by Brad Paisley
By the same token, way before Jason Alexander became George Costanza on Seinfeld, he first became a major theatrical sensation onstage in New Jersey and later a Tony-winning actor on Broadway. It’s important to take plenty of time to get good at something substantive before you focus on getting famous. This just makes good common sense to me. And it’s true whether you’re playing a guitar, acting, or working behind the scenes.
* * *
It’s important to take plenty of time to get good at something substantive before you focus on getting famous.
* * *
But in our culture today, the paradigm has shifted. It’s a very different process, this fame-and-fortune game. In the earliest days of pop culture, people did something well and then became successful and known. The horse was properly in front of the cart. The horse being unique ability, the cart being fame and fortune. Now it’s almost always cart first, horse optional.
That’s why I relate to guitar players. There is no way to cheat at being skilled in this field. If you are known for your sound, for your style, your unique ability, then you got there woodshedding. Almost no other way around it. Unless you went down to the crossroads, sold your soul to the devil, and made that deal. But that’s only happened once, I’m told.
As a famous person, I look for inspiration in people who have earned their status.
One of the most talented and successful people I have ever known is my pal John Lasseter, the groundbreaking and visionary animator, writer, director, and chief creative officer of Pixar who’s behind the Toy Story franchise and some of the greatest films of our lifetime. But before John ever ran Pixar and became the principal creative adviser for Walt Disney Imagineering in his spare time, he was a creative little kid drawing cartoons during church services in Whittier, California. Long before he ever became an animator at Disney, John got his first experience with the company as a Jungle Cruise skipper at Disneyland in Anaheim, and my guess is that John was as good as any tour guide they ever had at Disneyland. He is someone who always does his best at anything he does and always will. If you want to be a successful guitar player, be that in a guitarist.
When people ask me for advice about “making it” in music today, the first thing I usually tell them is that they should try to make it—meaning music—in their own backyard first, before they start worrying about the big time. I could be wrong, but “deciding” to be a star and then rushing off to Nashville or Hollywood or New York seems just a little silly and potentially dangerous. It’s the easiest way to get that horse-and-cart thing all askew.
There are lots of advantages to trying to be a hometown hero before you rush out and try to conquer the rest of a watching world. First of all, ask Genghis Khan or Alexander the Great: it’s a lot easier to conquer a small town than a whole country. Okay, bad example. But starting out taking things a little smaller and slower gives you the time and space to actually get good before you get famous. Go rack up some of those first ten thousand hours you need in front of friends and family, before hitting the world stage. They will love you and protect you. That’s a good thing too. In this day and age of YouTube and TMZ, if you aren’t already great when you get everyone’s attention, there will be plenty of proof out there. Especially if you’re thinking about enjoying a life in music, as opposed to just grabbing your fifteen minutes of fame. Practice now, young pickers. You won’t have time later. After all, it’s a little like the dog that tries to catch the car. What do you do with it once you’ve actually caught it?
Then there is the fortune that accompanies the fame. I’ve always said that I’m grossly overpaid for what I do. In this world there are people in professions that save lives, save countries, and even to some extent the planet, and yet they may never reach my income level. I’m by no means Bill Gates, but it is a strange feeling to have more than enough money at most times. It is something I struggle with, in that there can be a guilty feeling, especially when you meet people in need. It is probably obvious that I have a soft spot for Corvettes and fast cars, even more obvious that I like guitar gear . . . and, therefore, own more than my fair share of each.
My way of justifying this type of extravagance has always been to give back. I try my best to make sure I offset this opulence as best I can. Randy Owen from Alabama was a great example to me in this way. He was chiefly responsible for getting country radio involved with St. Jude Children’s Hospital. One year at the Country Radio Seminar, he stood up, made a presentation, and dared everyone in the country music community to do something for this cause. It worked. All these years later, Country Cares has raised hundreds of millions of dollars for that children’s hospital. Early on in my career I met Randy at a St. Jude event, and he approached me about that very subject. He said, “Brother Brad, when you look back on your career, I’m here to tell you what will matter. It won’t be gold records or awards. It will be this [pointing at the kids assembled in the room]. It’ll be what you did with it to make lives better that matters.” I never forgot that. And so while I miss the mark sometimes in that area, I’m always happiest when I am making up for my spoils.
Today’s world of reality shows and televised talent shows is certainly new. Everyone wants to be rich and famous. I understand the wealth side of these desires. On the other hand, I’m a little less clear on our culture’s intense and slightly scary obsession with fame. I confess that I sometimes find it hard to relate to the young musicians I meet who have this overwhelming hunger and fire to move to Nashville just to get a record deal right away. It’s always obvious to me when someone is making music for the fame, rather than achieving fame due to the music. I saw a great deal of that sort of raw ambition when I studied at Belmont University in Nashville.
