by Brad Paisley
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When the previews ended and the movie was about to begin, it was starting to be clear—she was not showing up.
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Afterward, I took that long walk out to the car thinking, That’s it; I have closure. Fine. Now it’s time to move forward. But then I realized there was no way that we originally went to the seven thirty movie on our first date. That would have meant that we had our fancy Pizza Hut dinner at five thirty in the afternoon. So that had to mean that our first date had been the late show instead.
So I went back and bought another ticket. This time for the nine-thirty showing of Father of the Bride Part II.
Of course my ex didn’t show up for that screening either. This time, when the movie started, I could see the writing scrolling up the wall and snuck out.
By this time, my friend Kelley was sitting by the phone waiting for the big news. Once and for all, I was ready to move on with my life. When I got back to Nashville and Kelley and I talked about this humiliating romantic misadventure, I blacked his eye. Kidding. And then we decided that we could at least get a good song out of it. And so we wrote “Part Two,” the title track to my second album. I had absolute closure. But that’s the thing about closure: it is usually more of a beginning than an ending.
Strangely, I did see the woman I belonged with that evening. Little did I know I was looking right at her.
Failures are funny—you never know when one of them is going to turn into your greatest success.
That’s what happened to me when I decided to do a demo of “I’m Gonna Miss Her (The Fishin’ Song)”—that funny, crowd-pleasing tune that I wrote with Frank Rogers—at the end of a session, thinking it would be good for a laugh. That same afternoon I got a call that Pat Finch from my publishing company went out with my demo and played it for the famed producer Tony Brown, who wanted our song for George Strait to record. A few hours later, I was informed that there was a little problem—the sort of little problem that you really want to have. Without Pat knowing it, someone else at the company had gone over and pitched the same song to Capitol, and that now Garth Brooks wanted to put a hold on the song. As if that weren’t enough good news, we then heard from one of the big A & R men at Arista, Steve Williams, that Alan Jackson wanted to record “I’m Gonna Miss Her” too.
Take a moment to let those three names soak in. I’m just this obscure young songwriter in town with one cut, and suddenly George Strait, Garth Brooks, and Alan Jackson—the three biggest stars in country music at the time, and all of them heroes to me—are interested in my song in the same day. That night, putting my recent Belmont education to some proper use, I began to calculate the potential windfall royalty checks that would soon be wending their way toward my mailbox. I had already purchased a newer bass boat, a Corvette, and a much bigger house. In my mind.
Then some reality hit. First, Garth let the song go. Next, George didn’t cut it either. Still, Alan had the song on hold for almost two months, and that was exciting because it was starting to look like he must be serious about it. Finally they let us know when Alan was going into the studio. With eleven songs ready, he ended up recording only ten. And the one song that Alan didn’t cut was—you guessed it—“I’m Gonna Miss Her.” When the folks at EMI called me to tell me the bad news, I probably surprised them. “Then I’m going to keep the song for myself,” I said.
That’s the moment when Steve Williams at Alan Jackson’s label—the label I most dreamed of recording for—decided to call up my publisher and ask an excellent question: “So what other songs does Brad have?” Steve and Mike Dungan (the vice president and the general manager of Arista) soon got a tape of some of my songs and in a flash the label became interested in me as more than a songwriter. I remember that Steve took me to lunch and said, “You know, Brad, I think you’re an artist.”
And I said, “You know what? I like the way you think.”
Steve said, “Let’s explore this.” And so we did.
Before long, Arista Nashville was officially interested in signing me to their roster, and at the same time, RCA was interested too. In the music business as in love, it can be very useful to have at least two suitors because it makes you look that much more desirable. And who doesn’t enjoy a good cat-fight?
We chose Arista, and I believe we made the right choice. Arista proved that when I let them know that I wanted my Belmont collaborator Frank Rogers to produce my first album. They didn’t even flinch. Even though neither of us had a lot of what you might call professional recording experience (as in absolutely none). But by now I had waited for my moment, and I knew the kind of album I wanted to make, and I believed in Frank and the guys I’d gathered around me. I knew that Frank believed in me, too, and that he would understand that—for instance—I was capable of playing all the guitar on my own album, and that he would not try to make me sound like anyone else.
The team at Arista didn’t balk. Instead, they said, “Why don’t you guys go cut four songs and let’s see how that goes?” So we cut four songs, three of them being “Who Needs Pictures,” “Me Neither,” and “We Danced.” All eventual hit singles, exactly as you hear them on the record to this day. At the same time, I gave the record company a CD with twenty-five songs on it because I’d been stockpiling, waiting for this moment. In that first group of songs were a bunch that would later go on to be hits, like “Wrapped Around,” “I’m Gonna Miss Her,” and “Part Two”—basically the core of my first two albums. The day he received all of this material, Steve Williams called me up, laughed, and said, “Okay, Brad, why don’t we just go ahead and do the box set now?”
What I loved the most about recording that first album was the guitar parts. I had the songs ready, I knew what my voice would sound like, but I got the sense that every guitar part I put on tape was going to define me. I remember those early Desert Rose Band records, where the sound of John’s guitar was like an epiphany. I imagined some other kid out there who was going to feel the same way about me. I couldn’t let him down, whoever he might be.
