Country Music Broke My Brain (18 page)

He was a good man. He just had a little problem.

I know when Brother Lemon unleashed, “Don't cast your swearls before pine,” I ran out the church doors to keep my head from exploding by trying to hold in the laughter. My mother was incensed and P.O.'d at me. My dad didn't hear it because he was with the other deacons downstairs, counting the donations and whipping up the grape juice and crackers. Later, though, he did think it was hilarious.

So began my lifelong fascination with men of the Lord. Oh, there are a couple of women in there somewhere, but mostly it's the Elmer Gantrys of the world I can't abide (biblical term).

Country music and religion are deeply intertwined. I like that. I like some kind of deep belief system reflected in among the twang. I know a lot of artists and songwriters who are deeply religious. I also know a lot of charlatans, which is French for out-and-out crook—a swindler of the highest degree.

Just as I've written songs with guys who have said grace before a lunch break or who have invited me to share some testimony, I have also worked with and endured the hypocrites who fake their religiousness and screw everyone who comes in contact with them.

I had a lawyer who quit lawyering and became the head of a Christian music label. He was not cut out to do the Lord's work. First of all, he was an atheist, and second, he is perhaps the most honest human on the planet. He finally had a nervous breakdown and left that world. He said he just couldn't deal with folks who said their chief negotiator was God. He'd offer, say, 4.5 percentage “points” on an album. The artist got paid a formula of album sales based on those points. He'd make his offering, and they'd say, “Let me pray on it overnight.” They'd return the next day and say Jesus told them 4.5 points wasn't enough. God thought eight would be better, and ten would be just heavenly.

They would also say God spoke to them about their per diems and how they also had to be doubled and, if possible, God wanted them to receive a fifty grand advance for wardrobe and hair without recouping requirements. You get the idea. Remember, this was a tiny percentage of the whole music business. But these people know who they are.

I should also add my mom
loved
Billy Graham. “Oh, he's such a good man.” I agree. There is something calming and peaceful about a good man of God. I wish there were more like him.

If you've heard as many Sunday-morning radio shows as I have in my career, you can just tell when somebody is a con man. Those Nashville folks who bought Conway Twitty's old place, Twitty City, drive me up the wall. I used to see them in all their gospel glory, chugging expensive merlots at area restaurants. I'd then see them on their TV show the next day, begging for some “donations” because they wanted to put up a satellite dish in Italy. You know, where Rome and the Vatican are? Those poor Italian heathens just don't have enough religion in their lives without these goobers from Twitty City delivering the good news over their new station in Eye-taly (as they called it).

Google them sometime and see how many houses and planes they have around the world. In my mind, the faith healers are the worst. Benny Hinn is the man who travels the world “healing” the bent and desperate people of this wretched Earth. I've never understood why, if a person has that “gift”—to touch somebody and make them walk again—do they have to come to some auditorium in Sioux City, Iowa? Doesn't Benny know there are buildings called children's hospitals, where parents would give their lives to see their baby walk again?

I watched him one night, and so many people were being given the “spirit” that he stopped touching them on the forehead. People get into a state at these events; I understand it. You get all worked up and go forward, and Benny taps you on the forehead and you keel over like a sack of rutabagas.

On this one special night, after awhile, Benny was whacking people with his clothing. I believe it was a lovely checked Botany 500 number. He was delivering people to the Lord through the use of his sport coat. A double turn, a whack of the jacket, and people fainted dead away. Put another one in the “saved” column.

Where do old faith healers go, anyway? If they get decrepit or sick, can't they just reach down and lift the arthritis out of their knees and keep goin'?

There's a guy on television in Nashville I see every Sunday. He's your typical TV preacher guy—motivational and slick. His only claim to fame before he became a religious man was that he killed some poor woman down in Texas and went to prison. How do those folks sit there and listen to him exhort them to do the right thing with that bit of personal history floating around the pulpit?

This is where Ray Stevens comes in. Ray, or “Moan” as we call him (short for RayMoan), took this whole business on squarely with “Mississippi Squirrel Revival”—a gentle and funny song about a lively rodent in a small church like the one I had attended.

Ray is a genius. He has recorded so many classic comedy songs and written such amazing other songs that he's in his own category. I've sat with him backstage at the old Desert Inn in Las Vegas before his shows. We've played golf. We've had tequila and have sat through many a long night at music business functions. I love it that he wrote “Ahab The Arab” and “Gitarzan” with the same fingers that he used to write “Everything Is Beautiful.” He's so tight he squeaks, but he's a great friend.

He also played the piano on “Five O'Clock World” by the Vogues. I put that in for music trivia geeks like me. Ray is, above all, honest and direct. He says what he means and is somebody you can count on for the truth.

I wish more TV preachers were like Ray.

Roach

ROACH
WAS IN HIS CRYPT. Or that's what he called it—“the crypt.” It was the only crypt with a TV screen and a little fan in case it got hot, but it was a crypt. It was just like several others in the middle of a bus in the middle of the country, rockin' down the highway. Some folks called them bunks or beds . . . or home.

Roach always thought of it as his last resting place. This is where he'd like to go out. This was his last ride; he'd had it. El Roacho was done with touring and roadie-ing and everything. It really wasn't
his
choice, but the star he worked for was no longer gonna go on these grueling tours. Times were tough, and even in Roach's world, jobs were getting hard to come by. Country music was changing, and so was Eldon.

