Kentucky Traveler (44 page)

Instead, he said, “I'm asking God to let me preach one more time.” I told him I was so happy to hear that, and said I'd be there to sing for him when the time came. I then asked him, “What would you preach on?” but before I could get all the words out, he said, “I would tell people about the Cross and what Jesus did on that Cross, that there is no other way of salvation but by the Cross, and that they must come to Jesus by faith and accept what He did, and that there is no other way to the Father but by Him.”

He had such a determined look on his old face, and he said, “If just one more person would come to Christ, it would all be worth it. Just one more!” I'll tell you, that day at Dr. Graham's house really made me look closer at what I do for a living. We came into this world with nothing, and the only thing we can leave with is the souls that we've won for Christ. That's a sobering reality!

It was like an old apostle speaking. Here was one of God's great warriors in the winter of his life, and he was still fighting the good fight. I then thought to myself that I want to finish well and hear the Lord say, “Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:21).

It does me good to visit with Dr. Graham and see his love for Jesus. I know that's all he wants the Lord to say, too. All that really matters in the next life is to hear those words from the Savior. Can you imagine what it would be like to hear the Lord say, “Depart from Me, I never knew you” (Matthew 7:21-23)? We won't have to hear those words if we're faithful to Him.

I always want to be willing to let the Lord work in me. I read Scripture and pray and keep my heart open. I don't try to set any long-term spiritual goals. I know that deep down inside I'm the same ol' country boy from Kentucky I always was. I'm just a sinner, saved by His loving grace. I try to take it one day a time, and I say, “Lord, what would you have me do today?” and let Him guide me.

One of the ways I've honored the Lord in my studio has been to hang, in a place of prominence a big color banner that says “JESUS” in big bold letters. Quotes from the Scriptures and beautiful religious artworks are all well and good, but the name of Jesus is really enough for me. His name is above every name (Philippians 2:9–11). He's the ultimate inspiration for everything I do and everything I believe. To boil it all down to what really matters, He is all you need.

God is love (1 John 4:8), and love is all you need. John Lennon sang it right!

'Twill be a wonderful, happy day up there on the golden strand When I can hear Jesus my Savior say, “Shake hands with Mother again
.”

—“Shake Hands With Mother Again,” by Jimmy Martin

N
ow, it's one thing to play bluegrass music, and it's a whole other thing to make a living at playing bluegrass music. It was a walk of faith to leave the country world and all the financial security that went with it. The insiders on Music Row and in the media thought I was crazy to walk away from a successful career. Well, people are gonna talk no matter what you do in this life. I didn't let the mudslinging bother me. Saying goodbye to the big machine of the Music Row industry was a relief in a way. It was saying hello again to bluegrass that had me kinda nervous. You see, I really didn't know what sort of welcome I'd get. You have to understand that I was highly judged and roundly condemned in some circles for leaving bluegrass at all. I'm talking about some of the more devout bluegrass fans with long memories, the hardcore purists who're still as mad as wet hens that the Osborne Brothers used drums all those years ago. There were a lot of sore heads who took me for a turncoat and traitor, and they weren't gonna let me forget I'd spent all those years playing the country star. Some will probably always hold it against me.

Well, I was surprised in the best possible way. Most people not only forgave me, they embraced me as a prodigal son who'd finally returned to the fold. Instead of hoots, I got hugs. Also, I had support where it mattered most, from my old boss, Ralph Stanley. He made it known loud and clear he was behind me all the way. He said that the name I'd made for myself in commercial country would help raise the profile for bluegrass and bring more folks out to the shows.

I sure hoped Ralph was right, for all our sakes. All I knew for sure was that playing bluegrass again was a blessing for me, like giving water to a thirsty man. I was forty-two years old when I devoted myself to bluegrass again, almost ancient for the Nashville crowd. But I felt as young and excited as a kid let loose to run the woods again. Being around so many talented musicians at the festivals really stoked my creative juices, too. It was the perfect environment to get my chops back on mandolin, and to reexperience bluegrass as a living, breathing thing.

