Kentucky Traveler (24 page)

I explained all about this beautiful old Loar and the work it needed. It called for his touch. The idea was to spiff it up a little and highlight its fine pedigree, not give it a full makeover. A thin coat of finish was all I needed. He said he'd do it for $250, which was a bargain.

So now the total price was up to $2,500, and I didn't have a dime to spare. I went to my friend Hugh Sturgill, who was close with J.D. at the time, and I told him how bad I needed this Loar. I asked him if he could help me get a loan. Hugh said he'd do his best.

We went to the bank, and it didn't start out too good. I told the bank manager what I needed the money for, and he just about laughed in my face. “You're going to pay $2,500 for a mandolin? What's it made of—gold?”

“No, sir,” I said. “It's wood and steel. And it feels great in my hands and it sounds great, too. I've got a new job in a great bluegrass band and I gotta have a great instrument and this old mandolin is what I need.”

And I told him the story of Lloyd Loar and his legendary mandolins, and how Bill Monroe had changed the course of American music with his famous F-5 Loar. None of it meant a thing to him. He looked me up and down, shook his head, and sort of grumbled, “I don't know how we're gonna sell an old mandolin if you can't make payments on this loan and we have to repossess it.” He talked as if I was just wasting his time.

Well, this banker's harsh words and bad manners were offensive to me. To his way of thinking, I was just another no-account musician. In his world, musicians didn't have a good reputation for repaying loans, and there were plenty of pawnshops full of hocked instruments to prove his point. Good thing I had Hugh along. At that point, when it seemed like all bets were off, he told the banker, “Look, I'm gonna co-sign for Ricky, and it'll all work out just fine.” Now, Hugh built houses for a living, and he was well respected in the community. He had a friend who was high up at the bank and was a bluegrass fan, so he called the friend over and explained everything. And the bluegrass banker said to the non-believing banker, “Let's take a chance on this guy. I think he's good for it, and Hugh says he'll co-sign. Let's make the loan.”

So that bank finally lent me the $2,500, and I needed every daggone penny. In 1974 that was a lot of money to borrow. Especially for a mandolin. I phoned the guy in Detroit and told him I had the check for him. We set up a meeting to make the deal, and I wanted to get up north fast before he had a chance to change his mind. I hopped on a Delta flight out of Lexington, and I flew to Detroit. I had already booked a return flight within an hour straight back home to Kentucky. It was gonna be just get it and get out.

This was back in the days when you could meet somebody off the street right there at the gate—you didn't have to go through security like nowadays—and that's what happened. I came through the arrival gate, and there the guy was, waiting for me, right on time, and he had the mandolin case tucked under his arm. His grown-up daughter was there with him, too, but I didn't pay much attention to her. I was too fixated on what was in that case.

I didn't remember the case being so banged-up. It looked like a truck had run over it. The black covering was stripped away. It was just a raw wood case all scuffed up, with two little latches, one of which was busted. The handle was gone, and there was a piece of leather wrapped around the hinges so you could carry it.

I sat down and started playing. Oh, God, yes. This full, rich tone came pouring out. It sounded even better than I remembered.

I set the precious Loar down. I smiled friendly-like and said in the style of a satisfied customer, “I'll take it—here you go!” I tried to hand the guy the check, but he wouldn't accept it. “I don't know,” he said, sort of scratching his head, wheels turning. “Buddy, I've about decided I don't want to sell it. Tell you what I'll do. I'll pay the expenses for your trip back if we can just forget the whole deal.”

Thinking back on it now, I probably shouldn't have played the mandolin at all. I think the sound of the Loar made the guy start having second thoughts.

“No, sir,” I said. “I've gone through a real hard time to get a loan so I could buy this mandolin. We had a deal. You said you'd sell it. To me.”

Just then, his daughter piped up. She hadn't said a word the whole time, but she couldn't hold her tongue anymore. “Daddy, you know what you promised Mama!” she said. “You told her that when you sold that ol' mandolin, you'd buy her a brand-new washer and dryer.”

He gave her a look. “Yeah, I remember.” He knew he'd been outvoted. He knew he'd lost the Loar, and there was no turning back. “You know,” he told me. “This is the finest mandolin I ever played.”