From what I saw then and since, too many of these kids get overly aggressive and actually blow some chances by being too pushy. Some of these ambitious young people I’ve met in Nashville remind me a little of Rachel Berry on Glee, the character played by Lea Michele—you know, the type who’s always a little too willing to tell you absolutely everything she knows. And in that way, you start to realize how little she actually knows. Mark Twain said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”
Growing up where I did, around people like my family and Hank Goddard and the guys in the C-Notes, I learned a very different sort of show business reality. All of the influences I was lucky to meet along the way showed me that you could come at a life in music from a different approach—that maybe it’s better to start out being timid and sitting back a bit, waiting in the wings and learning a few things while you are there. In a nutshell, practice. Watch and learn for a while. I certainly don’t like the feeling of looking like a fool any more than the next guy.
I remember competing in exactly one talent show—definitely non-televised—and I didn’t much like the experience (and not just because I didn’t win). Somehow it just felt wrong to me, because as I’ve come to understand it, making music isn’t about competition. It’s about collaboration. I am a player. And I play with people, not against them. Guitar playing is not a race or a popularity contest by nature.
I also auditioned as a performer exactly once in my life, and it was for Opryland. While most of it went very well—they loved my guitar playing and really were interested in me as a singer—there was also a dance portion that was not optional. So yours truly had to perform some sort of dance routine for the judges, complete with freestyle section and everything. My college adviser Jim “Coach” Watson went with me that day and is the only person alive who witnessed this absolute disaster, other than the judges. The request was, “Show us you can dance.”
I moonwalked.
That’s right. Yeah, baby. That was my freestyle dance routine. I moonwalked. In 1992. Ten years late, actually. And in full view of Nashville judges. Needless to say, I realized that day that the audition process was probably not for me.
* * *
Yeah, baby. T
hat was my freestyle dance routine. I moonwalked.
* * *
On the other hand, I recognize that there can be some beautiful exceptions to this rule. For instance, Carrie Underwood is clearly one of the best things ever to happen to our country music world. She’s also been the best singer and CMA cohost that any guy could ever ask for. Country music clearly lucked out when she came our way after winning American Idol. That’s because it’s become clear that Carrie is making music for the right reasons, and she just keeps getting better and better. She is living proof of the potential of some of these shows to enhance our lives in ways we don’t expect. By virtue of her talent and hard work, she’s gradually become an American idol the old-fashioned way too.
______________
______________
______________
SOLO
______________
______________
______________
I was lucky enough to go on tour with Brad a few years ago. Through that and through our adventures in co-hosting the CMA Awards, he has become like a big brother to me. You know, like that pesky big brother who does nothing but pick on you and pick on his guitar! At least one of those pays off real well. Of course, if I had a real big brother, I would want him to be just like Brad. And, let’s face it, there’s no better player I know.
—CARRIE UNDERWOOD
My friend Carrie has handled getting famous on camera on a weekly basis with amazing grace, just like everything else she does. On the other hand, I don’t think I would have ever won American Idol or even made it through those auditions. Instead, I was granted the time and space to build my success story slow and steady over the course of years. Instead of facing judges on TV right away, I faced live audiences of all shapes and sizes from a very young age. In my experience, the people in those hometown crowds teach you much of what you ultimately need to know as a performer and an entertainer. And they don’t hit a gong or a buzzer when you fail. Or vote you out of town.
To steal a phrase from a Miranda Lambert song, I was famous in a small town. Growing up as a local player in Glen Dale, I had plenty of time to get ready for the big time. For the record, Glen Dale does have a few interesting claims to fame—for example, Baseball Hall of Famer George Brett was born there, and I recently found out Lady Gaga’s mother went to John Marshall High School. I’m sure they’re repainting the WELCOME to GLEN DALE sign as we speak.
WELCOME TO GLEN DALE
HOME OF LADY GAGA’S MOTHER
and Brad Paisley
I feel very fortunate that what little fame I could muster up in my small town came without my having to chase it too hard. As far as I can remember, I never had to beg to play anywhere. People just kept asking me, and I actually had to turn a lot of work down. On my path, every opportunity that came my way basically came from doing the work. Work begat work—which is an excellent way to learn your trade.
* * *
Work begat work—which is an excellent way to learn your trade.
* * *
I had a healthy little look at show business. It also helped that I didn’t have parents or anyone else in my circle looking at me like I was their big meal ticket or some way to live out some vicarious dream. After all, a C-Note only goes so far—even in a place like Glen Dale.
Every single crowd at every single gig—good, bad, and ugly—taught me something, even when there really wasn’t much of a crowd. Especially when there wasn’t much of a crowd. Now, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t be a little pain and complain sometimes. My mother reminded me recently about a time when I was booked to play guitar at Oglebay Park in nearby Wheeling, West Virginia, around Christmas for the bus tours that would come by. I would have to leave school a little early for these gigs, and yet sometimes there would only be one or two people out there listening. That’s just about the only time my mom remembers me asking why I was doing this anyway. My father rightly pointed out that I would have gladly traded that specific hundred-dollar bill for another hundred audience members. Thinking back on it now, those were important shows because even at an early age, they taught me the important lesson of living up to your deals.
