If you're a millennial reporter tasked with reporting on the death of someone you've never heard of, I guess you can rely on good old Wikipedia to inform you that the only hit single B.J. Thomas ever recorded was "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head".
Wrong. Criminally wrong.
I learned about B.J. Thomas's passing this morning and musical memories began pouring out.
I was thirteen in 1968 and carrying my transistor radio with me everywhere that summer. I think that's when I first heard this guy with a sexy, relaxed, yet soulful voice wafting through the AM speaker.
I loved that song.
Later that same year, this new guy released another hit, which has been grossly overshadowed by Blue Swede's off-the-wall version (which, yes, I liked), but for pure laid back listening enjoyment, try this:
It wasn't until the following year that millennial reporter's one halfway familiar song was released. My friend and I dutifully went to the theater to see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And yes, B.J. was correct -- the song didn't really fit the scene (or the period), but that's neither here nor there. It's a catchy, typical Bachrach pop song.
B.J. had a couple of top twenty hits between '69 and '75: "I Just Can't Help Believing" and "Rock and Roll Lullaby", but then something odd happened. He showed up on the scene as a country singer.
Far from "Raindrops" being the Thomas track I'll remember most, it's this one instead:
I like this one from 1982:
(Sorry - terrible video quality, but at least there's no stepladder.)
Some would say B.J. Thomas either had a voice that was too country for pop or too pop for country, but I say he was simply a one-of-a-kind phenomenon. Unique; not a musical appropriator.
I was a newly-minted convert to country music in 1967. Admittedly I had tons of catching up to do, but instead of looking back, I was keen to discover country for myself. Country was uncharted territory for me, and if I was going to embrace it, it had to be on my own terms.
'67 was an odd time to embrace country music. My FM station was in love with Glen Campbell, who wasn't exactly country; but night after night, the disc jockey played Campbell and deep Willie Nelson tracks. Clearly the DJ hated country and was simply trying to make the best of his bad situation until he could move on down the road to something more hip. He exclusively played two albums, rightfully assuming no one was listening anyway. In my tiny tomb of a bedroom the only signal that reached me was the FM channel, and I heard enough of "Me And Paul" to last a lifetime. My country mentor, my friend Alice, patiently steered me away from FM. Country music -- real country -- was exploding on AM radio. A new girl singer named Tammy had a sad track called, "I Don't Wanna Play House"; Connie Smith was singing about Cincinnati, Ohio. A country teenager's swoon, Merle Haggard, had three songs in the top ten. And some new guy who spelled his first name oddly, Charley Pride, was busting the country airwaves. His voice sounded like it belonged to an older guy, yet he was brand new. And he had a killer song:
Alice and I knew nothing about this new artist, except that we liked his songs. The internet was decades away from being invented -- all we had was radio and, to a lesser extent, the three broadcast networks who rarely deigned to showcase country music. When I heard "The Easy Part's Over", I pictured a grizzled cowpoke who'd finally muscled his way onto country radio.
I don't remember who heard it first -- Alice or me -- but one day the local DJ casually mentioned that Charley Pride was a Black artist. What? In country? Had he accidentally stumbled into a Nashville recording studio where George Jones was crooning into the mic in an open-collared shirt and a tumbler of whiskey gripped in his hand, and the producer spied Charley lingering awkwardly and thought, hey, this might be interesting?
No.
Charley Pride had grown up on country and it had seeped inside his bones. He'd listened to the Opry on Saturday nights on his crank-up radio in Sledge, Mississippi, and he was in love with it. And he sang the way he sang.
Rain drippin' off the brim of my hat
Sure feels cold today
Chet Atkins, creator of the notorious "Nashville Sound", produced Charley's first singles. "Just Between You And Me" was the first one that charted, and it was not only a great song but a great track. Atkins managed to tone down his beloved strings and background singers and emphasize the elements that made a country single "country". Alice and I liked great recordings; we had no checklist of required artist attributes. I was partial to the Bakersfield Sound, but I could get on board with Hillbilly, too.
One of the first two LP's I bought as a twelve-year-old was this one:
(I still have it, by the way.)
I was just sifting through my dusty record albums the other day and I discovered that I bought a lot of Charley Pride's albums -- seven, in fact. It's impossible to underestimate the impact he had on country music in the late sixties/early seventies. There was a handful of country superstars -- Merle, possibly George Jones, Loretta Lynn -- and then there was the second tier. Charley was a superstar.
