Honky Tonk Angel (35 page)

Bradley’s production marked a milestone in country music. “That’s when I began letting the strings creep in. It wasn’t intentional. We just thought it sounded nice.

“Patsy liked a big, full sound and didn’t care if that meant a lush string arrangement. We walked a fine line between country and pop—pretty far ahead of the way things were being done.”

On the Bob Wills classic “San Antonio Rose,” Patsy did a down-home vocal, with yodeling as the only essential missing element. It’s one time Bradley should have rethought his policy.

There was a remake of “A Poor Man’s Roses (or a Rich Man’s Gold),” which Patsy had sung on her second “Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts” appearance. It was a personal favorite of hers. She wanted to record it anew in stereo.

According to Dottie West, everything ran smoothly until “Crazy.” “She tried it again and again, but it wasn’t working. Owen tried to help her. After about two hours, which was a lot for Patsy, they were ready to give up. But Patsy pleaded, ‘Owen, let me try it one more time!’”

“The problems were physical,” Bradley noted. “Usually Patsy got things right away. We recorded her live on three tracks and didn’t even have to overdub. She’d be so prepared, one take was all we’d need. Of course, afterward, she wouldn’t be satisfied and would tell me, ‘Owen, let’s try it one more time.’ I’d gotten used to that and would simply tell her, ‘No, Patsy. Really it’s fine, honey.’ She’d counter with ‘But I’d like to—’ and I’d tell her again, ‘No, Patsy.’

“Everything about the way Patsy was doing ‘Crazy’ was great. I could see it would be one of her best recordings. She picked up on the emotion of the lyrics and put herself into the story of a tune. But that day something was bothering her.”

Bradley finally asked, “Hon, what’s wrong?”

“I’m having a difficult time on the high notes. They keep hitting my ribs. I’m still healing and it hurts like hell.”

“Why don’t you take it easy? We’ll do the track without you. You know, just lay down the music. You can come in when things are better and dub the vocal.”

She concurred, but, thinking Bradley would let her have her way on something she desired desperately, she asked to do another song.

“Patsy called me at our Sure-Fire offices across the street from the studio,” explained Teddy Wilburn. “She said there’d been a last-minute snag and they needed an extra song. She asked for the lyrics to a song we recently recorded, a
cover of the Gogi Grant hit ‘The Wayward Wind.’ Patsy played both versions over and over at home.

“I found the lead sheets and ran across to the studio. While I was there, Patsy and Owen went over the song once and talked it over with the musicians. Then went right ahead and did it, just like that.”

Patsy’s vocal is enchanting in its casualness. She creates a lilting mood as she almost whispers the lyrics and beautifully extenuates the high notes without getting anywhere near her potential.

The following Monday Patsy cut the vocal to “Crazy” in one take. “And that’s the record you hear,” Bradley marveled. “It was the height of her career and, perhaps, one of the best tracks we ever made.”

Bradley’s concept for “Crazy,” though a complete departure from Nelson’s demo arrangement, is simple, smooth, and electrifying. Floyd Cramer’s piano and the first strains of the Jordanaires’ “doo, doo, doos” give way to Harold Bradley’s laid-back electric bass, as Murrey “Buddy” Harman’s percussion brush segues into Patsy’s phrasing of Nelson’s lyrics. The rhythm section—Grady Martin, electric guitar; Walter Hayes, steel guitar; Bob Moore’s bass; and Randy Hughes, guitar—makes it high-tech torch all the way. But Patsy weaves the real magic. On lines such as “Worry / Why do I let myself worry? / Wond‘rin’ what in the world did I do?” and “Thinking that my love could hold you,” Patsy sings like she’s playing them on a violin. When she takes the liberty of adding “Ooohhh” before the word “Crazy” in Nelson’s last verse, it’s one of the sexiest moments in recording history.

Three days later, Patsy returned for two intense days. On the twenty-fourth she recorded “Who Can I Count On?”; the uptempo, rockabilly “Seven Lonely Days”; the song she’d recently heard on the radio, Floyd Tillman’s “I Love You So Much, It Hurts,” which was born again in Patsy’s scorching torch rendition; “Foolin’ ’Round” by Harlan Howard and Buck Owens; and a wise selection from the early 1930s, George Brown and Peter DeRose’s standard “Have You Ever Been Lonely (Have You Ever Been Blue)?”