My years away gave me new eyes and ears to appreciate things about bluegrass that I'd taken for granted. I realized how pure and uncorrupted and timeless it was. With country music, image was such a big part of the business, especially once CMT, GAC, and the other cable TV networks came along. But bluegrass was still about the beauty of the music, not what the musicians looked like or dressed like. It was music that still had a heart and a soul and an integrity at its core. It was staying alive by staying true to its roots and its heritage. Even many of the newcomers were still paying respect to the music's fathers while carving out a niche for themselves.

After a while, though, there came a day of reckoning. You can play the festivals and talk about how wonderful bluegrass is till the cows come home, but I knew I had to put up or shut up. I knew I had to make a straight-up bluegrass record, put it out on the market, and see if the public was interested. And to tell you the truth, we needed a record to sell on the road.

The contract I had with Atlantic Records gave me the freedom to pursue my own projects. But they also had first right of refusal, and they weren't interested in a bluegrass album. Well, that gave me the freedom to cut a record as raw and traditional-sounding as I wanted to. Nothing watered down, and nobody to please 'cept myself. My days of worrying about country radio were over, 'cause I knew they weren't gonna play bluegrass anyway. If I had anything to prove, it was to those bluegrass purists, the doubters and the naysayers. I wanted to show 'em that I wasn't dabbling. I was dead serious.

Making this record was pure joy. I felt like a man coming out of jail and getting his first home-cooked meal in years. It was a favorite dish I could put together just the way I liked. So I paid for studio time, the band, and the artwork—every bit of it—myself. When it was paid for and done, it was all mine. I called it
Bluegrass Rules!
, and it was the first album I'd ever owned in my life. I started a label, Skaggs Family Records, and found a distributor that wanted to work the album.

It wasn't that I just wanted to run my label as an independent; I wanted to conduct my business from a Christian perspective as well. This wasn't easy. There was a lot of conflict in my heart, and there were a lot of sacrifices to be made.

We went from having twenty employees, two buses, and a tractor-trailer to less than a dozen people and one bus. We didn't need a stage full of amplifiers, drums, pianos, and electronic equipment to put on a bluegrass show. I had to cut my band and road crew from fifteen to eight and simplify my whole organization. It was painful, but it was necessary.

At first, the enemy was busy setting traps and whispering in my ear:
What sort of Christian are you to let people go from their jobs? What's gonna happen if this doesn't work out like you wanted? You won't be able to make a real living doing bluegrass
. I felt bad having to lay off people for sure, but it was necessary in order to do what I wanted to do.

The Devil tried to sow doubt and unbelief in my heart, but God kept saying, “Trust me,” so I did.

Then something really wild happened. In the first month,
bluegrass Rules!
sold well enough to recoup all our expenses. It ended up selling more than 200,000 copies, a whole lot more than my previous two country records combined. Mind you, if a bluegrass album sells 25,000 in any year, it's a huge hit, so this was a shock. The sales figures told me there was an audience out there for bluegrass music, and all I had to do was deliver the goods.

I believe the Lord was blessing the leap of faith we took. 'Course, we weren't selling as many records as in the old days at CBS/Epic, but now I was getting to keep the profits, and keep my masters, too. And now we could pour that money into developing new artists and giving them a fair deal on our label.

The vision I had for Skaggs Family Records was for it to be more than just a home for my recordings. We wanted our label to be a haven for traditional roots music—for young groups like Blue Highway, Cadillac Sky, Cherryholmes, and Mountain Heart, and for seasoned acts like the Whites and the Del McCoury Band. Our label provided a rare chance for young or unsung artists to grow their talent and grow their audience. I'll always be grateful to my cofounder Stan Strickland for helping a dream become a reality by helping to get Skaggs Family Records down the runway.

It was important to show people the bluegrass style we were resurrecting wasn't a museum piece we dusted off and set on a pedestal. We wanted to tap into the power and dynamics of classic bluegrass, like jump-starting an ol' '47 Ford and taking it for a spin on the interstate. I kept thinking we had a big question to answer: Are we gonna settle to be copies, or are we gonna try to take the music to new places?

