Honky Tonk Angel (24 page)

Hughes came from the middle-Tennessee town of Murfreesboro and went into the business at fifteen. He played rhythm guitar with Moon Mullican, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Ferlin Husky, and George Morgan, appearing frequently with them on the Grand Ole Opry. In 1949 he originated the first country variety television shows in Miami.

In 1955 he fell in love with Kathaloma (Kathy) Copas. The couple married in 1956, and not long after he decided to allow his musical skills to take a back seat to his financial expertise.

“Randy was working for Ferlin and making some investments,” said Lightnin’ Chance, now Hughes’s business partner. “We were turning our stock commissions back into buying more stock. While Randy handled Ferlin, I ran the brokerage end and looked after the real estate holdings.”

“When Ferlin was running hot, Hubert wanted to take over his career. He kept telling him, ‘You need someone established who knows how to do things.’ Ferlin realized he needed Long, but he was fiercely loyal. Finally he told him, ‘If I go, you gotta take my boy.’ So he did.

“Hubert took Randy and really taught him the management business. Eventually he took some of the load off him, becoming road and business manager to such stars as Ray Price, Wilma Lee and Stoney Cooper, and the Willis Brothers, not to mention his father-in-law Cowboy Copas.”

Copas was a good example of how Randy’s business acumen transformed a stalled career. Cowboy, along with Ernest Tubb and Hank Williams, had been a country superstar in the late 1940s, first as a performer on Cincinnati’s Midwest Hayride and on King Records with such hits as “Filipino Baby,” about a South Carolina sailor in World War II who falls in love with a dark-skinned girl from the Philippines; “Signed, Sealed and Delivered”; and “Honky-Tonkin’.” Making a complete switch, he recorded “Tennessee Waltz,” “Kentucky Waltz,” and “Tennessee Moon” and earned the moniker the Hillbilly Waltz King.

He suddenly fell out of favor with fickle audiences and for almost a decade found work only on the tavern and fair circuits—until Randy stepped in. Under his guidance, Copas recorded “Alabam.” Soon he was back on the charts with it, “Flat-top,” and a redo of “Signed, Sealed and Delivered.” He was an Opry sensation.

Cowboy told everyone he owed his resurgence to Randy. Hughes’s friends weren’t surprised.

. “Randy was one of the nicest, most straightforward guys you ever met,” Husky praised. “But, above all, he was honest.”

Singer Billy Walker stated, “Randy knew the business. He not only was a musician but he knew the musicians and could put together some swinging bands. What really made him stand out was this sixth sense he had about the potential of artists to become stars.”

“Randy was another gamble for Patsy,” Chance explained, “but he proved to be her winning bet. He was a born smoothie and, if you’re going to be a manager in country music, that’s the number one prerequisite. Randy went to the goal for Patsy. He didn’t have much luck at first, but he tackled McCall. Randy was all for Patsy and McCall was always dipping his hands into the gravy for his share.

“Charlie told us that McCall deducted everything but the kitchen sink from Patsy’s royalties. Randy and McCall were constantly at each other’s throats. Randy
kept harping to McCall and McCall’d harp right back. Poor Randy used to say, ‘God, I wish he’d give us a break!’ But I also heard how McCall would cringe at the mere mention of Randy’s name.”

Randy booked a dual spot on the December 12 telecast of “Jubilee, U.S.A.” for Husky and Patsy. They sang solo, then dueted on “Let It Snow.” The result was bagfuls of mail. That gave Hughes the idea of pairing the stars on Husky’s show.

The outrageous Husky is still considered one of the consummate showmen in Nashville music history. Randy handled the singer’s investments, played guitar in his band, and was his road manager. When Young didn’t have work for Patsy, Husky had her touring with him. Thirty-three, he hailed from Flat River, Missouri, where he began as a disc jockey, then in the late forties established a recording career under the aliases Simon Crum and Terry Preston. He felt Ferlin Husky sounded unreal and made-up. Onstage and off, he was an eccentric. He wore foppish three-piece suits, lavender and ruffled lace evening shirts, loved gold jewelry, and smoked cigarillos. When he sang he transfixed audiences.

As Preston, he dueted with Jean Shepard on “Dear John Letter,” the number one country hit of 1953, had a smash with “Gone” and later with “Wings of a Dove.” He was a pioneer in syndicated country TV shows and, with Young, modern country movie musicals, which, though awful, proved to be good box office in the South and Southwest

Women meant everything to Husky, and he had four marriages to prove it—six to date.

“During the whole time with that Four-Star bastard,” Charlie reported, “Patsy only earned nine hundred dollars from ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ and her other recordings combined.”

