Tickets and Greed                                                                                                                                    

When I was Taylor Swift’s age, I spent a long, cold night with a bunch of rednecks and stoners outside Lexington’s Rupp Arena box office.  By 8:00 a.m., I was rewarded for my efforts with a couple of seventh-row Molly Hatchet tickets. Jealous?

Over the years, I’ve seen the concert business evolve from first come, first serve to “I’m rich or connected and you’re not.”

Back then, if you were first at the window, you got front row—simple as that. Camping out was an event in itself. I’m not talking tents and Coleman heaters. This was communing with the devoted on midnight asphalt.

Now it’s noncommunal and online. In my musical world, it’s another form of going from analog to digital that I can’t seem to wrap myself around.

But apparently there is still enough demand for choice seats that artists like Bruce Springsteen, U2, Swift and Keith Urban can command up to a grand and beyond. I know they’re great entertainers, but that still floors me.

Which brings me to the recent media uproar over ticket shenanigans in the concert industry. The night before the CMAs, Nashville’s NewsChannel 5 aired an investigative report on high-tech ticket scalping here in town. The sacrificial lambs were Urban and Swift. 

The details of how everyone from Ticketmaster on down to the artist is cashing in can be found on the web. Just google “The Man rapes fan” and you should find plenty.

Speaking of the fan, Channel 5 interviewed a mother who had anchored herself to a computer the second Taylor Swift tickets went on sale. Ultimately, she couldn’t get her 5-year old daughter reasonably priced tickets to Swift’s Nashville gig. Channel 5 also interviewed the child, who said she ran off to her room and cried her eyes out when mommy couldn’t produce the goods.

Good Lord. I don’t know what’s worse—the machine or the people who feed it. 

This isn’t new territory. Ticketmaster has come under fire lately for hidden fees and false advertising. Springsteen took some heat over secondary sales earlier this year. It’s not surprising that the concert industry is being scrutinized since it’s one of the few sectors of the music business still making serious money.

With revenues squeezed elsewhere, everyone wants their share. Is it greed? Many think so. But I believe it’s more complicated than that.

By the time most artists achieve headlining status (Taylor Swift being the anomaly), they’ve experienced regular run-ins with rejection and failure. Many come from nothing. They have no expertise in anything other than writing and playing music.

At any given time, they’re expecting someone or something to kill the lights. Yeah, we’ve got artists with stupid money. But it ain’t Bill Gates or Steve Jobs money. It’s not Oprah money.

It’s simply big money that’s made in a brief window of time. It’s a yield that can backfill years of investing in the craft. It’s a credit for all the time and money spent on false starts, bad choices and missed opportunities. 

And don’t forget about the future. Many artists will need long-term funding for the money pit of therapy, rehab, alimony, palimony, spousal/child support and trust funds that seem to be the price of fame. Hopefully there will be a little left over for beer and weed.

So are the marquee names and their respective camps truly the fan-screwing bastards and bitches the media is trying to portray them as?

I’d like to think not, though I can see how the struggling-to-make-ends-meet concert goer might feel otherwise.

Sure, there are bad apples. Every business has them. Wall Street, anyone? Our industry practices pale in comparison to the rape and pillaging we’ve endured from those sodomites. Nashville will never come close to crippling a global economy.

This town is full of dreamers. They’re not just tomorrow’s artists but aspiring songwriters, musicians, publishers, managers and promoters. These people grew a pair and rolled the dice. 

For years, they’ll put in long hours and work for little or no pay until they get a break or return home with broken spirits. A small percentage will sweat it out and attain a modicum of success. An even smaller percentage will have an obscene amount of success.

Here’s the deal: If an artist is hot and headlining sheds, arenas and stadiums, they’ve become balls deep in the valley that is corporate America.

There are many wheels to grease beyond the tractor-trailers and star coaches. Managers and booking agents take 25-30%. After that, attorneys, insurance, promoters, publicists, staging, video, lights, sound, band, crew… a seemingly never-ending list of mouths to feed.

With unlimited resources to promote, facilitate and finance a tour, Budweiser, Coors, American Express, Visa, Pepsi, Toyota, Ford and a host of other brands will write huge checks for the sole purpose of aligning their logo with an act. It’s prime product placement and corporations will pay a premium for it in money, goods and services.

It’s ironic that the industry’s customer exacerbates much of the problem. When fans buy from scalpers, they support another market. Texas concert promoter Louis Messina had a great simple response to the ticketing controversy. “Don't buy the tickets - just don't buy the tickets. Just don't spend $500 on a $50 ticket. Just don't go. Go buy the CD.”

Now, I’ve got two seventh-row seats for Molly Hatchet. $50. C’mon! Flirtin’ with Disaster, baby… Any takers? ....

CMAs and Yesterday

Lately I’ve been “blog-stipated.” I’d like to think I just coined that semi-disgusting term, but probably not. Kind of like when I fell into a musical rut and thought of myself as “gui-tarded.” I wanted to own that phrase and earn a nickel every time someone said it, but sadly, the t-shirts are already printed.

Anyway, I thought it best to stay away from posting my missives for a while so I could bone up on my guitar playing, finish a song or two, and record some demos. 

As I’m writing this, it’s the end of CMA week here in Music City. I’ve taken time to absorb and process all the press coverage and country-politan pageantry. Hopefully it’s given me something to write about. 

Once again, I didn’t watch the CMAs. I still can’t bring myself to relax and enjoy it like the average viewer. To me it’s like being forced to watch an old girlfriend I walked away from who looks hotter than I remembered … for three hours.

But I checked out the post-show recap. I had a feeling Taylor Swift would take home the big win. It was also appropriate and deserving that singer-songwriter Darius “Hootie” Rucker was recognized and officially welcomed into the Nashville fold. 

From what I’ve read, seen and heard, there were some really good performances, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty of encores over the holidays.

My brother called a few days after the broadcast and asked if I watched. He’s a little put out with me because I didn’t, which means I can’t compare notes with him like I used to. 

Brother Deke is a successful electrical engineer and country music aficionado. He’s particularly interested in new acts and often leaves me voicemails about a song he’s heard or a performance he saw. 

“Char, who’s this Jason Aldean kid?” 

He’s this new badass on the scene.

“Did you see him on Crossroads with Bryan Adams?” 

Nope.

And,  “Oh my God—Jamey Johnson! Where did this guy come from?” 

Montgomery, AL, where Hank is buried. 

“I bought his CD. Every track rules! Do you know him?”

Nope. 

“He’s a scary looking motherfucker.”  

Yep. 

“Call me. Love ya, bye.”

What I’d give to be that excited about music again. Sadly, I know too much … I have seen the man behind the curtain.

Many in this town—me included—are trying to evolve with the times. It’s a double-edged sword: It’s great to get to do what you love for a living, but if you hang around long enough you’re bound to witness the changing of the guard. It’s bittersweet.

Unfortunately, the new breed is inheriting the carnage of a broken music industry model that is being forced to evolve as well.

Record labels no longer revel in the CD sales of yore. Songwriters can’t make a decent living unless they write a radio hit. Publishers are trimming their rosters of writers and are often forced to rely on older catalogs of proven hit singles. 

This industry erosion, which began at the turn of the century, is due largely to the digital age and a cultural shift in how music is consumed.

The trickle-down effect impacts every ancillary music outpost: booking agents, accountants, publicists, videographers, photographers, stylists, merch vendors, touring and session players, caterers, bus companies and drivers—a seemingly endless list of support staff are feeling less love.

It’s been interesting to listen to and read the opinions about Taylor and how such a young artist has swept up accolades usually reserved for acts twice her age. It runs the gamut from exuberance to outrage. Maybe it’s another natural reaction to change.

I vividly remember the vibe I felt from the older set back in the early ’90s. That’s when a bunch of us young bucks started elbowing into Nashville’s cliquish music community.