Our style of bluegrass was a little different from the start. I included three acoustic guitars, one to play solos, one to play rhythm on the two and four of the beat, and the other to play rhythm in a capoed position. At the same time, I wanted to pay tribute to the high, lonesome vocal sounds of the mountains. Paul Brewster was willing and able to blow out some high tenor singing, and he's been with me ever since.

Musically, I felt like myself again, because this was the deepest part of who I was as a musician. There was such a feeling of honesty and happiness singing bluegrass. And the best thing was coming home to the mandolin. It was my first love, and I had missed it.

Not long after Mr. Monroe's funeral, I got a call from somebody wanting to know if I was interested in a 1923 Gibson Lloyd Loar F-5. It had been locked away in a gun cabinet for 43 years. This mandolin was signed by Lloyd Loar himself on July 9, the very same date as the signature on Bill's famous 1923 Gibson. There were only four serial numbers between the two mandolins. I played it, and it had the beautiful, resonant tone you find with aged wood, and I had to have it. So I bought it and named it “Mon,” and I took it with me everywhere. I just couldn't play it enough. Having a new instrument sparks new ideas, and it wasn't long before I was coming up with new tunes.

I remember sitting on the bus and heading to a show date, just picking chords and strumming as the miles rolled by, when a tune came to me out of nowhere. It reminded me of an old Monroe tune. I played it for Bobby Hicks, and next thing I knew, I had a song. I named it “Amanda Jewell,” after my daughter Mandy, and I gave it to her as a graduation present.

Creativity is the key to keeping the music fresh. Bluegrass has changed in some ways for the better. The musicianship has risen to a very high level. The generation coming up now has some of the finest players I've ever heard. You listen to what a brilliant player like Chris Thile can do with a mandolin these days, and you can imagine how thrilling it was for folks back in the '40s when Monroe raised his mandolin up to the microphone. I've heard tapes of live Opry broadcasts from that time, and the applause for Bill and the Boys is ear-shattering, the same sort of excitement there was when the Beatles were on
The Ed Sullivan Show
. It wasn't teenagers at the Opry, but the excitement was there just the same.

Chris is part of a new generation. He's establishing his own style, and he's influencing young players all over the world. Sam Bush is another great mandolin player who influenced a whole generation of young musicians. But even with all the great mandolin players out there, and there's a bunch, Mr. Monroe started it all, and his style, or echoes of his style, can be heard in nearly everyone.

I've always had the impulse to go both directions at once, to connect to the tradition and nudge it forward, too. That's why I recorded
Honoring the Fathers of Bluegrass
, my tribute to the Monroe band of '46 and '47. I felt it was important to remind the iPod generation about the masters who birthed this sound when it was cutting edge, and to inspire them to go back to the originals and glean from those records, too. Honoring our fathers and our elders is always worthwhile. It keeps us humble and grateful to the ones who came before us.

I'm a bridge to the past and to the future both. I try to be a father of encouragement to young musicians. I'm lucky to have a great band of young guns, Kentucky Thunder. They're the Blue Angels of bluegrass. They keep me young, and they push me to stay creative. It's a real blessing to have talented guys in your band whom you can pour into, and they pour into me as well. There's an exchange between us every night on stage, and we feed off each other's energy.

I know that Kentucky Thunder is a big reason why people come to see our shows, 'cause the guys in the band represent the highest level of musicianship in the business. They're my employees, but they're also my musical partners and bandmates. I know the rhythm will be there where it needs to be, and I know everybody's competing to play the best solo they can, night after night. Every night on stage, these guys exceed my standards, and I'll tell you what, the bar is set awful high in bluegrass.

To work in Kentucky Thunder, you need to have the chops, for sure, but you also need to have a head and heart for bluegrass. And that means knowing the history of the music. You have to be able to pull out licks from the '40s and '50s, and love doin' it. That passion is what makes the difference. I can usually tell what's in a player's heart.