eye contact, and she said hello. She saw my guitar case.

“What do you do?” she asked.

I told her I was a singer.

“Anything I've heard?”

I said, “Probably not . . . yet.” I didn't let on that I was
down or struggling. She was on the way to a Bible camp in Arizona. We chatted for just a few minutes and then boarded.

I was halfway through a book and halfway through the flight when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the Vandy girl. “I made you a bookmark,” she said. She had torn a page out of her Bible, cut it into a rectangle, and wrote, “Philippians 4:13, I can do all things through Him who gives me strength,” on the front. I turned it over, and the back said, “Be Encouraged!”

It's funny. It didn't hit me at the time that this was a sign. I thanked her and went back to reading. As I was walking to the baggage claim, my cell phone rang. As soon as I saw Lori's number come up, I realized how blind I must have been.

“Hey, I'm worried about you,” Lori said. “I haven't stopped thinking about what you said since you called. Did you get your sign yet?”

“Yeah, Lori, I most definitely did.” Then I closed my eyes and thanked God for what was yet another little nudge in the right direction.

T
he first time I ever heard my record on a car radio, I was in the middle of that promo tour, and I was leaving a radio
station in Salt Lake City where I'd just done an interview. I was in the rental car driving back to the airport to head to the next city with my radio rep, and the DJ came on and said, “We had a great guy in here today to play some new songs, and we're going to play a song by him right now. It's brand-new and it's called ‘Who Needs Pictures.' This is Brad Paisley.” I was completely floored—and I remember thinking,
Boy, my voice sounds weird all sped up like that.

Thanks to lots of people in country radio, I'd get plenty more chances to hear my voice sped up in the months and years to come. After “Who Needs Pictures,” we released the song “He Didn't Have to Be,” which I wrote with Kelley Lovelace, inspired by his experiences becoming a stepfather. This was one of those songs that connected with people in a really powerful way. The song moved people the way country songs can do and became my first number one on the country charts. In fact, I believe it was the first number one by a new country artist in a number of years. More than anything, it got the industry's attention from a songwriter standpoint and established me as an artist.

Eventually, “We Danced”—a romantic song I wrote with Chris DuBois about a fantasy of a girl looking for a lost purse in a bar at closing time—gave me my second number one
hit. And suddenly, we were off and running. A very big moment for me came in 2000 when I won the Horizon Award at the CMA Awards—sort of country's version of winning Best New Artist at the Grammys. Soon I would be nominated as Best New Artist at the Grammys too—another unbelievable thrill. I have to say that winning the Horizon Award in 2000 was kind of magical—like a big puzzle piece that just fell in perfectly. If I were to have written the script for my life, I might have actually penned it so that I won the Horizon Award in 2000, and then ten years later, in 2010, I'd win Entertainer of the Year. To me, that feels like a healthy climb, so much more satisfying than winning those two awards back-to-back. I've never been about the short run or the quick hit, and I loved the idea of taking my time on this musical journey. I'm pretty sure someone else is writing this particular script, but I'm here to say that I definitely approve of the plot so far.

The year I won the Horizon Award, the producers paired up some of the Horizon nominees with more established country stars, and Walter C. Miller—the CMA Awards' executive producer and a big early booster of mine—had the idea of pairing me up with Ricky Skaggs and having me do both the very romantic “We Danced” and the very goofy “Me Neither” to show off the two sides of what I could do. First, I played “We Danced” with my band, and then Ricky came out, played mandolin, and sang with me on “Me Neither.” As if that weren't enough, Ricky then stepped forward and announced the winner of the Horizon Award while I stood on the side of the stage. My name was called, and the moment was absolutely perfect—if you can overlook that fuchsia suit I wore that night. One of many questionable wardrobe choices I've made over my career.