It felt like we were welcomed and resented at the same time. We were the new guard then, and our nontraditional approach to the genre changed everything. The line dance craze and a slew of hot new acts—Garth Brooks, Billy Ray Cyrus, B&D—helped Nashville record labels gain some serious traction for a decade-plus run of making unprecedented amounts of money for Music Row.

Many of the popular acts of the ’70s and ’80s were quickly shoved aside and had to set up shop in Branson, Missouri or in the casinos. For others, arena gigs were replaced by afternoon slots at festivals and county fairs. 

All things being cyclical, here we are again. 

Personally, I have no beef with Taylor. She’s a beautiful, talented 19-year-old who has connected with millions of music consumers. How is that bad for biz? 

But I can’t connect with her music at my age. When I watch her videos or listen to her music, I worry Chris Hanson from Dateline NBC’s “To Catch a Predator” is lurking in the shadows getting ready to ask me to have a seat.

Also, I’m hardwired to expect my musical heroes to be borderline bat-shit crazy. I want them to have scars and serious issues. Give me drug and alcohol problems, childhood abuse, cheating, divorce, bad behavior, jail time … you get the picture.

Where are the outlaws that flip the bird to The Man? Johnny “Folsom Prison” Cash; George “No Show I’ve Done Too Much Blow” Jones; Waylon “Goddamn” Jennings. C’mon! Has anybody besides John Rich been cited for bad behavior lately?

I sometimes feel like Dana Carvey’s SNL character, the Grumpy Old Man. In this situation he’d say, “Back in my day, we didn’t have Auto-Tune and plasma TV on our tour bus. We sang flat and shawp, sold our plasma, and snawted speed off a skank’s tattooed teet and we liked it! Baaahhh!”

Corporate country and Clear Channel have successfully done what NYC did to Times Square. They’ve cleaned it up for the mainstream. They’ve replaced red lights with golden arches and peep shows with Disney stores. Is it a bad thing? Not necessarily. You just have to dig a little deeper for the darkness.

Thankfully, we’ve got new artists like Jamey Johnson. He can write and sing poignantly about Depression-era, war-torn life as depicted in the CMA song of the year, “In Color.”  Johnson’s CD also features a song about shacking up with cocaine and whores in “The High Cost of Living.” 

He actually performed that song on Leno. Very ballsy, and I commend Jay for signing off on it. Hell, for all I know he later called a staff meeting and screamed “Cocaine and whores! What the fuck? How did this happen?”

But like straight whiskey needs a chaser, our business needs easier-to-digest artists like Swift, Carrie Underwood, Lady Antebellum and Kellie Pickler to offset the edginess of Johnson, Miranda Lambert, Randy Houser, and the Zac Brown Band.

I read a lot of gloom and doom about the implosion of the music business, fueled by a decade-long decline in CD sales. Record labels and publishers are losing money but remain greedy and impede progress. Promoters are inventing new ways to gouge ticket buyers. Fans are cheating on music and their mistresses are Apple, Microsoft, Xbox and Playstation. Artists are being encouraged to scale back but feel pressure to maintain their image. 

From the looks of the CMAs, nothing could be further from the truth. I see rich and happy people. Or is it smoke and mirrors? Keeping up appearances until gloom and doom morph to boom.

In the next 10 years, let’s hope the industry worries less about out how music is accessed and more about how accessible it is. Will we soon see the total annihilation of CDs by subscription services that offer access to the history of recorded music in an iPhone app? I believe we will. 

I glaze over when I think of how everybody would get paid.  It’s not even another blog. It’d be too boring. 

The silver lining is simply this: Too many people are hopelessly devoted to the creation and consumption of music. It’s an exciting time to be in an industry that is reinventing itself by developing niche markets and alternative forms of commerce.

It’s not only the end of another year, it’s the beginning of a new decade. Not to sound like a pompous Wall Street pundit, but I sincerely believe the music business, particularly here in Nashville, is too big to fail.

Staring at the Speakers

Thanks again, VH1 Classic. Every year about this time, you never fail to remind me that I’ve taken yet another trip around the sun. Shame on you for preying on my nostalgic tendencies.

You know that if you air documentaries about how my favorite albums were written, recorded and produced at a moment when I’m particularly vulnerable and self-reflective, I am your video slave for the hour. 

You lure me in with isolated tracks from classic rock albums and commentary by artists and producers, allowing me to reconnect with the soundtrack of my youth: Elton’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Queen’s A Night at the Opera, Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and Def Leppard’s Hysteria. 

I’ll never be able to let go. As grouchy as I sometimes get about the music business, I’m still fascinated with how these timeless albums came to fruition. Nothing can take you back like great, memorable music.

Last month, I waxed on about life on the farm and noted a few ’70s-era bands that inspired me to enlist in the guitar army. These musicians and their lifestyles also captured my imagination and made me question my future. 

At the time I wondered, “What’s beyond this idyllic yet lonely existence amid 80 acres of hay and cow shit? Can I endure another chicken massacre? Condone a baby bull’s castration? Does the cost of green acres really need to involve the occasional barnyard holocaust?”

I began to daydream about what it’d be like to stand on an arena stage, turn my amp up, hit a big power chord and flick a guitar pick out to the crowd as if to say, “You are most welcome, America!”  These were deep thoughts and queries for a teenager.

What was the allure? Beyond the usual rewards of fame and fortune, I think it was because rock acts had mystique back then. You had to dig deep for info and peruse the magazine stands for issues of Cream, Circus, Hit Parade, Guitar Player and Rolling Stone if you wanted more meat. 

In Kentucky, I had to ambush Lawrenceburg’s Convenient Food Mart, IGA grocery store, or the Fayette Cigar Store at Lexington’s Turfland Mall to find these periodicals containing photos, interviews and tour dates about any number of bands or musicians that interested me at the time.

Occasionally my parents threw me a few bucks to buy a 12” vinyl disc that had an amazing cardboard sleeve featuring groundbreaking artwork and photos. And unlike today’s CDs, the song lyrics and credits were legible.

For hours I’d study LPs by The Who, Zeppelin, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors and The Guess Who. 

Surrounded by a sea of aqua-colored shag carpet, I’d go back and forth between reading the album jacket’s outer and inner contents and just staring at the speakers, mesmerized by the sounds searing into my consciousness.

As far as free music went, most AM radio stations in the early ’70s were like an audio playground. All types of artists had to coexist in the popularity contest known as the Top 40 charts. The preppy pop stars, the Vegas crooners, the R&B Motowners, the Southern shit-kickers and the rebel rockers could often be heard on the same radio station.

You truly had to earn your “rock” back then. It was an exercise in patience and tolerance to hear songs by your favorite groups. But when those sonic masterpieces would kick off, my world stopped. 

Even back then we pirated music. I was sticking it to The Man with a Realistic cassette recorder from Radio Shack. I might miss the intro of a song and have to deal with a DJ blabbering over the outro, but I got the goods, albeit a lo-fi version.

Presently, I embrace and curse the Internet. It’s definitely a love/hate thing. Some days, I think it’s the devil in disguise; like some government “big brother” conspiracy front used to gather information on our personal habits, diverting our attention from the war and a crumbling economy with its endless buffet of music, social networking and porn.

Other days, I think it’s pretty amazing that more media and data than we’ll ever need are available instantly on our cell phones. Today, we can download a new Kings of Leon song we might happen to hear while waiting for a table at a restaurant or watch an obscure Jimi Hendrix performance archived on YouTube while killing time before boarding a plane. 

So on one hand, I bemoan the Internet for robbing the organic, velvet-roped soul of rock ’n’ roll. It’s as if almost everyone has an “All Access” pass allowing unlimited consumption of music and artist info, so much so that the lack of emotional investment and lowered sound quality devalues the work. 