Donn Hecht said, “I certainly don’t want to suggest that everyone’s heart bleed for Bill McCall. No one loved Patsy better than me, except for Charlie, but things have been exaggerated. Those close to her never admit the staggering number of failures before and after ‘Walking’ After Midnight.’ Those countless sessions added up to a considerable amount over a long period. The money to pay for all that came from her royalty account.

“Patsy would do warmup sessions with the musicians to zero in on what she and Owen Bradley would shoot for in a final master session. True, Bill brought her into the studio again and again to record and contractually forced her to record Four-Star material. But the music business is a business like any other.

“Of Patsy, it’s been stated that money was her biggest objective. In a way, I suppose this was true. I was in Bill’s office several times when Patsy’d call collect and ask for cash advances for the rent, the car payment, her mother, you name it. They’d get into violent arguments.

“On one occasion, McCall hung up, shouting, ‘She wants twenty-five hundred dollars!’ He threw up his hands. ‘Last week it was seven hundred. The week before, four thousand! She’s a stupid, selfish girl who thinks money grows like lettuce leaves.’ I remember once she told him something to the effect that she wasn’t satisfied with her mother having a four-year-old car and wanted to get her a new Cadillac.

“If she wanted money, it was for some kid down the street who needed clothing for school, or a neighbor who couldn’t-pay a doctor’s bill. I honestly believe that if Patsy had all the money in the world, she’d have divided it equally among all its people, and left herself only enough for bus fare.

“At the height of ‘Walkin’ After Midnight,’ Patsy was in Des Moines. She was contacted by the mother of a girl who had a ticket for her show but who was rushed to the hospital for an operation. Although she was tired and ill, after the show Patsy sat on the edge of the girl’s bed and spoke to her as if she’d known her all her life. She asked what her favorite song was and Patsy sang softly as the girl went into a sleep from which I’m told she never woke.

“Only once did I hear Patsy talk of wanting a luxury for herself. ‘When I was little,’ she told me, ‘I saw a movie where this rich woman took a bath in this real fancy tub. The wallpaper looked like it was speckled with real gold. Someday, I’d like a bathroom like that.”’

Charlie recalled a time when Patsy managed a taste of revenge on McCall: “We were in Pasadena and he took us out to his garage, where he had what he called a studio. He was a helluva manipulator and wanted Patsy to do a demo. There was someone playing piano. He asked me, ‘Hey, can’t you play the guitar?’ I replied, ‘Nope. I’m no musician.’ McCall turned the guitar over and asked me to beat my hand against it in rhythm with the piano. That was going to be his percussion!

“He put Patsy in front of a mike and started the tape rolling. Patsy sang but gave me a signal. I looked around to see what she was up to. She pointed toward this trash can. I got the message. I leaned over and accidentally knocked the lid to the floor. McCall was livid. He barked, ‘That ruined the track. Let’s do it again.’ Patsy told him, ‘No, Bill. I’m tired and my throat is sore.’”

Faron Young reported, “Many artists were taken advantage of by any number of crooks. McCall is probably one of the more famous. When Nashville was exploding, there were only five major labels. They weren’t able to take on all the acts. It happened too quick for Nashville to absorb.

“Within a two-year period, all sorts of labels and music publishers came in. They had no morals. When Patsy and others came along, they’d do anything to get a record deal. ’Cause if you had records, you worked the road. They’d sign with anybody without thinking ahead. When you signed a contract with McCall, it was like signing everything away. Bill Peer didn’t know the angles and had no one to guide him. Bill McCall screwed everybody in this town once, or tried to.

“You couldn’t go to someone like McCall when you suddenly hit it big and try to renegotiate. He’d tell you in a minute, ‘I got a contract.’ Randy went through hell trying to deal with McCall, and all he had to show for it was premature gray hair.”

It’s been asked many times why Randy didn’t hire a lawyer to break Patsy’s contract. According to Donn Hecht, there were no loopholes. When Patsy asked for advances against unearned royalties, McCall secured them with options. Only one act ever brought a lawsuit.

“We made a demo,” Teddy Wilburn recollected, “of Doyle singing Hank Thompson’s hit ‘Give a Little, Take a Little Love’ and me doing Hank Williams’
‘Long Gone Lonesome Blues.’ We sent it to McCall and he released it as a commercial record.”

“No permission, no contract,” Doyle added, “
and
no money. We took him to court. When I was being shipped overseas during the Korean War, he called and pleaded, ‘If you drop the charges, I’ll get you out of the army!’ I yelled, ‘No way, you bastard. You’re gonna pay.’ And pay us he did.”