Honky Tonk Angel (21 page)

“When she returned, it was, ‘Hello, guys, I’m Patsy.’ We introduced ourselves and she said it was nice to meet us after all she’d heard. We said how pleased we were to be working with her. It might have been Neal [Matthews] or Hoyt [Hawkins], but one of them said, ‘And we’ve heard a lot about you, too!’ There we were, all smiles and laughing. She apologized, as she put it, for acting like a horse’s ass. And, I think it was—well, I won’t say. But someone commented, ‘And a nice one it is, too.’

“She raised her voice to us more than once, but it was just the artist bubbling over. Patsy could be cold to those she didn’t know. However, that was rare. She had a lot of respect for those who worked with her, and we had great respect for her. In fact, we got to love her like a sister—and sometimes that’s the way we had to treat her.

“Wally Fowler opened the door for Patsy. Ole Wally had a reputation for doing all sorts of promotion, and Patsy got his number fast. She said he had his eye on her, but she taught him how to blink. He wasn’t alone. Others had ideas, but Patsy knew how to take care of herself. She was hard and strict with herself and knew the ropes. She’d been up and down them enough. Patsy could be rough, then turn the charm on.

“She was the sweetest person in the world if you played your side of the cards right. But, brother, she’d fix you fast if you didn’t. She’d love you to death if you did something for her, but God forbid if you turned on her. I liked her because she was brutally frank. If you messed with her, she’d strike like a snake. She’d look you right in the eye and say, ‘Don’t you ever cross my path again, you son of a bitch!’

“I was impressed with her professionalism in the studio. During the sessions she was all business. Patsy could do everything but read music, but that never bothered her. She could sing anything from hillbilly to standards and semiclassical. She could do anything she set her head to.

“You only had to give her a melody once and she’d sing it. Usually, we’d work up the tune with her and do it in one take. How she could turn it on! She gave me goose bumps. She didn’t know the impact she had. Patsy had something and didn’t know what. It was just a God-given gift. Many people say Patsy was conceited, but she was humble. I’d say, ‘What a great job!’ She’d answer, ‘You really think I did it good?’ And we’d say, ‘Yeah! Are you kidding?’ She was a perfectionist but didn’t realize it. She simply wanted to make it the best she could.

“Patsy was sensitive. If you were talking and happened to look her way, she’d haul over and ask, ‘Hey, you guys talking about me?’ We’d say, ‘No. We were talking about the news.’ Then she’d snap, ‘Oh, no, you weren’t! What did I do wrong?’

“Patsy always knew what she wanted, which led to problems with Owen. He kept Patsy in check, or when he thought the moment right, he’d get her mad. He knew her capabilities. He also knew what would and wouldn’t sell. Owen was good to her and good with her. He knew what she needed to do the job. Unlike many A&R men, he had great musical ability.

“We’d work everything out with Owen and rehearse. Patsy’d tell us, ‘Hey, I want you guys singing here and I want you to hum with me here. I want you to go ooh, ah, ooh, ooh here and ah, ooh, ooh, ah here.’ Then Owen would come in and say, ‘What are you doing, young lady?’ They’d get into it. He’d station himself between us and Patsy and just go to town laying it off on her. And she’d lay it right back. It was so much, so fast, I can’t remember exactly what but it could get dicey. ‘Young lady, you’re gonna do this my way,’ Bradley would say. ‘Oh, no, I’m not,’ she’d protest. ‘Don’t you forget I’m the one driving this here wagon!’ he’d say. And she’d yell back, ‘Don’t you forget who’s your best passenger!’”

Then they’d burst out laughing, and the remarks were forgotten. “Patsy was quick, but I don’t know who was fastest,” Stoker noted. “I don’t think Patsy ever got the best of Owen. She might have thought she did a couple of times, but he just didn’t let on that maybe she was right and he let her do something her way. He knew how to keep Patsy in line.”

Stoker asserted that, from time to time, Patsy brought personal problems into the studio. “All of us cared about Patsy and vice versa. We helped and encouraged her when she’d be a little bit down because of Charlie. They’d have fights and she’d come in bruised or with a black eye. We never asked questions and she’d never say directly what happened. She’d just say, ‘Me and Charlie had a row.’ We’d ask, ‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’ And she’d reply, ‘Well, somebody did!’ They’d be fighting like cats and dogs one minute, then kissing the next.

“Patsy would confide in Ray Walker, our bass singer. He was a pretty handsome guy. She was genuinely fond of him. Ray was married, with a family and was a strict, religious person. He didn’t fool around, but, at the same time, he was fascinated by Patsy and she was crazy about him. They talked and shared.”

The weekend of her first session with the Jordanaires, Patsy ran into Teddy Wilburn at WSM Radio at Seventh and National Streets, where she was performing on the Opry broadcast called “Friday Night Frolics.”

“Patsy finished her session at five that afternoon,” Teddy recalled, “and had acetates she wanted me to hear. There wasn’t time that night, but Saturday, after
the regular Opry at the Ryman Auditorium, Doyle and I were hosting Ernest Tubb’s ‘Mid-Nite Jamboree’ at his record shop. Patsy came up to me with her acetates and snapped, ‘Well, Hoss, I mean business. When are you gonna listen?’ I advised we’d do it after the show. She said, ‘If you don’t find any excuses!’ I told her, ‘Hey, Patsy, we’ll do it!’

“After the broadcast, when everyone had left and the store was all but empty, we listened to her songs on an audition turntable. She and I discussed each one and her feelings about it. She wasn’t happy with a couple of takes. I told her I didn’t know how she could have done them better. She smiled. That was the assurance she was looking for.