But on the other hand, I hail my ISP address for allowing me to shoot my mouth off in a blog, post my own music, e-mail and swap mp3s, stay in touch with old and current friends and most recently, Google the Top 40 hits from 1973–1977. 

By analyzing these charts, I’m hoping to make some sense out of the hoodoo voodoo that seduced and hooked me for life some 35 years ago. 

I’ll start with 1973. 

Rock instrumentals could get charted back then as the German band Focus peaked at #9 with “Hocus Pocus” and Edgar Winter’s Moog synthesizer, doubled with searing guitar, propelled “Frankenstein” to the top of the charts. 

By 1975, WKQQ-FM/98 Rock went on the air in Lexington. Songs that weren’t necessarily singles began to break through, thanks to rebellious disc jockeys who programmed their own shifts. 

The fidelity of FM brought extra warmth, bottom-end and dimension to the genre’s sound. And no instrument evolved more during this period than the guitar, not to mention the players. 

This wasn’t renegade, “from the hip” blues. These tracks showcased well-thought-out riffs and melodic solos that defined the songs as much as the lead vocal. 

From the twin harmony guitar intro of “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers and the blistering signature lick of “Reeling in the Years” by Steely Dan to the opening power chords of “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple, these tracks not only sold millions of records but thousands of guitars and amps as well.

Yet to experience “Rocky Mountain Way” or “LaGrange” and hear Walsh or Gibbons cranking a Les Paul through a fire-breathing Marshall, certain material had to be endured.

In order to head out to “China Grove” with the Doobs, you had to “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree” with Tony Orlando and Dawn. 

But man, when those power chords kicked in …

Think of the following lists like you would a big-ass Steak & Shake cheeseburger. The R&B, country, novelty disco and acoustic rock stuff would fall into the warm bun and condiments category. That sector may merit its own blog down the road.

For now, I’m cuttin’ to the cheese and the meat of ’70s Top 40.

Cheese would be anything gooey, delightful and colon clogging by the Carpenters, Helen Reddy or Captain and Tenille. Meat would be what I consider the sonic beef of awe-inspiring guitar rock like Zeppelin, Bad Company, Heart and Deep Purple.

To see all Top 40 data from any given year, visit cylist.com.

Please enjoy my audio cheeseburger list with fries and a beer.

1973

The Cheese 

Half-Breed - Cher (#1)....

Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree - Dawn featuring Tony Orlando (#1)....

Top Of the World - Carpenters (#1)....

Touch Me In the Morning - Diana Ross (#1)....

The Morning After - Maureen McGovern (#1)....

The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia - Vicki Lawrence (#1)....

Delta Dawn - Helen Reddy (#1)....

Yesterday Once More - Carpenters (#2) ....

Leave Me Alone (Ruby Red Dress) - Helen Reddy (#3) ....

Say, Has Anybody Seen My Sweet Gypsy Rose? - Dawn featuring Tony Orlando (#3)....

Sing - Carpenters (#3)....

Last Song - Edward Bear (#3)....

Heartbeat - It's a Lovebeat - DeFranco Family featuring Tony DeFranco (#3)....

Paper Roses - Marie Osmond (#5)....

Funny Face - Donna Fargo (#5)....

Let Me Be There - Olivia Newton-John (#6)....

The Twelfth of Never - Donny Osmond (#8)....

1973

The Meat

The Joker - Steve Miller Band (#1)....

We're an American Band - Grand Funk Railroad (#1)....

Frankenstein - Edgar Winter Group (#1) (instrumental)....

Ramblin' Man - The Allman Brothers Band (#2)....

Live and Let Die - Paul McCartney & Wings (#2)....

Smoke on the Water - Deep Purple (#4) ....

Long Train Runnin' - The Doobie Brothers (#8)....

Hocus Pocus - Focus (#9) (instrumental)....

Reeling in the Years - Steely Dan (#11)....

Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting - Elton John (#12)....

Money - Pink Floyd (#13) ....

Free Ride - Edgar Winter Group (#14)....

China Grove - The Doobie Brothers (#15) ....

Rocky Mountain Way - Joe Walsh (#23)....

No More Mr. Nice Guy - Alice Cooper (#25)....

1974 

The Cheese

Angie Baby - Helen Reddy (#1)....

Annie's Song - John Denver (#1)....

Billy, Don't Be a Hero - Bo Donaldson & The Heywoods (#1)....

Dark Lady - Cher (#1)....

Hooked on a Feeling - Blue Swede (#1)....

I Honestly Love You - Olivia Newton-John (#1)....

Laughter in the Rain - Neil Sedaka (#1)....

The Night Chicago Died - Paper Lace (#1)....

Rock the Boat - The Hues Corporation (#1)....

Seasons in the Sun - Terry Jacks (#1)....

Sunshine on My Shoulders - John Denver (#1)....

The Way We Were - Barbra Streisand (#1)....

(You're) Having My Baby - Paul Anka with Odia Coates (#1)....

Back Home Again - John Denver (#5)....

I'm Leaving It All Up to You - Donny & Marie Osmond (#4)....

Mockingbird - Carly Simon & James Taylor (#5) ....

If You Love Me (Let Me Know) - Olivia Newton-John (#5)....

Midnight at the Oasis - Maria Muldaur (#6)....

You and Me Against the World - Helen Reddy (#9)....

1974

The Meat

You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet - Bachman-Turner Overdrive (#1)....

Junior's Farm - Paul McCartney & Wings (#3)....

Smokin' in the Boys' Room - Brownsville Station (#3)....

Can't Get Enou gh - Bad Company (#5) ....

Rock On - David Essex (#5)....

Jet - Paul McCartney & Wings (#7)....

Sweet Home Alabama - Lynyrd Skynyrd (#8)....

Keep on Smilin' - Wet Willie (#10)....

Takin' Care of Business - Bachman-Turner Overdrive (#12)....

Bungle in the Jungle - Jethro Tull (#12)....

Radar Love - Golden Earring (#13) ....

Heartbreaker - The Rolling Stones (#15)....

It's Only Rock & Roll (But I Like It) - The Rolling Stones (#16)....

Ain't Too Proud to Beg - The Rolling Stones (#17)....

Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd (#19)....

Midnight Rider - Gregg Allman (#19)....

Let It Ride - Bachman-Turner Overdrive (#23)....

Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo - Rick Derringer (#23)....

If You Wanna Get to Heaven - Ozark Mountain Daredevils (#25)....

Jim Dandy - Black Oak Arkansas (#25)....

Already Gone - Eagles (#32) ....

1975

The Cheese

Have You Never Been Mellow - Olivia Newton-John (#1)....

He Don't Love You (Like I Love You) - Tony Orlando & Dawn (#1) ....

Love Will Keep Us Together - Captain & Tennille (#1)....

Lovin' You - Minnie Riperton (#1)....

Mandy - Barry Manilow (#1)....

My Eyes Adored You - Frankie Valli (#1)....

Please Mr. Postman - Carpenters (#1)....

Please Mr. Please - Olivia Newton-John (#3)....

The Way I Want to Touch You - Captain & Tennille (#4)....

Only Yesterday - Carpenters (#4)....

Feelings - Morris Albert (#6)....

Dance with Me - Orleans (#6)....

Ain't No Way to Treat a Lady - Helen Reddy (#8)....

1975

The Meat

Fame - David Bowie (#1)....

Some Kind of Wonderful - Grand Funk Railroad (#3)....

Ballroom Blitz - Sweet (#5)....

Fox on the Run - Sweet (#5)....

Love Hurts - Nazareth (#8)....

Feel Like Makin' Love - Bad Company (#10)....

Killer Queen - Queen (#12)....

Venus and Mars/Rock Show - Paul McCartney & Wings (#12)....

Rock and Roll All Nite (Live) - KISS (#12) ....

Movin' On - Bad Company (#19)....

Tush - ZZ Top (#20)....

Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen (#23)....

Saturday Night Special - Lynyrd Skynyrd (#27)....