That's Roach's real name. He hates it, so don't call him that. His mother was the only one who could call him Eldon. He got the name Roach, as you can imagine, because he could crawl up under anything. When he was eight, he worked for an electrician who had Roach crawl into attics and “pull wire.” He was good at it and getting into anywhere. “Roach, go in there and see if them wires is hot.” Then, there
was
that one year in junior college when a roach meant something else. He sort of went along with the street meaning of “roach” at that point, when people had roach clips for the end of a joint. Either way, don't call him Eldon.

The final ride—it felt like a movie. He rocked back and forth and usually would be asleep by now. A bunk in a bus was the only place where he found he could really get some quality z's.

No road noises, no shake ‘n' bakin', no snoring, no sleep. He'd been a roadie for thirty-eight years of his life, and it was coming to the end of the road. It was the life he loved, but he was getting too old for this shit. He felt the bus shudder and heard a little thump. Probably hit either part of a thrown tire or some poor animal. Probably a possum.

He'd seen a lot of “sail” possums over the years. And sail cat, sail dogs—you name it, he'd seen the sail version of it. When something gets run over enough by buses and trucks on a steaming-hot asphalt highway, it sort of bakes down into a flat shape. You can pick up a sail possum and throw it like a weapon. Imagine death by sail possum.

Speaking of death, he remembered the time he tried to scare that guy who was hitting on his girlfriend, and laughed to himself. Roach just wanted to see if it could be done, that's all. Death by biscuits. Roach and Wheezer grabbed this dude and told him he was gonna die by biscuits. A Pillsbury execution. It was a horrible way to go. Never saw anybody shake so much at the phrase “Death by Biscuits.”

Neither Roach nor Wheezer even knew if it would work. Besides, they weren't really gonna kill the guy, just scare him gray. The idea is you get a small road case, about $300 worth of canned biscuits, and then you stuff the guy and the biscuits into the road case on a hot day. The biscuits heat up, explode from their containers, and slowly start to expand. Roach had heard that guys confessed to things they didn't do just to get out of a self-risin' execution. He laughed again, remembering the victim's muffled shouts as the biscuits rose to the occasion. Pop! Scream. Pop! Pop! Scream. Roach finally let him free and told him to stay away from his girl. He was pulling biscuit dough out of his nose. Good thing it wasn't Roach's wife, or he would have probably let the guy die by dough.

Somebody got up to go to the head. It was one of the first squeamish things you got over real quick on the road. Nowadays they got grinders so you can do more than whiz on a bus. Thank God! No more dashing for the can at a truck stop. There are places in Bangladesh that have better johns than some truck stops.

Roach could play guitar and bass. He also could sing and even once had a recording deal with a private label out of Texas. It was owned by a guy who'd made a fortune selling fake cow pies in a box. They looked as fresh as the real thing, and you could have them delivered to somebody you wanted to either impress or tick off. But Roach lost his deal when the owner went broke 'cause he got sued by a family who ate one of the cow pies, thinking it was a snack. They were likely to have died, and so did Roach's record career.

Roach played bass in a couple of bands. The most fun he had was with Manny Sanchez, the Mexicali Mover. Thirteen dudes onstage in big hats and sparkly outfits. Trumpets, accordions, and one of those giant guitars. Those guys were so much fun 'til the immigration police took them away one afternoon in a big black truck.

He gave up depending on a paycheck from a band when the “OK Chorale” broke up. The OK Chorale was a great band, and Roach thought they were on their way. Wrong again. The drunken lead singer took a swig out of a bottle of Liquid Plumr left on the bar. The poor guy sang like a dying cat after that, and Roach decided on a leave of absence from performing live forevermore.

He drifted for a moment. In that space between awake and asleep, he always thought of his third wife, Mylene. Who
wouldn't
fall in love with a woman who could open a beer bottle with her butt cheeks?
Oh my Gawd, Mylene!
She could dance. She could sing. She could cook. The only thing she couldn't seem to do was avoid dating the local high school football team. She was a world-class nympho, and it was tiring after awhile. Not for Mylene, of course, but for Roach. The last time he saw her, she was standing on I-40 with a sign that said, “Last Girl Before Expressway.” Ahh, My My Mylene.

Roach woke himself up snoring. He did that a lot. The guys on the bus said he sounded like a chainsaw that needs oil.

This was it. The final ride to a home he didn't have. The end of the trail. The last round-up. He winced at the thought of his bank account. He'd made some decent money, but between the wives and his “business” investments, it was gonna be tough sledding. But understand, he
never
put his earnings into anything stupid.

The prescription windshield
was
a great idea. He'd met a guy workin' for Tim McGraw's road crew, and they'd partnered up. The guy would run the business, and Roach was to provide the operating capital. The concept was brilliant. If you wore glasses, you could have the windshield of your car made to your prescription! That way you could drive even if you didn't have your specs with you. So simple.

They were on their way to a fortune 'til some idiot stole the test windshield car. The new driver didn't need glasses at all and promptly drove off a cliff in the Smokies. Some people just don't have no sense.

Now Roach was upset and awake again. He started to calm down when he considered maybe being a roadie in his “extremely late fifties” was not such a good idea anyway. He was really sixty-two. Time to hang up the ponytail, although he'd actually ditched the ponytail years ago after the ceiling fan incident. That hurt like a son of a bitch.

Being a roadie was tough, especially that tour he'd done with the rich TV comedian. Roach's job was to play and guard a cowbell for forty shows. Good money, but he couldn't decide which drove him nuttier, the comedian or banging that cowbell every night for two hours.

What else could he turn to? He had a few years to go before he could claim Social Security. He'd certainly tried other honest ways to make a living. Blimp pilot. It had been a good job, and he would be on Easy Street now except for the flight incident. Sure, he'd sorta fibbed about being able to pilot a blimp, but it was like his mother had said, “What a stupid place to put a building.”