“Yeah, it's a good one,” I said, all the while closing it up in the case, tightening that leather strap real good, putting it under my arm, and just hugging it. The mandolin was mine. My dreams had come true.

There was nothing else to say. He took the check, and they walked away. Sure was glad I had a short layover back to Lexington. Soon as we got finished, the gate agent called the passengers for our flight, and not a bit too soon for me. When I got on the plane and put my mandolin in the overhead and took my seat, I looked out the window, and there he was down by the gate, watching me leave with his Loar. I even felt sorry for the guy.

I
t took a good long while for this Loar deal to go down. For the first few months I was in Lexington, I was playing a mandolin I had borrowed from Larry Rice, who'd just left the band. J.D. and the New South had a big following in Lexington. For years they were the house band at the Holiday Inn North, which was a little ways up Newtown Pike at the intersection of I-64 and I-75. J.D. was one of the first to take his bluegrass uptown for the college crowd, and he made that Holiday Inn gig so popular they gave it the nickname the Crowe's Nest.

The hotel had a bar called the Red Slipper Lounge, and we played there five nights a week, four shows a night. Décor-wise, the Red Slipper was a fancy place for bluegrass, especially considering the era we're talking about. It had chandeliers and mirrors and thick shag carpet and real waiters, the works. But true to the music, it was rowdy and noisy as could be. It wasn't really a place to get food unless you consider booze and bluegrass to be food groups, and I reckon a lot of the regulars did. They loved to drink and holler and they loved their bluegrass and they let you know it.

The Red Slipper was loud and smoky, and when I say smoky, I mean every fiber of your clothes would be saturated with stale cigarette smoke, right down to your socks. I'd come home at night after four hours of playing and try to pull my shirt off, and I got to where I'd flinch, I'd just about upchuck my dinner, by the time the shirt got around my nose. The crowd was a mix of locals from Lexington, townies and college kids both, and people who drove in from miles away. There were students from the University of Kentucky; some of the Wildcat basketball players were bluegrass fans, and they'd come by after practice and catch the late show. We were packing the place most every night. I was twenty-one years old playing music I loved for a living, and I was having a ball. A new band, a new crowd, a new town: Everything was new and fresh, 'cept for my clothes at the end of the night.

The thing I liked most about working for J.D. and the New South was not only their musicianship, but their approach. They were doing traditional and progressive bluegrass, and they were doing 'em both justice. They weren't afraid to try all kinds of music. Didn't matter what style, as long as it felt right. They were taking songs by Gordon Lightfoot and Fats Domino and Guy Clark and Bob Dylan and turning 'em into bluegrass. Nothing was watered down or compromised. Tony was good at finding folk-type material that could be adapted to our style. The New South was all about exploring new territory, and that was just my speed.

J.D. was the oldest member of the band by close to twenty years, and he was the leader and headman, but he gave his musicians a lot of leeway. It was a democratic setup, really, where every man counted equal. There was a lot of camaraderie and competitive fire. We had a real team spirit on stage, same as those UK Wildcats had on the basketball court. This band had chemistry. You can't force a musical bond like that; it just happens. From the first mandolin chop, I felt a surety and a rock-solid foundation I'd never experienced before. With these guys, you always knew where the “one” beat was, no matter what the tune. You could set your watch to it. Timing is so important. Anybody can play fast; what matters is playing together. The Red Slipper Lounge was where we started to make a name for ourselves. People were calling us J.D.'s hottest band yet. We were building a reputation beyond the local bluegrass nuts to folks from all over the region who came to see what all the fuss was about.

It was the first real taste of fan adulation I'd ever had, and it felt good. The fans loved our music and wanted us to know it. One way people showed their appreciation was to buy you a drink. This happened so often that if I'd drunk every drink people wanted to buy me, I'd a-been drunk as a skunk every night and passed out on the floor.

Well, by now you know I just wasn't a big drinker. I mean, I might drink something every now and then, but I was not a heavy drinker at all. Never was and still ain't. Especially when music's involved. For me, drinking and playing music don't mix. Being a lightweight has saved me from a lot of trouble through the years. In this case, it saved me some money when I needed it.