I've written before about the momentous event in my young life when Merle Haggard and his retinue checked into my parents' motel. Alice and I had long before purchased tickets for his live show, but to actually see the man in the flesh (walking his dog!) was earth-shattering. One of the opening acts that night just happened to be Charley Pride. Alice and I already had the inside scoop, but most of the audience was taken aback when a Black man appeared on stage. He made a couple of jokes about having a "permanent tan" and "probably not what you expected", but the fans lapped up his performance and his joy.
And, yes, I got his autograph (still have that, too).
By the mid-seventies Charley's star had begun to fade. Unless you're George Strait, your country shelf life is about ten years, if you're lucky. Charley had taken to recording covers of recent pop hits and I was slowly abandoning country. So he and I finally parted ways.
Oh, did I forget? I didn't, actually, but this was not one of my favorite Pride tracks, even though it was by far the recording that shot him into the stratosphere:
In retrospect and sentimentality, I kind of begrudgingly like it now.
Don't ever (ever!) forget the impact Charley Pride had on country music. He was a glowing orb that other artists of his time only wished they could be.
Charley lived a long and happy life and was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2000 (Really? It took that long?)
Charley Pride passed away on December 12, 2020 at the age of 86 from complications of COVID-19 (Thanks, China) shortly after he was honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award at the CMA's. A big chunk of my childhood went along with him.
My parents were excellent Catholics. They didn't stop having kids until God told them it was time to stop having kids. Thus my sister Carole was eleven years older than me and her firstborn son was only a year younger than my baby sister. Mom and Carole were raising babies together -- that's how it worked. Mom was a grandma at age 38.
Carole got married and moved out of the house while I was still a gap-toothed adolescent. She and her new husband rented an apartment in our tiny town, a couple of blocks away from my elementary school. Sometimes I'd chill at their flat after school. My brother-in-law was attending school after work to enrich his job opportunities. I don't recall what he was studying, but I remember seeing his leather-bound books on their apartment shelf and being mightily impressed. Carole and I would listen to AM radio while she scurried to get dinner ready. Carole's place was comfortable and homey.
Being the oldest child, she bestowed upon me my nickname shortly after I arrived home from the hospital. Thenceforth I was Shelly and only used my formal name for school (because it was required).
When our mom set forth on her short-lived restaurant venture, taking me with her, she left my little brother and sister in Carole's care while our dad worked the fields. Carole had two kids of her own by then, but what were two more?
Carole was full of ideas, not all of them necessarily good, but she approached each one with gusto. She approached life with gusto -- wide-eyed, ready for the next adventure. She was by far the most optimistic person in our family and the most jovial. Nothing seemed to get her down and she was always quick to laugh. I think she got that trait from our dad, who was naturally happy-go-lucky, although he had his demons, too. I marvel that either Carole didn't let things get to her or she was the world's greatest actress. She also wasn't a scold -- if someone in the family did something everyone else frowned upon, she just shrugged it off. Life was too much fun for negativity.
Dad, Mom, my youngest siblings and I traveled to Fort Worth for a visit and Carole lamented that she missed spending time with the family. We commenced the two-day drive home and pulled into the driveway only to spy a car with Texas plates pull in behind us. Carole and her family had decided to pull up stakes and move, just like that. (Her husband was a notoriously fast driver, so they probably had a little time to pack their belongings.) I'm certain it was her idea and she had made it sound like so much fun, every member of her family thought, heck yea!
That was Carole. Whereas my second oldest sister and I were cautious and my big brother was calculating, Carole could talk all of us into abandoning our inhibitions and darting off on a new quest. And it was fun. I don't think I ever laughed as much in my life as when I was around her.
My sister died today. She was seventy-six. Her four sons were with her. Life wasn't especially easy for her after her divorce. She worked long past the time she should have been home enjoying her grandchildren. I bet she never complained, though, and simply thought of it as another of life's adventures.
Bye, Carole. Please share a laugh with Mom and Dad when you see them.
The 1990's was a sublime decade in country music. Aside from the sixties, which few people, alas, remember, the late eighties to mid-nineties were the most consequential years in country's history. It took a great talent, or at least a sit-up-and-take-notice track to cut through the deluge of astounding, now-classic singles that hit the radio waves. One could flip on their car radio and invariably hear a good, nay, damn good song.
While the music was great, for the most part the lyrics weren't exactly poetic (not that poetic lyrics are a prerequisite -- I love music because it's music.) I do, however, admire a songwriter who can actually say something in very few words. It's not easy. A song obviously has limited parameters....plus it has to rhyme! Writing a song is a skill that can be learned, but writing one that isn't a cliche requires natural talent.