The South's Gonna Do It - Charlie Daniels Band (#29)....

There Goes Another Love Song - Outlaws (#34)....

Good Lovin' Gone Bad - Bad Company (#36)....

Sweet Emotion - Aerosmith (#36)....

Trampled Under Foot - Led Zeppelin (#38)....

1976

The Cheese

Afternoon Delight - Starland Vocal Band (#1)....

December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night) - The 4 Seasons (#1)....

Don't Go Breaking My Heart - Elton John & Kiki Dee (#1)....

I Write the Songs - Barry Manilow (#1)....

If You Leave Me Now - Chicago (#1)....

Saturday Night - Bay City Rollers (#1)....

Theme from "Mahogany" (Do You Know Where You're Going To - Diana Ross (#1)....

Torn Between Two Lovers - Mary MacGregor (#1)....

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing - Leo Sayer (#1)....

Right Back Where We Started From - Maxine Nightingale (#2)....

I'd Really Love to See You Tonight - England Dan & John Ford Coley (#2)....

Lonely Night (Angel Face) - Captain & Tennille (#3)....

Love So Right - Bee Gees (#3)....

Muskrat Love - Captain & Tennille (#4) ....

Shop Around - Captain & Tennille (#4)....

Happy Days - Pratt & McClain (#5)....

Times of Your Life - Paul Anka (#7) ....

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do - Neil Sedaka (#8)....

After the Lovin' - Engelbert Humperdinck (#8)....

Money Honey - Bay City Rollers (#9)....

Weekend in New England - Barry Manilow (#10)....

Let Her In - John Travolta (#10)....

There's a Kind of Hush (All Over the World) - Carpenters (#12)....

Fanny (Be Tender With Your Love) - Bee Gees (#12) ....

I Only Want to Be With You - Bay City Rollers (#12)....

Fernando - Abba (#13)....

Fly Away - John Denver (#13)....

1976

The Meat

Rock'n Me - Steve Miller Band (#1)....

Fly Like an Eagle - Steve Miller Band (#2)....

Fooled Around and Fell in Love - Elvin Bishop (#3)....

More Than a Feeling - Boston (#5)....

Dream On - Aerosmith (#6)....

Show Me the Way - Peter Frampton (#6)....

Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen (#9)....

Magic Man - Heart (#9)

Do You Feel Like We Do - Peter Frampton (#10)....

Carry on Wayward Son - Kansas (#11)....

Take the Money and Run - Steve Miller Band (#11)....

The Boys Are Back in Town - Thin Lizzy (#12)....

(Don't Fear) the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult (#12)....

Hard Luck Woman - KISS (#15)....

Slow Ride - Foghat (#20)....

Young Blood - Bad Company (#20)....

Last Child - Aerosmith (#21)....

Shout It Out Loud - KISS (#31)....

Crazy on You - Heart (#35)....

Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd (#38)....

Labor Day weekend, I experienced a bit of time traveling. 

I’m not sure how many people my age even care to revisit the house where they lived during their adolescence, but the opportunity to do so presented itself, and I got excited about it.

Thanks to Facebook, the current resident of my family’s former farmhouse “friended” me and said that she and her family have lived at the old Crossfield farm since the early ’90s, and I should feel free to come by whenever I’m in the area.

Coincidentally, I was soon going to be in the area, so I “friended” her back and arranged a visit with my wife and kids.

After locking down a date and time, a flood of memories came pouring in. The visit was a week away, yet I was already there. I began reflecting on the passage of time and how the environment of one’s youth can set the stage for adulthood.

As a kid, I lived in a suburban, nondescript tract house, one of many that sprouted up due to baby-boom urban sprawl. It was comfortable, efficient, unremarkable housing for the lower middle class.

But the Crossfield homeplace was early 1800s architecture situated in the middle of endless fields. It was registered by the county as a historical landmark and even had its own cemetery.

I spent four defining years there, from 13 to 17, amongst a couple dozen head of cattle, countless chickens, one young horse, one old gelding, two fishing ponds, a minibike, and the typical dreams of a teenager who wondered what was waiting for him in the real world.

The Crowe family had resided in Lexington, Kentucky since the early ’60s. By 1973, my parents were in their mid-30s and burnt out on what they referred to as their “trough” jobs.

Mom worked for the state in nearby Frankfort and dad worked in town as a claims adjuster for State Farm. Their social circle started splintering. Couples they hung out with were divorcing, moving, or experimenting. They were also worried about me. I was in 7^th grade, smokin’ in the boy’s room, and hanging out with truants.

Mom and dad decided to change gears. They each acquired realtor licenses, quit their jobs, sold the Lexington digs, and moved the family to a major fixer-upper in Lawrenceburg; an eighty-acre farm with a rundown old house in dire need of repair.

I’m amazed at the property’s cost back then. $24,000.

My younger brother and I were divided on this move. He liked the suburban life of Lexington. We could walk or ride bikes not only to our school but to nearby Turfland Mall. The cinemas were there and we saw movies like American Graffiti, Billy Jack, Poseidon Adventure, and other features of the day.

But I was in big-time favor of trying out rural life. The parents cooled little brother’s protests with a used Honda minibike. To even it up, I got a $100 unbroken horse named Carly.

So by the summer of ’74, our family began moderate farming and renovating. Cattle were bought. Hay was mowed, bailed, and lofted into our barn. Post-hole digging and fencing ensued. Chickens were cooped. Stray dogs were adopted.

My dad began a love affair with a used Ford tractor and its Bush Hog attachment. He disappeared for hours on that thing. Mom frequently worried he would overturn down in the valley and mow over himself. But he’d eventually show up at sunset and our farm regularly maintained the look of an enormous fresh-cut lawn.

Everything involved about the farm and renovating the house was hard-ass work, but I remember somewhat enjoying painting the house. Mainly because I got to be up on a tall ladder, painting a fresh coat of white while listening to WAKY-AM out of Louisville. Our house was high enough on a hill to receive signal from Kentucky’s largest city some 60 miles away.

That summer, I heard the songs that would change me from a passive Top 40 listener to an active rock ’n’ roll enthusiast. It also rekindled my interest in guitar. I had learned a few chords when I was 10 but soon got lazy and quit playing.

At this point in time, I was hearing bands like ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin, Bad Company, The Eagles, Charlie Daniels Band, and Steve Miller, all on AM radio.

It made me want to play the electric guitar. Loud! I wanted to get that sound. I started dreaming of forming a band; making records; touring the country. I was hooked.

Getting back to the present, my wife, kids and I had wrapped up a visit with my in-laws in Frankfort. The old farm in Lawrenceburg would be a pit stop on our way back to Nashville.

Instead of heading straight on US 127 to the Bluegrass Parkway, we hung a right on US 62 for an achingly familiar seven-mile drive to Anderson City Road, where we took another right and drove a mile on a winding narrow road, then turned left onto the half-mile gravel path that leads back to the old house.

A few changes had naturally evolved over 30 years. Some of the property had been divided up and sold to create three mini-farms with houses. One of the two ponds remained. I’m assuming the other was drained and blended in to pasture.

The one they kept was where we fished and gigged frogs. I was never into guns and hunting, but loved preparing and eating what we caught out of that little pond.

We met the current residents, the Barnes’, who graciously let us walk the property. I took my kids to the barn hayloft. They stood in awe of all the bales stacked up as I told them how I used to throw out “cow breakfast” in the early morning hours of winter while listening to many of the songs they now play on Guitar Hero.

We then toured the old house. The Barnes’ are in renovation mode, so construction and clutter obstructed my parent’s bedroom as well as my brothers. My old bedroom is now occupied by a 13-year-old girl.

I showed my kids where my record player and 8-track stereo used to be. I didn’t show them where the full-length mirror once hung or where I stood to work on my moves and pretend to be Peter Frampton singing and playing guitar to “Show Me The Way’ or Bob Seger rocking out to “Katmandu.”