* * *
I got the sense that every guitar part I put on tape was going to define me.
* * *
Promoting my first single was grueling. I would fly to Portland, Oregon, wake up at 6 A.M., do morning radio shows, and then get on another plane and fly to Seattle. After interviews on drive-time radio shows there, it was back to the airport for the flight to San Francisco. And so on. I did that for almost six months. I have never been so tired. On top of all the exhausting traveling, my first single, “Who Needs Pictures,” was struggling on the chart. I remember it being stuck in the forties for almost a month while I was stuck in airports and hotels trying desperately to promote it. I felt like I was spinning my wheels. I seriously wondered if this was the life for me.
I called my friend and promotion rep at Arista, Lori Hartigan, and told her how I was feeling. It was a Sunday night, and I was on my way to the airport to leave again for a week. “I don’t think I can do this anymore, Lori. Who am I kidding? I can’t take it; I really want to quit.”
She said, “You’re just tired. You belong on the radio, and you belong in country music. I understand that this is awfully draining. You know what? I think you need a sign. Do me a favor and pray for one. Ask God to show you that you are on the right track. Now, go get on your plane and call me when you land.” So I bowed my head and did just that.
I went through security and sat down at the gate. I remember I was going to Phoenix. A girl wearing a Vanderbilt sweatshirt was sitting across from me reading a Bible. We made eye contact, and she said hello. She saw my guitar case.
“What do you do?” she asked.
I told her I was a singer.
“Anything I’ve heard?”
I said, “Probably not . . . yet.” I didn’t let on that I was down or struggling. She was on the way to a Bible camp in Arizona. We chatted for just a few minutes and then boarded.
I was halfway through a book and halfway
through the flight when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the Vandy girl. “I made you a bookmark,” she said. She had torn a page out of her Bible, cut it into a rectangle, and wrote, “Philippians 4:13, I can do all things through Him who gives me strength,” on the front. I turned it over, and the back said, “Be Encouraged!”
It’s funny. It didn’t hit me at the time that this was a sign. I thanked her and went back to reading. As I was walking to the baggage claim, my cell phone rang. As soon as I saw Lori’s number come up, I realized how blind I must have been.
“Hey, I’m worried about you,” Lori said. “I haven’t stopped thinking about what you said since you called. Did you get your sign yet?”
“Yeah, Lori, I most definitely did.” Then I closed my eyes and thanked God for what was yet another little nudge in the right direction.
The first time I ever heard my record on a car radio, I was in the middle of that promo tour, and I was leaving a radio station in Salt Lake City where I’d just done an interview. I was in the rental car driving back to the airport to head to the next city with my radio rep, and the DJ came on and said, “We had a great guy in here today to play some new songs, and we’re going to play a song by him right now. It’s brand-new and it’s called ‘Who Needs Pictures.’ This is Brad Paisley.” I was completely floored—and I remember thinking, Boy, my voice sounds weird all sped up like that.
Thanks to lots of people in country radio, I’d get plenty more chances to hear my voice sped up in the months and years to come. After “Who Needs Pictures,” we released the song “He Didn’t Have to Be,” which I wrote with Kelley Lovelace, inspired by his experiences becoming a stepfather. This was one of those songs that connected with people in a really powerful way. The song moved people the way country songs can do and became my first number one on the country charts. In fact, I believe it was the first number one by a new country artist in a number of years. More than anything, it got the industry’s attention from a songwriter standpoint and established me as an artist.
Eventually, “We Danced”—a romantic song I wrote with Chris DuBois about a fantasy of a girl looking for a lost purse in a bar at closing time—gave me my second number one hit. And suddenly, we were off and running. A very big moment for me came in 2000 when I won the Horizon Award at the CMA Awards—sort of country’s version of winning Best New Artist at the Grammys. Soon I would be nominated as Best New Artist at the Grammys too—another unbelievable thrill. I have to say that winning the Horizon Award in 2000 was kind of magical—like a big puzzle piece that just fell in perfectly. If I were to have written the script for my life, I might have actually penned it so that I won the Horizon Award in 2000, and then ten years later, in 2010, I’d win Entertainer of the Year. To me, that feels like a healthy climb, so much more satisfying than winning those two awards back-to-back. I’ve never been about the short run or the quick hit, and I loved the idea of taking my time on this musical journey. I’m pretty sure someone else is writing this particular script, but I’m here to say that I definitely approve of the plot so far.
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SOLO
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Brad is the consummate modern country guitar hero who combines the influences of the deep classic country pickers with the blues/rock players of the sixties/seventies rock era. I don’t know of anyone who makes playing look so effortless and who loves playing as much as Brad. He is a true musical genius!