I grew up in a small town, where as teenagers our entertainment options were limited. We didn't necessarily care, because we didn't know any better. Yes, Friday nights were spent "dragging Main", as we called it. Main Street was miles long, so we traveled up and back, up and back; met other travelers in the Big Boy parking lot at the edge of town; sometimes hopped into their car (or more likely, their pickup) and traversed the trail a few more times; drank a few Old Milwaukees that the one guy who was twenty-one had earlier picked up at the liquor store; made out, maybe made a date for the following weekend; eventually climbed back into our own car and made a couple more passes down Main before heading home.
So, for a guy who grew up in Greenwich, New York to write a song that captured our lives and our sensibilities was a revelation:
There's an Elvis movie on the marquee sign We've all seen at least three times Everybody's broke, Bobby's got a buck Put a dollar's worth of gas in his pickup truck We're going ninety miles an hour down a dead-end road What's the hurry, son... where you gonna go? We're gonna howl at the moon, shoot out the light It's a small town Saturday night It's a small town Saturday night
(And yes, we did stop along the way and put a dollar's worth of gas in the car.)
If one was cynical, they might view the song as ridiculing a certain way of life, but I don't think that was Hal's intent. To me, the song is a mini-screenplay; a slice of life, one that fewer and fewer people can now relate to; and apparently Bobby was precociously aware:
Bobby told Lucy, the world ain't round Drops off sharp at the edge of town Lucy, you know the world must be flat 'Cause when people leave town, they never come back
Hal Ketchum's career spanned the nineties, racking up five top-ten singles (Small Town Saturday Night peaked at number two). Here is another nice track that reached number two on the charts:
Another #2 hit apparently has no official video (record companies don't believe in "over-investing" in artists):
In country's heyday I purchased two or three CD's a week, and I bought the "Past The Point Of Rescue" album. In hindsight I bought a lot of "one-album wonder CD's", and that's not a knock on Hal or on any of the other artists of that time. And Hal had other albums besides this one; it's just that the artist choices throughout the decade were overwhelming, andmy criteria was, the album had to at least contain one song I was familiar with.Hal's biggest hits were pretty much bunched onto that first CD.
I will posit, however, that if you write one great song in your life, you have accomplished more than what 99.9 per cent of other so-called songwriters have.
And you gotta be a poet to do that.
Hal Ketchum passed away on November 23. He was only sixty-seven years old.
Country music fans of a certain era know Johnny Bush. How could they not? I've told the story before about being shipped to stay with my older sisters in Fort Worth, Texas when I was thirteen. That's the time I first heard Johnny Bush, on Bill Mack's all-night radio show on WBAP. At first I thought, who's this guy trying to sing like Ray Price? (Ray Price actually had a lower register, but Johnny's phrasing was very similar.) It seems that Johnny had been a member of Price's Cherokee Cowboys, so a bit of absorption was probably natural. However much I mistakenly thought he was a Price wannabe, however, I couldn't ignore the perfection of this track:
This was 1968. Johnny had released a couple of earlier singles, but I heard this one first. Later I discovered another Bush recording from that year that has since become a classic (and was covered sublimely by Mark Chesnutt):
What Johnny Bush did so well, aside from writing songs, was to perform them in a flawlessly heart-stabbing, gut-punching classic country style.
Johnny's hit-making time was short. 1968 to his last real hit in 1973 only comprises five years, but it seems like so much more. Those years, as it happens, coincided with my newfound and total immersion into country music. It was also the time when the music was country -- Merle, Tammy, Connie Smith -- they didn't try to hide it. That was the cache of country music. The only people making fun of the music then were "too cool" dolts who'd never ever listened to it ~ as opposed to today when people who profess to like country music actually have no idea what country music is.
I was a junior in high school when this track was released and my friend Alice and I loved it. Johnny wrote it, but it was later co-opted and ruined by Willie Nelson. Unlike me, Johnny was no doubt thrilled that Willie played it (and still plays it) at all his shows, but unless you're a fan of jazz-country, Willie's version reeks. Here's how it's supposed to sound:
1973 was the last time I heard a new hit from Johnny. Alice and I were taking a post-graduation road trip and anytime this song was queued up on the car radio, we sang along...loudly.
After '73 my life moved on and I rarely thought about Johnny Bush except to spin his singles from time to time. I thought that he, like many artists of his time was simply dropped from his label. The music was changing (and not for the better), so that was that. Only later did I learn that Johnny lost his voice due to spasmodic dysphonia and could no longer sing. Through years of work he eventually regained seventy per cent of his singing voice, but by then the times had passed him by. He still performed regularly in Texas, though, where we was (rightfully) revered.
Johnny Bush died on October 16 at the age of 85 and took a large chunk of my musical past with him. I'll surely miss his voice.