The back of the house still features the huge stone fireplace that divides the living room and kitchen. When we moved in, the stones were literally held together with horse hair and mud. My dad hired a mason to mortar it and bring it into the 20^th century.

As a family, we used to gather around that fireplace while watching TV shows like Happy Days, All in the Family, Mash, and Mary Tyler Moore. One night, after the parents went to bed, I discovered the rock show Midnight Special and the debut of Saturday Night Live with George Carlin as the host.

We visited for about an hour, made our manners with the Barnes’, then headed back home. As we exited the property, I thought of how lucky my brother and I were to have had the opportunity to experience both city and country living.

With 200 miles to kill, my mind kicked into rewind. The warm and fuzzy memories were soon replaced by the harsh realities of farm life.

Cows aren’t pets. I’m a fan of burgers and steaks, but I never thought about our cows hanging out waiting to be slaughtered. Not to mention, the castration of young bulls in order to fatten them up for market.

In the summer of ’75, with a few of my parent’s professional farming acquaintances and the local vet, I helped and watched as a dozen of our bull calves got their balls cut off. Their nuts were saved, breaded, and cooked in a skillet as “calf fries.” I was told they’re a Southern delicacy. I passed.

Then there was the chicken slaughter party, where the old phrase “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” came to life. Like modern day pioneers, my parent’s hatchet wielding friends were stationed at a tree stump and chopping chicken heads off. I vividly remember headless chickens running around our yard doing back flips with halos of blood swirling around in the air. We ate a lot of chicken that year.

I also remembered the devastation of a tornado that took down an abandoned barn on top of one of our cows. It had busted up #34’s hind legs pretty bad. For about a week, I took care of her until someone could come and provide euthanasia. After a single gunshot to the head, they loaded her up for disposal.

Oh, and how can I forget the kid at the neighboring farm? I hung out with him once. Just once. We were wandering around on his farm and all of a sudden he says, “Check this out.” He scaled this tall tree like a monkey, climbed out on a big branch, dropped his pants, and bombed a turd 20 feet to the ground.

And last, this memory: One late afternoon, I was high in the saddle on my horse Carly, smoking a Marlboro and taking in the scenery. I felt like a real cowboy until Buck, the alleged gelding, disrupted my sunset moment by mounting Carly with me sitting on her.

I finally get it. All of those events were, and still are, valuable, symbolic, metaphorical lessons for the game of life, especially in the music industry. Hell, maybe any industry.

Even though it may have been subconsciously hardwired during my stint at the farm, my credo now has an addendum.

I will continue to try and live my life by these rules: Work hard, play harder, love your family, and always be aware of the possibility of slaughter, castration, decapitation, defecation from above, or a sudden rear attack from an old horse’s cock.

To be continued …

Metallica, Celine Dion, Goat Boy, and Me

Metallica recently played Nashville’s Sommet Center. I’ve never been big on the metal scene or lifestyle, but this band commands my respect and attention for hammerin’ out the hard stuff for more than two decades.

These guys specialize in face-melting, head-banging rock ’n’ roll for dudes. It’s audio fuel for working out at the gym. At this minute, I’m actually blogging to “Enter Sandman” and throwin’ the horns between keystrokes.

Did I go to the show? Hell, no. Are you kidding? What a pain in the ass. I rarely go to concerts unless I’ve got free tickets, all access, and a ride. Or if I’m gigging.

Am I spoiled? Yes. But that’s beside the point. Since childhood, I’ve always had issues with being in the midst of large groups of people. This applies to sporting events, malls, church, traffic, airports, airplanes, tour buses, etc. 

My anxiety level rises and I fight myself to keep it together. Maybe I’m agoraphobic. But isn’t that a fear of large groups of people? I don’t think anybody’s trying to hurt or kill me; I just want my own space.

But I digress. I’ll get back to Metallica, just bear with me.

Although I’m a rocker at heart with country music tendencies, I’m also uncharacteristically fond of a certain female singer—Celine Dion.

Yeah, I said it.

This woman’s voice is not of this earth. She’s an alien … actually, French Canadian. Seriously, I sincerely believe she’s got the best pipes in the biz.

I remember her debut appearance on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I wasn’t one to gravitate toward that kind of music, but her vocal chops were stunning and I wanted to hear more.

So I bought her shit, OK? I admit it … I own Celine Dion CDs.

I’m a musician and a songwriter. So I reasoned my craft could only improve by studying her a bit. If I could be half as expressive on my instrument, the guitar, as she is with her vocals, then I would be a good steward of my profession.

I feel the same way about Mariah Carey. But that’s another blog.

Which still doesn’t bring me back to Metallica, but I’m gettin’ there.

First I need to talk about Sirius/XM satellite radio. I’m a subscriber and regular listener of the Raw Dog comedy channel and comedian Jim Breuer’s show, “Breuer Unleashed.” 

Breuer was a Saturday Night Live cast member in the mid-90s. The guy is piss your pants funny. He was primarily known for the character “Goat Boy,” which to me was the least comical thing he did. 

His impression of Joe Pesci killed, not to mention his hilarious takes on AC/DC, Judas Priest, and Metallica.

His weekly satellite radio show is a respite from current events and pop culture. Following a burnout with SNL, stand-up comedy, and other show-biz bullshit, Breuer is back on track with a two-hour talkfest about life, family, comedy, and hard rock.

Which finally brings me back to Metallica.

I did go to their show last February. It was at the Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey on a Saturday night. I was flown from Nashville to New York City the night before, met by a limo, and taken to the Helmsley Hotel.

The next day, I walked around Manhattan and was later limoed to Morris Plains, New Jersey to pick up my younger brother, Deke. We were then dropped off at the Metallica gig.

This weekend excursion was totaling up to about three grand. Fortunately, I wasn’t picking up the tab.

How did I do this? I won a contest on Breuer’s show.

Sponsored by Klondike, “What Would You Do for a Klondike Bar?” was a contest that encouraged Breuer’s audience to call in and sing a song they’d never sing in front of their buddies. The funny gets the money. 

The winner and a guest get to fly to NYC for the weekend and rock with Jim Breuer and Metallica. 

On a late-night lark, I called in. While strumming some pretty chords, I introduced myself, apologized to the listening audience (affectionately known as “regulators”), and proceeded to sing “My Heart Will Go On.” 

Near. Far. Wherever you are.

I believe in my heart that my heart will go on and on.

That’s right, I mangled the chorus of Celine Dion’s megahit from the movie Titanic, left my number, and hung up.

Two weeks later, I’m out mowing the yard. It’s November, cold, and thankfully the last mow until spring. My wife comes out of the house holding the phone with this puzzled look on her face. 

Clueless to what I’d done, she said, “You’ve won some contest to go to New York and see Metallica?”

The trip remains ultra-memorable for obvious reasons. It was a free ride to the big city and great seats at the Metallica show. I also got to meet and hang out with one of my favorite comics.

But the coolest thing was being able to take my brother along with me. For the last 20 years, we’ve only connected during the holidays. That doesn’t count as a hang. Wives and kids are in tow.

This was a HANG! We drank irresponsibly, rocked Newark, laughed our balls off, and had designated transportation to get us safely back to our respective cribs. These days, that’s the only way we can roll.

True story. Ya can’t make this shit up.

So, an eternal thanks to Sirius/XM, Klondike, Metallica, Goat Boy, and especially my sweet Celine for getting the Crowe bros together for the ultimate boys night out.

Long live rock!

Thanks, Kanye. Love, Taylor ....

I don’t think I’ve watched the VMAs this century.

But the incident between Kanye West and Taylor Swift at last Sunday’s Video Music Awards got my attention. Did this really happen?

Has MTV successfully manufactured another outrageous stunt just months after the admittedly staged Sasha Baron Cohen/Eminem “tea-bag” incident? 