“It became a habit after that She’d always want me to listen, even if it meant playing something over the phone. At times, she’d be crying and would say she was in trouble. Trouble to Patsy meant she was in a situation and didn’t know what to do. Speaking to me helped. I didn’t beat around the bush.”

In February, Charlie was “costed out,” or honorably discharged, a month early. He and Patsy rented a tiny house on Valley Mill Road out Route 7, a mile outside Berryville. He went back to work at the
Winchester Star
, but, as often as possible, he’d commute to dates and Nashville with Patsy.

Two singles resulted from the January sessions. On February 23 Decca backed “Yes, I Understand” with “Cry Not for Me,” recorded in December 1957. There was no response. According to Donn Hecht, McCall got wind that “Patsy was running helter skelter with her shopping basket” looking for another label. As a result, McCall did nothing to promote the release. Trying to cover himself, in case he lost Patsy, McCall had her do two Four-Star demo sessions. In March, Patsy guested on the Opry twice and, on Saturday, April 4, promoted her latest release on the Ozark Jubilee, telecast Sundays now on ABC as “Jubilee, U.S.A.”

If Patsy’s fortunes weren’t on solid ground, the news from her doctor didn’t help. She was pregnant. Julie was not quite nine months. Patsy later told Del that Charlie wasn’t exactly thrilled with the news. “You couldn’t blame him,” explained Del. “They were living hand to mouth. What they didn’t need was another baby, but they both knew how to prevent such things.”

Her pregnancy didn’t slow Patsy down; she worked twice as hard. In June, desperate for money, she spoke to Tex Ritter about her financial situation. He contacted his niece Jane Deren, associate producer of Compton, California’s “Town Hall Party,” on which Patsy had appeared. Mrs. Deren hurriedly booked several southern California engagements.

Driving to Nashville on July 2, Patsy arrived in Bradley’s studio the next afternoon saying of the material McCall had sent, “This stuff stinks! What’s he trying to do, wreck my career? I won’t record this crap.” Bradley couldn’t help but concur. He recalled Patsy breaking down and crying. Bradley tried to calm her, but she told him she’d spent all her money to come to town to record. Now all she’d have to show for the trip was the $20 she’d receive for two appearances on the Opry. He assured her they’d come up with something.

The songs they chose were the spirituals “Just A Closer Walk With Thee” and a southern perennial from 1890, “Life’s Railway To Heaven,” a favorite of
Patsy’s since her days at Gore Baptist Church. Like so much else before, the tracks didn’t prove to be at all commercial, but, with superb backing from the Jordanaires, they were charged with emotion and the best singing Patsy had done to date.

Ten days later, with a plane ticket and small advance, Patsy flew from Washington to Los Angeles. “Patsy stayed with me and was the delight of my life that entire week,” Mrs. Deren recollected. “She was always so full of pep, I couldn’t help but ask, ‘Patsy, honey, where do you get all that energy?’ She replied, ‘That’s just me!’ For a star, she was the most down to earth, good-natured person you’ve ever hoped to meet. Everyone fell in love with her.”

After the TV show, Mrs. Deren and her brother took Patsy to her various dates in his car. “Near the end of the week, Patsy woke up in the middle of the night. She was pretty sick and in acute pain. She told me she was three months pregnant. I had no idea and felt horrible, having kept her so busy and running her here and there in the car. I called my doctor and he advised we rush her to Queen of Angels Hospital. When he told Patsy she had a miscarriage, I don’t know who cried the most, Patsy or me. The next morning, Patsy called Charlie. He was more worried about how she was taking it. But Patsy was in good spirits. Her energy continued to be abundant. And she entertained everyone at the hospital with her sense of humor.”

In spite of setbacks and disappointments, Patsy never lost her exuberance for goals. “If you want to know what country music is all about, I’ll tell you,” she’d say to friends and colleagues. “It’s singing in clubs and sleazy joints, traveling on dusty, rutted roads and staying in motels that have seen better days. It’s signing autographs and posing for pictures and doing the very best job you can. It’s meaning something special to a whole bunch of strangers who you’ll probably never see again but who suddenly become like family.”

This was her life. There was little Patsy wouldn’t do to advance her career. She played gigs usually organized by Joltin’ Jim McCoy, such as local dances, taverns, drive-ins, carnivals and the Shenandoah County Fair at Mount Jackson. She was often accompanied by McCoy and his band, the Melody Playboys (not to be confused with Bill Peer’s band).

Dale Turner recalls times being so bad that Patsy wrote to her frequent employer, Don Owens, in Washington, and asked him to send her money so she could come to town and do his show. He not only got her back on the show as a regular but also began booking her in the region.

Whenever Patsy complained to touring stars or the Music City establishment about not making a decent living, she kept hearing, “Why don’t you move to Nashville? That’s where it’s at.” This wasn’t Charlie’s wildest dream, but Patsy began a calculated campaign to make him think it was.

“If only,” she said, “I could achieve membership on the Grand Ole Opry”—which meant a guarantee of so many appearances a year—or “I keep hearing I’m too far away from Nashville, so I’m just gonna have to pick up and move there.” She even had a job all picked out for Charlie. She told him that with references from the
Star
, he’d easily get a job at one of Nashville’s newspapers or many printing plants.

Charlie insisted he knew not to argue with his wife once she had her mind made up. If he wanted any peace, he knew what he’d have to do. It remained to find a way to finance the move.

... I know about heartaches,
I know all the mistakes
that young love can make—
I’ve made them . . .

—“That’s How a Heartache Begins” by Harlan
Howard (© 1962 Pamper Music/Sony-Tree Music
Publishing, Inc.)