Around the time I finished eighth grade in May of 1969, life at home spiraled into chaos. For two years I'd dealt with my dad's blackout drunks and my parents' fighting over it, to the point of fingernail slashes and pummeling fists. I was a wreck; but loathe to let it show (a prime characteristic of a child of alcoholism). I have pushed many of those days from my mind -- all the days tended to melt into one anyway; but my pre-high school summer was not one of fun and frolic.
Mom's doctor prescribed tranquilizer, Miltowns, to help her cope; thus, she slept a lot and wasn't especially coherent when she was out of bed. My two older sisters lived with their families in Fort Worth and through second-hand feedback, became alarmed about the situation. Thus, my sister Rosie and her husband flew up to assess. I don't know if I ever learned how it was determined that my seven-year-old sister and I would return with them to Fort Worth to "stay a while". Why my eight-year-old brother wasn't included, I cannot explain. Of course, I was ignorant of the entire plan until it was sprung on me, so I wasn't privy to those conversations.
The four of us took the train from Bismarck to Fort Worth, with lots of little adventures along the way; some odd; but all of them fun for a newly-minted teenager who'd never ridden a train in her life. My other sister Carole had four boys and a husband, so we bunked with Rosie and her husband in their apartment and slept on a fold-out couch in their living room. I had no inkling how long this experiment would last; all I knew was that I needed to get back in time for the start of school in the fall. In the meantime, I had fun...especially without that ninety-pound weight of dread crushing my chest.
The two couples loved the night, maybe because it allowed them to escape the oppressive Texas heat. Thus the gaggle of us attended a lot of drive-in movies and otherwise stayed up late and played board games; my sisters drinking Dr. Pepper and their husbands chugging Dr. Pepper plus...something. In the background always was the radio, tuned to the hottest country station in the south, WBAP.
That's when I first heard the voice of Bill Mack. I'm not sure if it was circumstances; being lonely for home, yet afraid to go there, or my tiny mixed-up emotions, but Bill Mack's voice was a comfort to me. He just talked. Disc jockeys today, if any remain, love to fake it. Big booming radio voices; super-jazzed all the time over virtually nothing, even partly cloudy skies! Bill liked to have a conversation, albeit one way, with his listeners. He also liked to spin good country music. Bill didn't play much Glen Campbell; he did play Faron Young and Johnny Bush. Night after night, above the laughter and ribbing, we all listened to Bill Mack talk to us.
Summer's end closed in and sure enough, my little sister and I were sent home. Tears ensued. We flew this time, Mom or Dad having sent a check to cover our flight. Miraculously, everything at home was different! No, actually nothing was different. Life went on; I started my new life as a high schooler. My little brother and sister skipped on to their next grades. That may have been around the time that Dad entered rehab for his second shot at it, and I think Mom kicked her pill habit. I never believed any changes would last for long, and I was right.
On nights when I didn't have to kick back early, however, I tuned my portable radio to try to capture either WHO or WBAP, and I lay awake long past midnight just listening. On an occasional lucky night, through the static, I got to hear Bill Mack talk to me.
***
I would be derelict in my duties as an unknown blogger if I didn't talk a bit about Bill Mack the songwriter. I honestly had no idea that this giant radio voice could also write songs until I bought a Connie Smith album and perused the liner notes. In parenthesis beneath the song title, Clinging To A Saving Hand, I read "Bill Mack". The Bill Mack? What the hell?
In 1968, Cal Smith recorded and reached number thirty-five on the charts with "Drinkin' Champagne". And here you thought it was an original George Strait track (silly!) Of course we don't get to "see" Cal performing the song:
Nor do we get to see George sing it:
We do, however, get to watch Dean Martin's version. Not many country songs lend themselves so readily to easy listening (I guess you'd call it). This one does. I'll take the country stylings, even though I like Dino a bunch. Drinkin' Champagne is apparently just a versatile as Yesterday, only a better song.
No, I didn't forget. LeAnn Rimes had a nice little career going before she abandoned it, and it was all thanks to Bill Mack. By 1996 country music had long begun its subtle shift toward pap. Oh, there were stone country hits certainly, "Blue Clear Sky", anything Alan Jackson recorded; but too came the nauseating drivel of Tim McGraw, John Michael Montgomery, Faith Hill. When "Blue" came pouring out of the radio, out of nowhere, I wasn't sure what decade I was in. This was indisputably a sixties country song. In fact, Bill wrote the song in 1958, and no, he didn't write it for Patsy Cline, but that's a nice story.
Rest in peace, Bill Mack. Thanks for the conversations.