For those who missed it, Cohen, dressed as his gay film character Bruno, opened the MTV Movie Awards as a winged angel flying from the back of the auditorium over the audience. 

His flight was followed by a slow, harnessed descent that lowered him face first into Eminem’s lap. Feigning shock and outrage, the moody rapper was trapped with his nose positioned about three inches from Cohen’s Speedos. 

How do you follow that? Enter Kanye West. I can imagine the meeting now.

“Kanye, we need to stir things up. The show blows. Madonna is going to open with some maudlin Michael Jackson thing. Janet is going to pay embarrassing homage as well. We need you to do your deal. We need tweets. We need the masses talking about a controversial ‘moment,’ not about this deplorable show we produce every year. Jobs depend on you being a jerk. How about you sabotage a teenager’s acceptance speech? We’ll call Taylor Swift’s people and get them to play along. Got it?”

See, I think Kanye works for MTV. Like, on the payroll. This isn’t his first dump on one of their awards shows.

It was a brilliant stunt. At a freakishly young age, Taylor has evolved into a female Garth Brooks. As industry sales continue to free-fall, she is one of only a handful of artists who literally get to party like it’s 1999.

Even if it wasn’t a setup, she should thank Kanye for the diss. In a room full of pop stars gasping for attention and awards, Taylor took home the biggest prize. Beyonce may have won video of the year, but Taylor won the hearts of millions of viewers.

Kanye won, too. His image feeds on his behavior. I don’t buy the remorseful bit on Leno’s new show the following night. Maybe Jay’s in cahoots, too. Think about it. Why was Kanye booked as a guest on the premiere night of Leno? It wasn’t to perform or promote a tour or new album. Am I to understand he was booked because he’s such a compelling conversationalist?

At the end of the day, Kanye has money, celebrity, Hennessey, and whores. Good for him.

But if I hear one more celebrity mouth off about the rapper’s antics, I’m going to throw up. They’re all getting media face time thanks to Kanye. Do you think the media want to talk about music? Hell no. That’s boring. It’s all about the reaction to a train wreck.

You know what? I’ll thank him right now. Thanks, brother Kanye, for giving me something to blog about.

As for Taylor, she’s too young for me to pick on. I have a daughter who’s a fan. Taylor seems sweet and I’m indifferent to her music. But I can’t let go of the possibility that somebody in her camp saw this coming.

I’ve worked many of these awards shows and know that security is presidential tight. Producers and directors block shots the day before and day of. They sync a dozen cameras to a script that adheres to a certain timeline. It’s network ballet.

So with Kanye’s reputation of spontaneous outrageousness and that quick reaction shot of Beyonce, I call bullshit. 

Meanwhile, Taylor couldn’t be any better positioned for Middle America’s next awards show, the CMAs. She will be seen by the heartland as not only country music’s sweetheart but also the graceful victim of those mean ol’ maniacs at MTV.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that the mass media is spotlighting similar events involving public outbursts from high-profile people and raising awareness of a rising trend of incivility in America.

Republican Congressman Joe Wilson called the president a liar on national television during a health care reform meeting like it was a town hall gathering over a trailer park issue.

Serena Williams dog-cussed and threatened an official over a foot fault in a tennis match. 

Kanye disrupted Taylor’s “moment” at the VMAs. In doing so, he created a bigger “moment” for her, with future dividends.

All of these big-forum incidents happened within days of one another. Perhaps God is working through our public figures in some bizarre, twisted way as if to say, “Y’all need to mind your manners. You’re embarrassing me!”

I predict two things as a result of all this: Taylor will win CMA Entertainer of the Year this fall and Kanye will compete on the fourth installment of John Rich’s reality show “Gone Country.”

Keith Urban and The Ranch

“Charlie, you’ve got to come to Jack’s Guitar Bar tonight and see this guitar player!” said the voice on the other end of the line.

It was the mid/late ’90s and my friend Regina over at Capitol was goin’ on about this band, The Ranch.

I wasn’t in the mood. Having just got home from a long bus ride and a couple of bad gigs, the last thing I wanted to do was schlep downtown and deal with parking.

“Regina, I slipped and fell onstage last night in front of many people. My amps aren’t working right. All in all, I had a suck run this weekend and think I’ll just stay home and start fresh tomorrow. But thanks anyway.”

“Don’t be a puss,” she said. “9:00—be there. I’ll put your name at the door.”

So I went. Regina’s not only a good friend but she knows her stuff and wouldn’t have called if it weren’t something pretty special.

I’d never been to Jack’s Guitar Bar and haven’t been back since that night. I don’t remember much about the club except that it was a very small dive. There was a makeshift bar, minimal furniture, and a lot of people sitting cross-legged on the floor.

The band had a small PA. I noticed the guitar amp right off the bat. It was a Peavey combo. There was a set of drums and a bass rig. It all looked pretty rinky-dink to me.

I kept looking at the guitar amp. A Peavey?  I had become a gear snob and had graduated to boutique amps and expensive rack gear. Peavey amps are for weekend warriors, not for the pros. This amp probably cost $200 used.

I had also become used to order on stage. Cables needed to be duct-taped down. Drums had to be on a riser. Amps and cases should have uniformity in their placement if they’re to be seen at all.

Eventually, three guys lumbered to their gear, tuned their shit, and within minutes started churning out the goods.

It was Peter Clarke on drums, Jerry Flowers on bass (and awesome background vocals), and a then-unknown Keith Urban on guitar and lead vocals.

What they delivered as musicians in such a minimal, unassuming space was unbelievable. For me, it was sonic nirvana. The Ranch pumped out what I could only describe as a country version of Cream, Eric Clapton’s groundbreaking power trio from the ’60s.

Urban’s soulful vocals, punctuated by his master-class guitar work and a clockwork rhythm section, laid to rest any debate I had on what kind of gear is used or how a stage should look.

You either rock or suck. Period.

Also, this Keith guy had long blonde hair, lady-killer looks, and a commanding stage presence. Icing on the cake for major labels.

For about an hour, they played a mixture of impressive originals and choice covers. Urban ended the set with the Charlie Daniels Band classic “The Devil Went Down To Georgia,” replacing the legendary fiddle standoff with his Telecaster.

Have you ever been inspired and pissed off at the same time?

I waved a thank you/thumbs up at Regina and cut out the door. There were plenty of industry types and music fans gathering around the band and I wanted none of it.

Regina called me the next morning. “Well, what did you think?”

“I think no one that pretty should be allowed to play guitar and sing that great. I hate him. … Seriously, they’re a fantastic band, and I hope Capitol fires up the machine for ’em.”

The Ranch would ultimately sign with Capitol, record a CD, release a single, pile in a van, start touring, and fail. They actually played their last gig with Brooks & Dunn in New York City in 1998.

I was in a comfy tour bus looking out the window at three beat-up musicians cramped in a van. I remember feeling bad and a bit embarrassed for them. I’m sure they were miserable, but you couldn’t tell from the final shows they performed.

Brooks & Dunn, as well as many other acts, need a big band for their material. The instrumentation demands it. The Ranch proved how huge you could sound with only guitar, bass, and drums.

I don’t know the whole backstory of why The Ranch didn’t succeed. It could’ve been a typical complex mess of egos, agendas, and money. And that’s probably outside of the band! But I have my own theory about it.

Quite simply, I think labels hate dealing with bands. And why wouldn’t they? There are too many cooks in the kitchen. I’m sure it’s much easier and more productive dealing with one, maybe two artists when breaking and maintaining an act.

By the millennium, Urban was resigned and redesigned as a solo artist on Capitol. The rock locks had been shorn and replaced with a more CMT-appropriate hairstyle.

The former Ranch players were gone. His band was now five top-notch Nashville sidemen. The new material was more Clear Channel radio-friendly. Gone were the extended guitar solos.