If you turned down a free drink, it was an insult in a place like the Red Slipper—at least it was in that day and age. Like you were putting on airs. I didn't want to offend folks who were only trying to be neighborly, so I came up with an arrangement.

What I did was make a deal with the bar girl. I told her, “Look, if someone wants to buy me a drink, you go ahead and charge 'em for a drink. Then just bring me a glass of seltzer water and stick a cherry in it to make it look like a Tom Collins.” And that was how we did it. She'd bring me a seltzer, I'd smile a thank-you to whoever was buying 'em, and then I'd sip on however many of came my way. Nobody was the wiser, and everybody was happy. At the end of the night, I'd settle up with her. She'd give me the seventy-five or eighty dollars people had spent buying me drinks, and I'd give her a nice big tip. Sounds like eastern Kentucky to me!

One thing I didn't like was that it was my first job trying to emcee a show. I say “trying” because I never really got a handle on it. I'd never really emceed before in my life. But I figured, what better way to learn than four sets a night? J.D. wasn't a front man, and Tony had tried it but didn't like it much, either. I had to learn the hard way that there ain't nothing easy about it. I mean, Carter Stanley and Lester Flatt and Porter Wagoner, these were the great front men of country music. They were the role models I had in my mind. But they were incredible entertainers, and Lord knows they made it look easy. As soon as they hit the stage, they could take the measure of a crowd, and they could talk into a microphone so casual you'd swear they were catching up on old times with a roomful of their best buddies. It took years of work before I felt natural in that job. But I grew into it, and nowadays I love it. With the New South, I just tried to learn from my mistakes.

Working four shows a night is a great way to hone your skills. Singing with J.D. and Tony was another education for me. These weren't typical bluegrass vocal arrangements; there were lots of different harmony structures. I had to learn songs like Gram Parsons's “Sin City” that featured a high lead with J.D. and Tony singing their vocal parts below me. It was something I hadn't done before, and I really had to stretch and try new things.

As for my mandolin playing, well, those shows at the Red Slipper helped me get my chops back, and when I came back from Detroit with my Lloyd Loar, I felt like a ball player with a Louisville slugger, finally ready for the big leagues. Turned out it was just in time, because we were getting ready to cut an album for Rounder Records. Rounder had asked J.D. for some instrumentals to showcase the band's picking skills, and he told 'em we had a batch of fresh songs we'd been working up on stage, a wide range of material that hadn't been done by a bluegrass band. Rounder gave J.D. the green light.

We did a lot of rehearsing at J.D.'s house, and then we went to Washington, D.C., to make the record. I knew the young Dobro player Jerry Douglas from our time together in the Country Gentlemen. He still played with the group, so he was in town. I told J.D. about Jerry and suggested he might be a good addition for the album. I was telling him how Jerry was taking his Dobro playing to new levels, and J.D. said, “Well, maybe a song or two.” He didn't want too much Dobro, 'cause he was worried it might take the music in a direction he didn't want to go.

I called Jerry and told him we wanted him to help out on the record. He was stoked and came by the studio. He played on a couple songs, and his Dobro sounded so fresh and fit so well with the group that J.D. asked him to play on another couple, and Jerry ended up playing on nine of the eleven songs we recorded.

My F-5 Loar was ready for action, and I got to step out with a solo on “Old Home Place.” I know for sure the Red Bomb would have bombed out! The album was a big success. Bluegrass fans took to it, and so did a lot of young musicians. Rounder didn't give it a title, so people got to calling it the “Old Home Place” record, or just “0044,” for its label number on the record jacket. I think back on it now and realize how fortunate I was to be there at the right time and get to be a part of the record. It's really become landmark of bluegrass.

There was a controversy about the photo on the album cover, which showed J.D. poking his finger in Bobby Slone's ear. J.D. was pranking, but quite a few people thought it looked like he was flipping the bird with his middle finger. Bluegrass purists could be a prickly bunch, and it didn't take much to get their hackles up. They raised heck about it, so Rounder had to issue a new version of the album with a different cover.