I confess, in 1980 I had no idea who the Charlie Daniels Band was. I visited the movie theater with my mom to see "Urban Cowboy" because we both liked country music and John Travolta. I also didn't know who Joe Walsh was and barely knew Jimmy Buffet. I unfortunately was familiar with Kenny Rogers and fortunately with Boz Scaggs. The movie itself was kind of a dud -- I mostly remember that Scott Glenn was good as a bad guy. And that the new song featured in the flick, "Lookin' For Love", pretty much reeked.
The high point, musically, was this:
My older sister was enamored with this song. I essentially appreciated the nimble fiddling. I've never been a fan of southern country rock, but once Charlie Daniels was on my radar, I began to pay attention. For a time, this song was a favorite:
I liked this one, too:
For a long while I had a wrong perception of Charlie Daniels. I wasn't sure what to make of him -- his music was kind of ragged; his band certainly was. I preferred my country acts to dress in Nudie suits. I thought he was one of those radicals with kooky views. Charlie began as a session player, featured on recordings by Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, even Ringo. For sure, Charlie held divergent views in his eighty-three years on earth, but I really got to know him through his tweets. Politically, he and I, it turned out, were simpatico.
I didn't know much about Charlie, but what I knew, I liked. Charlie Daniels was a decent, country (as in USA) loving man. I'm gonna miss his voice.
Good job, Charlie Daniels. For a southern rock (country) dude, you did yourself proud.
1950's rock was so joyous.It may have had to do with the times. Music reflects the culture that begets it. From what I know of the fifties, the times were bland. Think Dwight D. Eisenhower; Arthur Godfrey; Perry Como. A boxy wooden radio in the kitchen; squiggly lines on a black and white TV with rabbit ears. "How Much Is That Doggie In The Window". White T-shirts and jeans with thick rolled-up cuffs. Bobby socks and saddle shoes. Felt skirts and Peter Pan collared blouses. Kids were itching to break through the dreary fog, but they had no idea how. Listening to Dad's music -- Pat Boone, Patti Page, Paul Anka, and Rosemary Clooney -- just wasn't cutting it. Then along came some crazy flamboyant acts -- out of nowhere. A greasy-haired pompadoured guy from Tupelo, Mississippi who could wiggle his hips; a poet from St. Louis who had a way with words and with a Telecaster; a Lubbock, Texas hillbilly with a hiccup in his voice; a New Orleans piano master with a deep voice; a Sun Records phenom with a straggle of blond bangs who set the black and white keys afire. And a Macon, Georgia black eye-lined, lipstick smeared screacher.
What was this? You mean there's life out there? People can be emotional? Show some enthusiasm? Mom told us that was bad. Our priest warned us against it. What the hell... Some guys from Liverpool covered the song, but not as well:
I learned that Little Richard employed unknown artists such as James Brown and Jimi Hendrix as members of his backup band. I also know that a Minnesota artist named Prince cut his teeth on Richard Penniman songs. It's rare to be a pioneer -- there's not much to discover anymore. Little Richard was a real one. Rest in peace. You saved a generation.
I'd intended to write a different post tonight, but I just heard on Willie's Roadhouse that Harold Reid has passed away. The news brought a tear to my eye. The Statler Brothers have been with me as long as I've been listening to country music, and that's a damn long time. In fact, even before I began listening to country, when I was just a little kid, one couldn't miss this song on the radio:
In the sixties, in addition to performing as part of the Johnny Cash retinue and being featured weekly on Cash's ABC variety show, The Statlers had hits of their own, mostly novelty songs. It wasn't until the group emerged from Johnny's shadow that they came into their own, and boy, did they. The seventies was the Statlers' decade. I was thirteen in 1970 when I heard this song on the radio and my best friend Alice and I agreed that it was fine:
Don, Harold, Phil, and Lew was the order in which they were billed. Harold was the bass singer with a mile-long personality. Don, the lead singer, and Harold were the only actual brothers of the group. Phil Balsley sang baritone and Lew DeWitt had the high tenor voice. Naturally they began their career in gospel, but gospel couldn't hold them. For Christmas in 1972, Alice and I exchanged gifts as we did every year, always record albums. Our rule was two LP's. I loved those surprises, because I got to hear music I'd never heard before. My paltry motel maid earnings allowed me to purchase only a few albums a year, and I gravitated toward "greatest hits" because that gave me the most bang for my four bucks. I unwrapped one titled, "Country Music Then And Now". It was an odd album -- side one consisted of old standards sung to perfection, but side two was something wild. A band called Lester "Roadhog" Moran and the Cadillac Cowboys had commandeered the flip side of the Statler Brothers' album.