On the twenty-fifth, Patsy started with “South of the Border (Down Mexico Way),” which she had listened to her half-sister Tempie Glenn play in her youth. This time around, Hargus “Pig” Robbins handled the keyboard. Mrs. Hensley noted that there was something about the song that fascinated Patsy. Obviously she never forgot it. On the session, as she relaxed and didn’t strain for histrionics, Patsy sang it as an echo of her childhood.

The artist and producer did a stereo remake of “Walkin’ After Midnight” to use for Patsy’s forthcoming album. Not only did they want to avoid having to lease the Four-Star master recording, but they wanted to try something fresh and different.

The other songs were “Strange,” co-written by Mel Tillis, and “You’re Stronger Than Me,” co-written by Hank Cochran.

Patsy and Bradley disagreed over recording “You’re Stronger Than Me.” Cochran, always in the studio when one of his tunes was done, reported that though Patsy liked it, Bradley wasn’t thrilled. “Patsy came through with flying colors,” Hank said. “I was not only her friend, but she really loved the song. She insisted
they do it.” Bradley, a big fan of Cochran’s, may have found it too similar to “I Fall to Pieces.”

Harlan Howard tells a story about how “Foolin’ ’Round” got recorded that points up how Bradley knew which of Patsy’s buttons to push. “Buck had a number one with it on Capitol and Kay Starr made some pop noise with it. One afternoon, when Owen and Patsy were looking for material to fill out the session, he was looking through the
Billboard
charts and saw the song was still listed.”

“Can you do ‘Foolin’ ‘Round’?” Bradley asked Patsy.

“No. It’s a man’s song.”

Bradley, maybe to remind her of Roy Drusky’s reaction to “I Fall to Pieces,” repeated, “Patsy, can you do this song?”

“Yeah. Sure I can!” she snapped.

The unique treatment they gave “Foolin’ ’Round” is, if nothing else, exotic. It runs the spectrum from rockabilly to a quasi-rhumba beat

That night Patsy didn’t stay for the playback party. She was in a rush to finish so she could hurry home. She had friends and their children coming over to celebrate Julie’s third birthday.

Lightnin’ Chance observed, “Owen kept Patsy selling records by keepin’ her mad. That bitterness came out in her voice inflections, and inflections get picked up by a mike. Patsy was terribly moody. I often told Randy, ‘Man, I wouldn’t put up with her for thirty seconds. That’s the meanest witch I ever saw!’ None of us envied Owen or Charlie.”

“Patsy could be mean to Charlie when he was at the sessions. I didn’t know whether she liked having him there or not, but he was there, and if he was there it must have meant Patsy wanted him there. If she got upset, she’d say things that were a little out of context of the situation. But he usually let them roll right off. Since I loved Patsy as a showman, I formed a mental block against a lot of things that transpired.

“If she really got going when we worked together, I’d bug her by telling her off. I’d say, ‘You mean bitch, how the hell can you do that?’ She’d scowl at me and after a while she’d sidle up and say, ‘Why the hell don’t you let me be mad when I want to?’”

In retrospect, given her vocal qualities and range, it’s hard to imagine Owen Bradley being doubtful of the direction in which he was taking Patsy. Teddy Wilburn reveals another side of the producer. “A few days after the last August session,” Teddy recollected, “Owen phoned and talked about what he, Patsy, and the musicians had accomplished. He sounded concerned, which wasn’t like him. I knew he had added strings to the session, and he seemed to be second-guessing himself.”

Bradley sought a favor. “Teddy, I want you to hear what I’ve just done on Patsy’s tracks.”

Wilburn met the producer at the studio, where Bradley put on the session tapes.

“Owen, I don’t know what you’re so concerned about,” Teddy said. “The session is pretty evenly balanced between traditional country and the new sound.”

“Wait. Let me put on ‘Crazy.’”

He ran the tape. Bradley shut off the recorder very solemnly. “I want to know, do you think I’ve gone too far away from country?”