The Urban reinvention garnered hit singles and major multi-act tours for him to join. His first shot on a big bill was Brooks & Dunn’s Neon Circus Tour of 2001. The lineup also featured Montgomery Gentry, Toby Keith, and country comedian Cledus T. Judd.

I have to commend Urban for his perseverance back then. He went on first and was walk-in music for the late arrivals. He played to a lot of empty seats, but performed as if it were a full house.

I got to know him a little on that tour. Mainly shop talk: guitars, gear, etc. He actually saved my ass toward the end of the tour.

The Neon Circus had a ritual of taking over the largest cowboy club in whatever city we were in. Sponsored by Coors, the beer reps traveled with us and would set up these after-show parties on a nightly basis. It was priceless PR for all involved.

After an Atlanta gig, the Neon Circus convoy headed to this huge club located about 45 miles outside the city. Only this time, I rode with Brian from Clear Channel. He had his own bus and was a great hang.

“C’mon Crowe, ride with me. Drink with me,” he commanded.

So I climbed aboard, chatted, and drank with Brian for the ride. We get to the club, drink some more, jam with the band, hang with fans. I got caught up in conversation and whiskey shots with the guitarist in the house band—one of those “How does a picker get to be on a big-ass tour?” talks.

I finally notice the time. It’s 2:00 a.m.

I thanked the dude for letting us take over the stage and headed out the back door to a gravel parking lot where there used to be a fleet of tour buses.

But there was only one and it was in the process of leaving. The dust and fog lingered in the air around a couple of mercury lights as one lone bus maneuvered itself to exit and head to our next show … in Tampa. 500 miles away.

I started running for the bus and suddenly felt how much I’d had to drink. I also noticed that running in ostrich cowboy boots on gravel is painful, which made me realize I was still in stage clothes.

I firmly believe in suitin’ up for the public and lookin’ cool. But there was absolutely nothing cool about me in full regalia begging for this bus to stop so I could make the Tampa show and not lose my gig.

It was Keith Urban’s bus.

Urban was into videotaping everything back then. The red light was on as I was welcomed on board. Of course, I’m hammered and pissed off, so I’ve got plenty to say about being left for dead in Atlanta.

Members of his entourage say there’s hilarious video of me that was frequently watched during downtime on the road. I’m supposedly ranting, dropping F-bombs, while trying to make sense of the abandonment.

Thanks to Keith Urban, I made it to Tampa. But basting for nine hours in leather jammies and being without sundries is no way to roll. I’d have given my kingdom for a toothbrush.

Self-deprecation aside, I’m not offering my take on Urban’s early years simply to share a humorous anecdote. I’m extolling his virtues because I believe he’s the last of a dying breed. The gunslinger-singer.

Even before he got signed, he most likely had the requisite 10,000 hours of training at his craft. That’s the kind of dedication author Malcolm Gladwell writes about in his book Outliers.

Gladwell claims that 10,000 hours of practice and experience in one’s vocation or avocation is a common thread between star athletes, musicians, scientists, software developers, and the like.

Nashville needs more Keith Urbans and Brad Paisleys. The triple threats: writer, singer, and picker all in one. Jerry Reed is gone. Steve Wariner, Ricky Skaggs, and Vince Gill are the new elder statesmen.

I’m not knockin’ the new breed. They’re obviously attractive, talented, and entertaining to a large audience. Plus, they generate a lot of jobs and income for an ailing industry trying to regain some traction.

But this town was built by Fender and Gibson … not Disney. 

If any of tomorrow’s pickers aspire to be bad-asses like Urban or Paisley, they need to turn off the TV, lay off cell phones and video games, and head to the woodshed for a few years.

They might just wind up rich, famous, and married to a smokin’ hot Hollywood actress. What an incentive.

Diet Grapico

I love Diet Mountain Dew. It may be white-trash NASCAR, but I don’t give a shit. I dig it. It’s my fuel.

But it’s gotta be diet. If it had sugar, I’d weigh 600 pounds. I drink that much.

When I was a kid, my brother and I drank those little 6 oz bottles of Coke. Fully leaded. Hell, it was like cocaine for little dudes. My granny, who lived down the street and watched us after school ’til the parents got home from work, kept the fridge stocked with what seemed like an endless supply.

Oh, we had to have a snack too. Cinnamon toast. White bread slathered with butter, more sugar, and cinnamon.

I can’t believe I got any sleep back then. She’d dope us up, cut us loose, and we’d run outside. We’d play basketball, climb trees, fight, dig holes, build forts, and collapse by 8:00 or 9:00. It took an effort to get fat back then.

Now we’re all fat.  If we’re not literally overloaded, we’re weighed down with sedentary choices.

When I got to the age where I had to watch my caloric intake, I switched over to diet sodas. I’ll drink diet Coke, Pepsi, Canada Dry, or Dr. Pepper (my favorite brown soda), but Diet Mountain Dew reigns supreme.

When sugar wasn’t an issue, I also used to love grape soda. Grapette was a good one. Fanta was pretty tasty. But, there was no diet version.

Over the years, my wife has suffered me yammerin’ in the soda aisle every now and then: “Why the fuck doesn’t somebody make a diet grape soda?”.

Enter Diet Grapico.

Apparently, Grapico has been around since 1914 with distribution only in the Southeast.

And they’re all rock star about it too. Seems you can’t get it in Tennessee. Only Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Florida, which is where I recently discovered it. So now I stock up on 12-packs twice a year on my way back from the beach.

This stuff is really good. Recently, Faygo released a diet grape, but Grapico’s better. Trust me.

Why am I gettin’ all gay over a beverage?

Maybe it’s the limited availability factor. Once I discovered this calorie-free, fizzy, purple drink, you’d think I’d found moonshine and had to smuggle it back home. Out of the hundreds of soft drinks available, I have to cross state lines to get the one I want.

Think of it this way. You can get decent baby back ribs at any Chili’s or Outback. But you can only get the rack you want to have sex with at Rendezvous in Memphis.

That’s a little extreme. Not to mention a tad gross.

My point is, I have to go the extra mile to get what I want. I began a quest for diet grape soda and fell hard when I found it. It had a mystique and it hooked me.

Remember when certain bands or songs made you carry on in a similar fashion?

There was a time when you had to dig for the goods. Maybe you heard part of a song somewhere, or a friend told you about a new band and how great they were. And the hunt was on. Many times the target was equal to the thrill of the chase. Now that’s all but gone.

Today you can hold your iPhone in the air when you hear a song that catches you and it’ll recognize it, title it, and let you buy it.

In a way, that’s beyond awesome. In another way, it’s fucked up. Like I said, we’re fat.

I still recall when we had to literally stop our life to stay current with a particular television show. Or be anchored to a radio if we wanted to hear a certain hit, let alone record it on a cassette. That was a serious time investment.

Our access to media is so immediate these days that I easily put things off. I’m starting to believe that knowing I can delay a TV show or instantly download songs makes me forget to pay attention in the first place.

Can music ever get its hoodoo-voodoo mojo back? That mystique it used to have? Probably not.

Maybe, in a twisted way, this is good for the acts that specialize in something yet to be downloadable … performing live.

Until holograph concerts with surround sound come to our living room (and they will), the live show is probably the last remaining music offering where you still have to get up and get out to get down.

In this setting, the people who come see you have made an effort. They want an experience beyond iPods, Internet, and Tivo. They need a connection. It’s primal. There’s nothing passive about leaving your crib and getting elbow to asshole at an intimate club gig or massive concert.

So these are a few of my favorite things: diet grape soda, the ultimate rack of ribs, and live performances. None of which are available 24-7.

My next quest: replacing my classic CDs with vinyl records. Why? Because anything I chase down on vinyl will sound better, have more meaning, and most important, be sugar free.                                                                                  

A writer friend of mine recently encouraged me to join the blogosphere and start blasting out missives on life and music. He thinks I’ve had an interesting run in a fascinating business and should opine about it.