The video doesn't do the Cowboys justice. Let's' just say the record was one of a kind. But Roadhog was a short-lived sideline. The very best Statler Brothers album is one called Country Symphonies In E Major. The group's singing was superb. In 1980, this track was released, featuring Jimmy Fortune, who'd replaced Lew after his retirement for health reasons:
I don't know why I love this version of an old song, but I do. Every time Sirius queues it up, I flip up the volume, and it features Harold at his best:
The Statlers biggest hit came courtesy of Jimmy Fortune.
I never saw the Statlers in concert. I saw practically every country artist of the sixties, and I would have gone, given the opportunity, but it never came. A shame. They were part of my life forever, and I loved Harold most of all. I didn't know that the group officially retired in 2002. Time runs together. Harold was eighty and lived a good long life. God's smiling on him, no doubt. Everyone deserves a giggle.
Nineties country music is the soundtrack of my life. The sixties were important to me because they're an imprint of my formative years, but ahhh, the nineties. There was something so optimistic, yet soulful about country in the nineties. Joe Diffie was a huge part of that. Joe began his career doing the expected mix of ballads and catchy camp that soared to the top of the charts, but make no mistake -- this man had a set of pipes rarely equaled. Joe Diffie was an artist who was always there on the radio, but not always noticed. In another time he would have been lauded as a musical phenom, but the nineties was so rife with shooting stars, he was but one of a multitude. I purchased many Joe Diffie CD's -- I bought a lot of CD's; not all of them stellar, but simply owning one or two superb songs satisfied my musical cravings The first Diffie song that really hit me was this:
Then he had this one that really made me sit up and take notice:
1993 was Joe's year, although I wasn't entirely cognizant of it. I'd essentially brushed this song aside until I attended the Mandan Fourth of July parade and spied a float featuring a tableau of this song, and it has stuck with me to this day. Sadly, there is no CMT video available, but here it is:
This is one of those catchy camp songs:
Another:
Here is one with some meat on its bones:
Learning the coronavirus took Joe away seemed like a cruel joke. He was younger than me and it wasn't fair. But life isn't, is it? Somewhere Joe knows, though, that he touched hearts. That counts. Thank you, Joe Diffie, for indelible memories.
I think Kenny Rogers stumbled into country music.I read his autobiography, and as a musician he was many things, but primarily he was a jazz artist. His career soared when he became a member of the New Christy Minstrels in the sixties and then accidentally became the First Edition's lead singer. His "Just Dropped In" will live forever, thanks to the Coen Brothers and The Big Lebowski. Maybe it was when the group decided to record Mel Tillis's "Ruby" that the thought of a country music career pinged in Kenny's mind. I don't remember when I became aware of Kenny Rogers as a country artist, perhaps in 1977 when Lucille hit the charts. He didn't exactly sound "country", but Lucille was a damn good song.
By the time "The Gambler" came around in '78, Kenny was firmly ensconced in the folds of country music. Is there a bigger earworm than "you gotta know when to hold 'em; know when to fold 'em"?
Through no fault of his own, or perhaps because of my country proclivities, I came to disdain subsequent Rogers singles. He was exactly what was wrong with country in the late seventies/early eighties.I didn't stop listening to country because of Kenny Rogers - he was simply a symptom of a widespread virus infecting Nashville.Nevertheless, while on vacation in Duluth, Minnesota with my tiny kids and my parents, when my mom learned that Kenny was set to appear in concert, we scooped up the last remaining tickets. We ensconced ourselves in the nosebleed seats and aimed our binoculars. Frankly my only memory of the concert was that Kenny definitely had a command of the stage. I wasn't impressed with Lionel Richie's "Lady" or "You Decorated My Life". This was hardly country. It was but a year later that Kenny released my all-time favorite Rogers single:
I remember steering my Chevy Malibu up Divide Avenue in 1983 when this next song came on the radio. It sounded eerily like The Bee Gees (duh). Little did I know that I would hear it ten thousand, five hundred and eighty-eight more times. Regardless of its repetitiveness, you gotta give it credit.
I didn't necessarily love Kenny Rogers, but I respected him. Respect is good. He understood the music business like few others. He has left a legacy. And he never shied away from embracing it:
My musical tastes are, to an extent, eclectic. I appreciate genres that would have many of my generation shaking their heads (and wagging their finger at me, no doubt). From my perspective, a person who only likes, say, classic rock, is inflexible and missing out on some of life's musical joys. How many times can you listen to "Walk This Way"? Even if you happen to like it?
I've also come to like things I used to hate. When I was a kid, I thought Sinatra was putrid. Really putrid. Actually, however, he's not bad!
I always loved big band music. Give me a Glenn Miller tune any day.
I like roots rock 'n roll (a lot). And don't even get me started on '80's MTV-era tunes!