—SHERYL CROW
The year I won the Horizon Award, the producers paired up some of the Horizon nominees with more established country stars, and Walter C. Miller—the CMA Awards’ executive producer and a big early booster of mine—had the idea of pairing me up with Ricky Skaggs and having me do both the very romantic “We Danced” and the very goofy “Me Neither” to show off the two sides of what I could do. First, I played “We Danced” with my band, and then Ricky came out, played mandolin, and sang with me on “Me Neither.” As if that weren’t enough, Ricky then stepped forward and announced the winner of the Horizon Award while I stood on the side of the stage. My name was called, and the moment was absolutely perfect—if you can overlook that fuchsia suit I wore that night. One of many questionable wardrobe choices I’ve made over my career.
Part I of my recording career went like a dream. And as I went on to make my second album, Part II—named after the song inspired by the night I saw Father of the Bride Part II—I had no idea how poetic things were about to get. I knew the time was right to include a few of the songs I’d held back for just this moment, somehow assuming this sort of moment would actually come. I’m not sure if this was arrogance or stupidity, maybe both, but somehow it all worked out. I remember getting pressure from the label to include “I’m Gonna Miss Her” on my first album. I fought it, believing it was going to be needed as an RBI, to borrow from baseball. In particular, I was convinced that if I had a few hits by now, then a song like “I’m Gonna Miss Her” on the second album could hit it out of the park. I remember Alan Jackson pulling me aside at a party after my first album hit. Alan’s a great guy, and I respect him a lot as an artist, so I was glad to have a moment with him. At one point, Alan said, “So are you ever going cut that fishin’ song?”
“Yep, it’s going on my second album,” I said.
“Good. I always liked that song,” he said.
“Well, then you should have cut it,” I said, kidding him.
But in truth, I may very well owe my recording career, or at least my overall image, to the fact that he didn’t. You just never know.
When you first experience success in this world, there is no shortage of ways you can lose your way and screw it all up. We see that all the time, don’t we? One of the constants in my life that kept me relatively grounded, and reminded me why I do what I do, has been the Grand Ole Opry. Just as my career was taking off in 1999, I found myself standing on the Opry stage performing for the first time. I was in complete and utter awe. Playing at the Opry makes me feel like a true part of the history of the music that I love. Finding a home there was the fulfillment of not only one of my dreams, but also one of the dreams my grandfather might have had for me.
* * *
One of the constants in my life that kept me relatively grounded . . . has been the Grand Ole Opry.
* * *
Warren Jarvis was diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer just a year or so after I started performing with the Wheeling Jamboree. The last time he ever saw me play was when I was opening up for the Judds. My papaw was in pretty bad shape then and undergoing chemotherapy, but he still came to the show. I dedicated a gospel song to him that night called “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” But what he liked more was the way I rocked out on the guitar covering “Lynda,” a really up-tempo Steve Wariner song. I like to think that he left this world knowing that there were great things ahead for me, thanks almost entirely to him. Standing on the Opry stage for the first time, I thought of my grandfather and how much I wished he could have been there with me. In a way, he was with me and always will be.
My experiences at the Opry have changed me forever. It was there that another of my greatest musical heroes became one of my closest friends. I’m talking about the legendary Little Jimmy Dickens. I remember going to the Grand Ole Opry as a new artist, and even though Jimmy couldn’t have had any idea who I was, he still treated me with the respect of a colleague and the kindness of a friend. In watching him over the years, I have never seen him behave otherwise. Little Jimmy had long been an inspiration to me as a fellow West Virginian who went on to become a country music legend. I was a fan from the first time I saw him from the side of the stage at the Wheeling Jamboree. It was like watching a funny firecracker.
But even before I ever met this man, I could sense his incredibly positive outlook on life and his desire to make people laugh and be happy. Don’t let Jimmy
Dickens’s sense of humor or his relative lack of stature fool you for a second. Little Jimmy is a very big and significant figure in the history of our music. As much as anyone I know, Jimmy has seen it all. This man has been a member of the Grand Ole Opry for more than sixty years and is quite rightly a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame.
Jimmy was there at the birth of so much of what I love in country music. It was the King of Country Music himself, Roy Acuff, who first heard Jimmy on the radio and asked him to come play the Grand Ole Opry. By 1949, Jimmy became a permanent member and went on to be one of the most popular Opry performers ever. Jimmy Dickens was there the night that some new guy named Hank Williams came onstage to play the Opry for the first time. In fact, the story goes that Hank gave Jimmy his nickname “Tater” and even wrote “Hey, Good Lookin’” for Jimmy to record—then, perhaps wisely, decided to save the song for himself.
Back in the fifties and sixties, Jimmy had lots of hits and one of the very best bands around. He had some big crossover smashes, like “May the Bird of Paradise Fly up Your Nose,” and some very funny novelty hits, like “A-Sleeping at the Foot of the Bed,” “I’m Little but I’m Loud,” and “Take an Old Cold Tater (and Wait).” But Jimmy could also break your heart with great tearjerkers like “Life Turned Her That Way” and “(You’ve Been Quite a Doll) Raggedy Ann”—in fact, he even would hold a Raggedy Ann doll while he sang it. As funny as he is, let there be no doubt that Little Jimmy Dickens has always been one serious talent.