Half of me wanted to jump in, open my soul, and let it rip. The other half wanted to play it safe. Who really gives a flip about what I have to say? Aren’t there enough blowhards out there already? There’s so much noise.

My friend said it didn’t matter. I should do it for myself. It’s therapeutic and being a creative writer type, I should also do it as an exercise in the craft.

I’m used to songwriting, where a riff, melody, groove, title, or idea provides plenty of grist for the mill. There’s also an order about things—not to mention time constraints.

This is prose. Where do you start? When does it end? 

What in the hell am I going to write about?

Wow! Here’s a topic.

Breaking News:

Brooks & Dunn Call It Quits

So I’m on vacation with the wife and kids. My phone starts farting texts, voicemails, and e-mails.

Brooks & Dunn are breaking up.

I’ve got family and friends wanting info and commentary even though I’ve been gone from that camp for three years. 

What’s the scuttle? Did you know this was coming? They wanted more than what was announced to the media. 

My initial reaction was pure snark.

Being jaded by years in the industry, my first (private) thought was “Well, that’s just great. These days, even bankable artists, in a quest to compete and recapture the attention of the masses, either have to pull a Michael Jackson and literally die, or at least announce a breakup and farewell tour that coincides with a greatest hits record.”

My more respectable, vocal reaction was less candid.  This town has a jukebox full of canned industry responses. You know, the ones used when something needs to be said but no one really knows what to say. So I relied on a few of those.

Like, “No, I didn’t see that coming … Twenty years, what a great run … Guess I knew it would end eventually.”

I’m so full of shit.

Within hours, my heart got heavier as the news sunk in. Brooks & Dunn, really done.

I toured as their guitarist for 12 years, approximately a quarter of my life. I left for various reasons. Some were silly and personal; others were professional. And pepper in a little of me just being an asshole. 

I hate to admit that I regretted my decision very soon. Most of the time, I’m a fairly smart guy. Yet I bought into believing I had a golden parachute. Seems the gold in my chute was the color of piss. But that’s another blog.

Thanks to my association with B&D, I was able to realize a dream I’d put on the shelf in the late ’80s—playing guitar with a headlining act. 

They also let me fulfill my initial Nashville dream of becoming a successful songwriter. Kix and Ronnie recorded two of my songs. Plus, a support act cut a song I co-wrote that was a radio hit.

After 10 years with B&D, the mailbox money starts rolling in and all of a sudden I go from a longtime sideman with a huge act to a self-proclaimed “ar-teest” with options. Not to mention, leather pants.

When you suddenly have options, you can forget about a lot of cool things that got you to the point of having options. I know I did. 

All I could obsess about was why am I on a bus with 10 other people three feet from my face when I should be back in Nashville writing with Music Row’s elite stable of writers? At least in my own mind, I became the “This is bullshit” guy.

In truth, I’m one of thousands of dreamers in Nashville who got the proverbial break. If you’re a musician, you want to play the big gigs: Leno, Letterman, awards shows, etc.

If you’re a songwriter, you want the album cuts, the singles, the airplay, the BMI/ASCAP recognition. 

Thanks to Kix and Ronnie, I got all that and more, and I’ll be forever grateful.

Unfortunately, my early exit a few years ago came with a delayed life lesson. After all of the things one could come to miss about a gig like that, I’ve had to learn how to deal with the one I didn’t expect. 

Sure, I miss playing live and knew that I would. I was prepared for that.

The concerts are a beautiful blur. They were a regular 90-minute payoff for years of paying dues. An immediate connection with a sea of people who love what you do. I can’t think of many jobs that offer that. 

But strangely, it’s the mundane I long for … the hang.

It’s the morning coffee ritual on the bus with the band guys, placing bets on which one of us would taint the hotel lobby restroom first. Cuttin’ up with the crew throughout the day and into the night. 

Not to mention killing time and teetering on the razor’s edge of sexual harassment with the fabulous female background singers. I sincerely liked all six of them. I mean three. 

Then there’s the 16-hour bus rides with a smelly, toxic stew of piss churning in the tank by morning … Actually, I don’t miss that.

But those are the kind of memories that resonate. 

So I’m bummed. Maybe it’s kind of like having an ex-spouse die. You spend a good deal of your life in a relationship. Bonds are made. You see each other at your best and worst. You eventually split and move on. But a relationship still exists, if only at an awkward distance. Then it really goes away. 

Unless you have ice water running through your veins, you grieve a bit.

After leaving, I got to discover many new quirks about my personality.  I suddenly couldn’t watch the guys on television. Couldn’t listen to them on the radio. Packed up all my memorabilia. Took down my wall of fame. 

If my iPod was on shuffle and one of their songs came on (even one of the ones I wrote), I’d click past it. It was oddly uncomfortable. 

How fucked up is that? I didn’t expect to feel that way.

So last night on a beer run in Destin, Florida, my radio was on but turned down. For some reason, I turned it up and a familiar intro was playing. It was “That Ain’t No Way to Go.” It’s my personal favorite B&D song. 

I loved that song even before I joined the band. We used to play it in the early days but dropped it from the set for some reason I can’t recall. I hadn’t heard it in years. 

I listened ’til the end, then sat in the Publix parking lot and welled up a bit. Not a sob, but I’m glad no one was with me.

I still correspond with many fans and have recently read about their sadness regarding the breakup. They talk about how much B&D has meant to their lives. These are hard-working people who buy tickets year after year to pay homage to their favorite band.

I never got that. I get it now.

Life is short and can suck on a regular basis, but what you do to make it joyful and memorable is what counts. B&D did that and helped others do it too. 

It’s the end of an era. The winds of change blow hard. But it’s also the beginning of something new. I’m betting they already have material recorded and ready to launch.

Those guys live to push it and I look forward to hearing what they do as solo artists. 

Good ride, cowboys. 

Hello everyone!

Who wants to go to the beach?

I have an oceanfront condo for rent. Located on beautiful, renourished Crystal Beach in Destin, Florida, the “Crowe’s Nest” is ideally situated next to a mile of open coastline that’s void of any hotels or condos.

We purchased the unit in 2000. After looking at more than 30 units from Ft. Walton to Panama City, this three-story complex was the ultimate vacation spot for me and my family. I don’t like the high-rises and the crowds that go with them. I love (and you will, too) being able to walk to the west and not pass the masses with their umbrellas, coolers and boom boxes.

I also love being within blocks of Publix (they now have a liquor store), Barnes & Noble, Bonefish, Destin Commons, Bass Pro Shops and the deeply loved Waffle House.

Like sushi? Walk east about two blocks to the Beachside Inn (you can rent bicycles there, too). Go upstairs to Camille’s for the best sushi I’ve ever eaten. The seafood and steak dinners they serve are also first rate.

Our condo, along with the entire complex, is completely renovated. It took a pounding during the hurricanes and has been down for over four years. Reconstruction began in January of ’08 and we officially reopened in January of this year.

Unit 40, or the “Crowe’s Nest, ” is located on the third floor at the Coral Reef Club on Scenic Highway 98. The complex provides on-site management and maintenance and features free Wi-Fi and daily setup of one beach umbrella w/two chairs.

This loft unit has about 1300 sq. feet of living space, 2 1/2 baths, sleeps up to 10 people and has an awesome balcony view of the Gulf of Mexico. There’s also an outdoor pool, a shuffleboard court and six new grilling stations for cooking beachside.

There are approximately 30,000 beach condos to choose from in Destin. I hope this post helps cut through the noise. If you want a great beach hang on the Emerald Coast, check out the pics of the “Crowe’s Nest” condo at:

http://gallery.me.com/charliecrowe#100004

For photos of the complex, info, pricing and reservations:

http://www.coralreefdestin.com/

Thanks and have a happy summer!

Charlie