I grew up during arguably the best era for music ~ the sixties. Those hundreds (or thousands) of tracks will always claim a ventricle of my heart.
But, all in all, I'm a country girl. Country has always been the ugly stepchild in the eyes of the masses. I grew quite used to that when I was a teenager in love with country music. I actually hid the fact that I loved country ~ I was uncool enough already; I didn't need any extra help in that arena. Outside my immediate family, it wasn't until the nineties that I found simpatico people ~ suddenly I was surrounded by folks who only liked country music. Maybe it was a measure of the musical times. Country was pretty good back then. Every single person I worked with (save two or three), and I worked with a lot of people, listened to country exclusively. It was nice to have people to talk to about songs and friends who frequented concert venues with me. Granted, they didn't know country music history, but how many people did? My high school best friend (who'd reintroduced me to country) had moved on with her life, and we no longer spoke. That's why I rather consider country solitary music. I don't have anyone to which I can say, "Ooh, remember that one?" Because nobody would.
I was thinking about that as I read the autobiography of a former pop star who began a second musical career in Nashville. I'm skeptical that this guy would have recognized George Strait's name in the eighties, much less someone like Tracy Lawrence or Clay Walker or Mark Chesnutt (I bet he knew Kenny Rogers, though ~ which proves my point). I'm not calling this person an interloper...just naive. I sort of like that he suddenly realized country music is good, and he's definitely not someone who claims a verse in this song:
I also thought about how singular and solitary country music is when I read that Earl Thomas Conley had passed away. I don't understand why there isn't a music video, or at least a performance video of this song ~ it's one of my all-time favorites. Is it just me? I can't believe that. In the mid-to-late eighties this was the ultimate slow-dance song in honky tonks:
Throughout his career, Earl Thomas Conley charted more than thirty songs. How many artists can claim that? And yet, few people even know who he was. I miss my friends from the nineties ~ at least they'd know who I was talking about.
Too, I was sad to learn that Hal Ketchum has retired from performing because he's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. When buying CD's was a thing, I bought "Past The Point of Rescue", which featured this song that people wouldn't know was rather cynical unless they listened closely:
How many people recognize Hal Ketchum's name? Alzheimer's hits too damn close to home for me ~ Hal doesn't even know that he was once a country star. But I (we?) know.
It scares me that we're going to lose more people and hardly anyone will notice.
That's kind of why I do this blog ~ so someone, at least, remembers. And acknowledges.
Even if no one but me cares, these are artists who touched me.That counts for something in my musical world.
Hi! How are you? I'm in study hall right now. It's really boring. I don't really have any homework to do. I'm supposed to be working on math problems, but they don't make any sense. Math is stupid.
My school is really old. I think it was built when the first settlers came to Mandan. It's kind of dark. Every sound bounces off the walls. You should see this room. It's huge! A teacher I don't know is sitting at a desk on top of the stage. I think this must have been an auditorium in the olden days. Some boy just dropped his textbook and everybody jumped from the racket.
I hate this school. Sometimes I have nightmares about its big wide staircase. Stupid boys like to make fun of shy girls and pull their hair or make mean comments when I'm just trying to go up to the second floor to my stupid earth science class.
How's Hollywood? I wanted to come out and visit your psychedelic pad, but if I miss school my mom will be mad. Maybe this summer.
I really like your new song "I'm A Believer". Mickey, you really play groovy drums and I love your singing! Thank you for asking me to sing on your next record!
Davy, your tambourine playing is so cool. Peter, you are so funny! I laugh a lot at all the funny predicaments you get into. Mike, I really like your hat. I watch your show every Monday night. If you get the time, could you come and visit me? I haven't actually met any friends yet. Well, the bell's gonna ring so I'd better finish this up. I just wanted to say hi.
2019:
I learned yesterday that Peter Tork passed away. Unless you were a twelve-year-old girl in 1967, Peter's passing probably doesn't mean a whole lot to you. Especially if you weren't a twelve-year-old girl who'd just moved from the only home she'd ever known to a new town, a new state; had a supremely dysfunctional home life and no friends. The Monkees were my 1967 lifeline.
I don't know why I glommed onto The Monkees, except that they were accessible ~ there they were on NBC television, reliably, every Monday night at seven p.m. We lived in a cramped apartment behind my mom and dad's newly purchased motel. I shared a cupboard-sized bedroom with my three and four-year-old siblings and aside from the spare minutes during which I could drop the stylus down on a 45-rpm record and spin Neil Diamond before my little brother and sister wandered home, my only refuge was the broiling console TV squatting in our living room.