Part I of my recording career went like a dream. And as I went on to make my second album,
Part II
—named after the song inspired by the night I saw
Father of the Bride Part II
—I
had no idea how poetic things were about to get. I knew the time was right to include a few of the songs I'd held back for just this moment, somehow assuming this sort of moment would actually come. I'm not sure if this was arrogance or stupidity, maybe both, but somehow it all worked out. I remember getting pressure from the label to include “I'm Gonna Miss Her” on my first album. I fought it, believing it was going to be needed as an RBI, to borrow from baseball. In particular, I was convinced that if I had a few hits by now, then a song like “I'm Gonna Miss Her” on the second album could hit it out of the park. I remember Alan Jackson pulling me aside at a party after my first album hit. Alan's a great guy, and I respect him a lot as an artist, so I was glad to have a moment with him. At one point, Alan said, “So are you ever going cut that fishin' song?”

“Yep, it's going on my second album,” I said.

“Good. I always liked that song,” he said.

“Well, then you should have cut it,” I said, kidding him.

But in truth, I may very well owe my recording career, or at least my overall image, to the fact that he didn't. You just never know.

W
hen you first experience success in this world, there is no shortage of ways you can lose your way and screw it all up. We see that all the time, don't we? One of the constants in my life that kept me relatively grounded, and reminded me why I do what I do, has been the Grand Ole Opry. Just as my career was taking off in 1999, I found myself standing on the Opry stage performing for the first time. I was in complete and utter awe. Playing at the Opry makes me feel like a true part of the history of the music that I love. Finding a home there was the fulfillment of not only one of my dreams, but also one of the dreams my grandfather might have had for me.

One of the constants in my life that kept me relatively grounded . . . has been the Grand Ole Opry.

Warren Jarvis was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer just a year or so after I started performing with the Wheeling Jamboree. The last time he ever saw me play was when I was opening up for the Judds. My papaw was in pretty bad shape then and undergoing chemotherapy, but he still came to the show. I dedicated a gospel song to him that night called “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” But what he liked more was the way I rocked out on the guitar covering “Lynda,” a really up-tempo Steve Wariner song. I like to think that he left this world
knowing that there were great things ahead for me, thanks almost entirely to him. Standing on the Opry stage for the first time, I thought of my grandfather and how much I wished he could have been there with me. In a way, he was with me and always will be.

My experiences at the Opry have changed me forever. It was there that another of my greatest musical heroes became one of my closest friends. I'm talking about the legendary Little Jimmy Dickens. I remember going to the Grand Ole Opry as a new artist, and even though Jimmy couldn't have had any idea who I was, he still treated me with the respect of a colleague and the kindness of a friend. In watching him over the years, I have
never
seen him behave otherwise. Little Jimmy had long been an inspiration to me as a fellow West Virginian who went on to become a country music legend. I was a fan from the first time I saw him from the side of the stage at the Wheeling Jamboree. It was like watching a funny firecracker.

But even before I ever met this man, I could sense his incredibly positive outlook on life and his desire to make people laugh and be happy. Don't let Jimmy Dickens's sense of humor or his relative lack of stature fool you for a second. Little Jimmy is a very big and significant figure in the history of our music. As much as anyone I know, Jimmy has seen it
all
.
This man has been a member of the Grand Ole Opry for more than sixty years and is quite rightly a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Jimmy was there at the birth of so much of what I love in country music. It was the King of Country Music himself, Roy Acuff, who first heard Jimmy on the radio and asked him to come play the Grand Ole Opry. By 1949, Jimmy became a permanent member and went on to be one of the most popular Opry performers ever. Jimmy Dickens was there the night that some new guy named Hank Williams came onstage to play the Opry for the first time. In fact, the story goes that Hank gave Jimmy his nickname “Tater” and even wrote “Hey, Good Lookin'” for Jimmy to record—then, perhaps wisely, decided to save the song for himself.

Back in the fifties and sixties, Jimmy had lots of hits and one of the very best bands around. He had some big crossover smashes, like “May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose,” and some very funny novelty hits, like “A-Sleeping at the Foot of the Bed,” “I'm Little but I'm Loud,” and “Take an Old Cold Tater (and Wait).” But Jimmy could also break your heart with great tearjerkers like “Life Turned Her That Way” and “(You've Been Quite a Doll) Raggedy Ann”—in fact, he even would hold a Raggedy Ann doll while he sang it. As funny
as he is, let there be no doubt that Little Jimmy Dickens has always been one serious talent.