“No. I don’t think so. Patsy’s had a couple of really fine records. It’s not like she’s just got one hit behind her. She’s made her mark with each of her big sellers in country and pop. She’s crossed over. It’s what her audience wants. She’s not the Wilburn Brothers! Not to worry.”

Bradley thanked Wilburn, turned the lights out, and locked the studio. There was no turning back now.

Amazingly, Patsy hit the road. Charlie took an extended leave from his job to be at her side. Their lives had changed drastically. Patsy, in her weakened and bruised condition, was dependent on Charlie as never before, and on her career to pay the ever-mounting hospital bills as lawyers wrangled over the insurance payment. As a result of the accident, Patsy was on edge and often in great pain.

Though Charlie has more than his share of detractors, even among friends, when Patsy needed him he was there. He may not have liked it, but she only had to ask. That, however, didn’t mean they were always cordial to one another.

On September 8, Patsy and Charlie celebrated her twenty-ninth birthday. One of her presents was the money rolling in from “I Fall to Pieces,” which was still selling well. The
Billboard
issue of Tuesday, September 12, had the song in its highest slot yet, the number 12 position on the pop chart. That was three notches above Elvis’s “Little Sister” and four above Roy Orbison’s “Crying.”

Patsy returned to the Opry to sing on September 16. She arrived in a wheelchair, since her leg was still in a cast. Charlie pushed her up the ramp into the back entrance to the Ryman Auditorium. He helped her onto her crutches, and she made her way to the wings, took a seat, and held court. She was engulfed by well-wishers.

“Considering what happened, Patsy had a marvelous attitude,” remarked Gordon Stoker of the Jordanaires. “She may have been hurting on the inside, but she was all smiles. The only thing that seemed to concern her were the scars on her forehead. She tried her best to cover them with a lot of makeup, but they were still quite visible.

“She told me the surgery and all was a lot to pull through. Seeing her, I couldn’t begin to understand. I could only imagine the inner strength she mustered to get back on her feet. It was a miracle. When we talked privately, Patsy said she wasn’t looking forward to plastic surgery, but felt it was a career necessity. She didn’t even bring anything about her accident up unless you asked, and then only to trusted friends. She wasn’t looking for sympathy.”

Grant Turner gave her quite a welcome. As Patsy hobbled to the microphone with her crutches, her appearance was met with pandemonium. She’d already started crying. Charlie, Pearl Butler, and Jan Howard helped her wipe away the tears. She sang “How Can I Face Tomorrow” and received a standing ovation. She sang “Lovesick Blues” and received another. She hobbled offstage. The cheering didn’t stop. The audience wouldn’t quit until Patsy sang “I Fall to Pieces.” She brought the house down and waved good-bye, then hobbled off into Faron Young’s arms.

“Some people will do anything to get applause!” Young razzed.

The emotion of the moment overtook Patsy and she exploded, “No, Sheriff, it’s talent and guts they’re applauding!”

“Well, goddamnit, who wouldn’t? They can’t help it when you go out there with those sympathy sticks!”

“Why, you jealous son of a bitch! Here, you take ‘em and you go out there with ’em.”

“Oh, no, honey. I wouldn’t want to deprive you. Hark, your public is demanding you.”

Patsy went out for another bow and, as she exited offstage, she swung one of her crutches at Young.

“Goddamnit, Patsy. Can’t you take a joke? Shit! I was just kidding around.”

Charlie got between them. Young kidded Patsy later that it was a close shave, and that Charlie saved his life.

Pearl Butler had no doubt Young was having fun. “He loved Patsy too much to be jealous. She was on edge and got a bit upset. They hugged after things cooled and it was forgotten. After that it became a standing joke and Jan [Howard], Jeanie [Shepard], Dottie, me and some of the other girl singers would ask Patsy if we could use her ‘sympathy sticks’ for one number, so we’d get a standing ovation.”

Decca released the “Crazy” single, with “Who Can I Count On?” as the flip, on October 16. Five days later, Patsy, in her first appearance without crutches since the accident, introduced the song on the Opry.

“‘Crazy’ is my favorite Patsy Cline song,” Loretta declared. “When Patsy did it on the Opry, she got three standing ovations. When she left the stage, Patsy was so moved she was crying. She took my hand and said, ‘Girl, I guess that’s gonna be my song.’”