The Monkees were my lifeline. I did sit in a cavernous room with about a hundred other kids I didn't know, whiling away my time. And instead of completing my homework assignments, I wrote letters to each of The Monkees. I had different colored pens I used for each of the four band members ~ red, green, blue, and purple. Each of The Monkees received personalized letters that I never mailed.
The me that exists today would say those letters were a means of working out my feelings. That sounds good. I did have a lot of emotions I was not allowed to express, because what did my problems matter, really, when Mom and Dad had so many issues to sort out ~ prime among them that they were both crazy?
I think my first cognizance of The Monkees was "Last Train To Clarksville", which was included on an LP that my big brother gave me as a birthday gift.
As a marketing concept, it was prescient. Much like with the Beatles, I was primed for what was yet to come. I'd not even yet laid eyes on The Monkees, and already I was a fan.
The Monkees had superb songs. And here's a tip that you can only glean from a twelve-year-old girl: We didn't give a F if Mickey, Davy, Peter and Mike didn't play their own instruments on their records. How would we even have known that?? Music was magic that emanated from our transistor radios. Magic. If I'd learned that someone called The Wrecking Crew had cobbled these songs together, it would have made zero difference to me; and twelve-year-old me wouldn't have bought into it anyway. After all, I saw with my own eyes Mickey beating on the drums and Davy banging his tambourine. And Peter doing something on the piano and Mike Nesmith strumming a guitar and looking bored (Mike was, needless to say, my least favorite Monkee).
I don't think I was even cognizant that the group was pre-fab. Subliminally I knew the four of them didn't actually share an abandoned flophouse. But before their TV show had debuted, they were just another pop group on the radio like The Beau Brummels or The Buckinghams, only more exciting. The Monkees came along at about the same time my family was making the move to our new life. The reality of my new existence did not match my initial euphoria. I was too shy to even know how to begin to make new friends, and frankly, I needed to scope these strangers out first to know if I even wanted to be friends with them. When you go to the same school from kindergarten through sixth grade, you don't worry about making friends. Your friends are always just there. Friendship doesn't require any thought or effort. Kids don't react well to a new shy person. They just avoid you ~ you're weird; there's something wrong with you. Maybe you are developmentally disabled. So, I sat in study hall from 11:00 to noon and wrote letters to The Monkees in my spiral-bound notebook...with different colored pens.
The Monkees TV show only lasted two seasons. By the end of its run I'd found a best friend and the group's significance to me had faded. Mickey, Davy, Peter and Mike had filled my friendship void, though, when I desperately needed someone. To celebrate Peter's life, here are some of my favorite Monkee songs:
My personal favorite (thanks, Carole King):
Like most memories, I guess you had to be there. "Being there", though, wasn't too much fun. The Monkees, however, made it at least endurable.
Thanks, Peter, for being my pen pal. Say hi to Davy for me.
I knew of Roy Clark, of course, since I was a teeny kid. I think I saw him perform on the Jimmy Dean Show (on ABC Television), which was, trust me, the only country music show on national TV in the early nineteen sixties. My mom liked the show, so we watched it. My dad was generally working in the fields until way past dark, so it was just me and my mom. This was long before Jimmy invented sausages. I learned from reading Roy's obituary that he had started out as a member of Jimmy Dean's band, but had been fired for tardiness. Nevertheless, Jimmy still brought him onto his network show as a guest. Who could shun such a natural entertainer?
Roy was a happy guy, or at least he seemed to be. He surely loved being onstage. He was a consummate musician; guitar, of course, but he also picked a mean banjo and strung a bow across the strings of a country fiddle.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your outlook) Roy's main claim to fame was starring on Hee Haw. I am amazed that Hee Haw only ran on CBS from 1969 to 1971. It seemed like it was always there. To be clear, there was no way to see country artists on TV in the late sixties except for Hee Haw. So I watched the show and fidgeted through the corn pone skits until the week's featured artist would finally appear. I once went somewhere on vacation with my family and holed up in the motel room to watch Faron Young perform on the show; that's how desperate I was to see some authentic country music.
Roy played his part and played it with gusto. I don't think he viewed the show with as jaundiced an eye as I did. It was entertainment. Sure, it was corny as hell, but he did get to pick a banjo and mug for the camera.
The weird thing about Roy Clark was that he never had many hits. Maybe making hit records wasn't his niche.
To me, his greatest hit will always be his version of a Bill Anderson song, The Tips Of My Fingers:
Here he is performing on the Porter Wagoner Show:
I'd forgotten about this one:
Roy had a novelty hit in 1970, which unfortunately will be remembered more than Tips Of My Fingers:
Roy Clark was a superb musician who buried his talent in eye rolls and an arched brow, probably because he knew how good he was, but thought it'd be bragging to show it.
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