Ironically—considering that I was technically a child myself at the time—one of the worst gigs that I remember doing was at the public library for a bunch of little kids during story hour. I recall leaving school one day a little early to play there for a bunch of preschoolers who were not much older than my kids are now. For the first time ever, I totally and obviously bombed. Nuclear.
I can remember desperately pulling out “Jingle Bells” (in the summertime), the theme from Sesame Street, the “Hokey Pokey,” and anything else I thought might work with this tough crowd, but I could do absolutely nothing right that afternoon. To older audiences, my relative youth and old-school style might have been charming, but to these tykes I guess I just looked like some old hack. I was eleven or twelve at the time, and I remember my mom driving me home afterward and knowing I’d missed the mark. My mom got in the car and said, “Well, umm, that didn’t go too well.”
And she was right, but at least I learned how to keep playing through the pain—a necessary lesson as a guitarist and performer.
I am proudest of the times I spent playing for people in need, even at that early age. There was always a benefit somewhere, thrown by a guy like County Commissioner Biggie Byard, where they were raising money for a family or two, and they needed guitarists. Hank and I would always go back people up for those events or for nursing home performances or children’s charities. I was always getting requests like that. And my parents saw to it that I never turned down these chances to help people. Mom and Dad made sure of that. It was their way of helping me keep some perspective in this crazy dream of mine. Once a month I would go play for the respite care floor of the local hospital. I remember a woman who was one of the residents there; she had suffered a stroke. I was only eleven or so, and seeing this sort of reality was life-changing. This woman could no longer speak a word, but she could sing along perfectly with “You Are My Sunshine” or “In the Garden.” I would sit by her hospital bed and strum the chords on my guitar while she belted out the words clearly and effortlessly. Otherwise she would just stare. It was very heavy stuff. My visits to perform were some of the highlights of her life at that point. I knew that. And somehow I’ve never looked at music the same.
In general, I think that my parents were a little baffled by the actions of their guitar-crazy only son. They were always supportive, even if they had no clue about the music or entertainment businesses. Yet before long it became clear that my dad, in particular, really loved being with me on this musical journey. My dad has never been a stage parent, and he’s not living any of his unaccomplished dreams through me. More than anything, I’d say that he just wanted to hop on the bus and come along for the ride. From the start, Dad drove me around and learned how to set up a PA system because somebody had to. And after I became a touring artist, he got his commercial driver’s license and started to relief-drive the bus. Apparently, you can teach some old dogs new tricks.
Being a schoolteacher, my mom worried a little more about her son the musician. But from the sixth grade on, I had a plan. And studying anything other than the Mel Bay Guitar Book was not part of it. My grades started to suffer, and so did my mother. She used to beg me to try a little harder in school. But the point was pretty much moot by the time I was eleven or twelve. That’s because just as I was on the brink of becoming a genuine American teenager and probably even more insufferable than I already was, I accidentally fell into the single greatest musical education that a young guitar player could ever have—live radio. And I got there by the power of the pen.
I was twelve when I wrote my first song. Somehow, out of nowhere, I had an overwhelming urge to do just that. I don’t remember much about the experience, just playing it for my parents the night I finished it. I think they were shocked. Looking back at it, I’m even shocked. It’s way better than it ough
t to be. I’ve written worse songs in the last few years. It was called “Born on Christmas Day,” and I started to perform it that Christmas.
One day the music director of WWVA—a wonderful man named Tom Miller—came to a Rotary Club luncheon in town to do a little local weather report as a joke. The headmaster of my junior high school, who was also speaking at the lunch, asked me to represent the school and sing a song. It was around the holidays, and so I knew just what to sing.
After the luncheon, Tom came up to me and said, “You have to come on Jamboree USA this week and do that song.” I was floored. The Wheeling Jamboree was the big time, the mack daddy of places you could perform in my area. I took the news with complete maturity—I ran through the house that night when I got home and screamed.
Here’s another of those amazing strokes of good luck that came to me inexplicably. Right place, right time. Or more accurately, divine intervention. Thankfully, I happened to have grown up only twenty minutes away from the Wheeling Jamboree, which was the second-oldest continually running barn dance and country radio broadcast, right after the Grand Ole Opry show itself. The Wheeling Jamboree was broadcast weekly on a 50,000-watt transmitter from an awesome old Victorian venue called the Capitol Theatre and could be heard by country fans across the entire Northeast.
Playing the Jamboree was almost like being on the Grand Ole Opry, only I didn’t have to leave home to do it. They even had one of those classic microphone stands that read:
