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.