The Garth Factor

by Patsi Bale Cox

  Despite his own misgivings and the short period of time and a small budget allotted to shoot the video for “If Tomorrow Never Comes,” it was a top-flight piece of film work. Sandy Brooks is featured in the video, and Steve Gatlin’s daughter Aubrie plays the child. And playing the dual role of singer and husband/father turned out to be easier than Garth had thought. “It felt comfortable to be on camera with Sandy and Aubrie,” he said. “They put me at ease.”

  “If Tomorrow Never Comes” opened with a shot of a small girl playing in front of a farmhouse and fades to Garth singing. As it turned out, using that particular house was serendipitous. “When Sandy and I first moved to Nashville, we’d drive around town looking at houses we particularly liked,” Garth explained. “One of them was a wonderful ‘mail order’ house that had been brought to Tennessee in pieces and built in the 1920s. We used to park the truck and just sit and stare at that place. Then, when the video director, John Lloyd Miller, brought in a picture of the house he’d found for ‘If Tomorrow Never Comes,’ it was that house!”

  Like the single, this video was an award winner, one of three included on a compilation winning Best Selling Music Video at the NARM (National Academy of Recorded Music) Best Seller Awards in 1991.

  GARTH BROOKS ULTIMATELY BECAME the biggest-selling country album of the ’80s, and established Garth as a serious contender in Nashville’s star struggle. But it was not 1989’s big news. Clint Black’s Killin’ Time was the headline grabber. Black’s first five releases topped the singles charts, helping Killin’ Time stay ensconced at number 1 on Billboard’s country album chart for thirty-one weeks. Clint had everything Garth did not: high-powered management, extensive financial backing, and movie star looks. Moreover, he was signed with the mighty RCA, which Chet Atkins had built into a superpower while Capitol’s country division was still being run out of Ken Nelson’s back pocket in L.A.

  There were other artists who made an impact that same year, who became known as “the Class of ’89.” Travis Tritt’s debut single, “Country Club,” installed the young Georgia native as a fixture on the charts. Tritt was an unlikely success story. He had no real contacts, no money backers (no new artist did when compared to the $1 million ZZ Top manager Bill Hamm allegedly put behind Clint Black), and no established producer. But working with upstart Gregg Brown, Tritt put together a stellar project and Warner Bros. snapped him up. “Country Club” skated right around the edges of Waylon’s country and Hank Jr.’s Southern rock, so both two-steppers and rockers lapped it up.

  A late starter by mere months, Tritt’s fellow Georgian Alan Jackson also scored big with his debut album, Here In The Real World. Unlike Tritt, Jackson had some heavy-duty help awaiting him in Nashville. Glen Campbell, who’d been handed a demo tape in an airport by Jackson’s flight attendant spouse, sent him to his own publishing company, headed by longtime Nashville figure Marty Gamblin. The Jacksons moved to Nashville, where Alan took a job in the Nashville Network mail room, spending every spare moment writing and trying to get his music heard. Many of the people Alan worked with at TNN wouldn’t have bet a nickel on his chances for success. He seemed shy, lacking in the drive and charisma usually associated with stardom. Later, one prominent TNN executive privately confessed that every tape Alan had given him had ended up in the trash can, unheard.

  Finally, after signing a management deal with publisher Barry Coburn, Jackson became the first artist signed to the newly formed Arista Records headed by Tim DuBois. The two, Jackson and DuBois, were destined to become two of Nashville’s most important figures. Oklahoma-born DuBois was a highly regarded songwriter (“Love In The First Degree” and “When I Call Your Name”) and producer when, in 1989, music executive Clive Davis asked him to open a Nashville branch of Arista. The label had attempted to promote country artist Tanya Tucker from New York some years earlier, and it hadn’t worked. Tanya only charted two singles before leaving Arista, signing with Capitol three years later.

  Making Alan Jackson his first choice was a first-class move on DuBois’s part. He ignored the sometimes almost self-demeaning manner and spotted a star. Jackson donned a cowboy hat, opened up enough to show the public his amicable and often witty persona, and won over any doubters. His classic country writing and traditional styling took radio by storm with career-making hits in 1990, particularly “Here In The Real World” and “Chasin’ That Neon Rainbow.”

  Although not technically considered part of the Class of ’89, several others deserve mention. Columbia Records’ Mary Chapin Carpenter had been quietly making inroads since Hometown Girl, her folk-oriented debut in 1987. “Quittin’ Time,” from 1989’s State Of The Heart made it to number 7, then “Down At The Twist And Shout,” from Shooting Straight from the Heart climbed to number 2 in 1991. As a writer/artist, she stood in the ranks of Rosanne Cash and Pam Tillis.

  Joe Diffie released his first single in 1990, the number 1 “Home,” followed by chart-toppers including “If You Want Me To,” “If The Devil Danced In Empty Pockets,” and “New Way (To Light Up An Old Flame).” Diffie had been one of Nashville’s most-sought-after demo singers when he signed with Epic Records. One of the finest traditionalists in the honkytonk vein, Diffie’s album debut, A Thousand Winding Roads, was a country music history lesson, with styling often reminiscent of Haggard, Jones, and Frizzell.

  Lionel Cartwright started playing music at age ten, became proficient on ten instruments, and as a high school student was already a regular on live country radio shows in his native West Virginia. After working his way through college, Lionel started playing on the WWVA Wheeling Jamboree before making the move to Nashville. Signed by Tony Brown to MCA, his 1989 debut album made no waves, but the following year I Watched It All on My Radio yielded two Top 10 hits, followed by Chasin’ the Sun in 1991 and a number 1, “Leap Of Faith.”

  Lionel is an accomplished writer and vocalist. But in many ways, he suffered the same fate that Capitol’s Billy Dean would a couple of years later. He was too pretty. One veteran media figure said he lacked “the sweat factor.” But in the end, it wasn’t his lack of a sweat factor that sunk Lionel Cartwright’s chart hopes. It was that he tried to take charge of his own career—a no-no in some Nashville circles. It had worked during the Outlaw Movement of the 1970s, when Willie and Waylon had the clout to effect change. Less so through the 1980s.

  Artists in Nashville tended to learn hard lessons about trying to exert any real control over their careers. Promotion and marketing departments wield tremendous power within most record labels. Label heads and A&R departments sign artists and usually play a role, along with artists and managers, in picking material. But other divisions can make or break an artist and an album. If, for example, the promotion department dislikes the song an artist wants sent out as a single, the artist should beware. A preliminary warning from promotion gives perfect cover if a song stalls out on the chart. And if marketing is disinterested in an artist or unsure of a strategic approach, sales reflect it. If a label head is particularly behind an artist, he may step in. But not always.

  A good example of how the relationship between divisions ought to work involves Nashville executive Randy Goodman, who was Joe Galante’s second in command at RCA. Goodman, who now runs Disney’s Lyric Street Records in Nashville, went with his boss in 1990 when Galante returned to New York to run RCA’s pop division for four years. During his time in New York, Goodman was approached by one of the company’s marketing men about the Dave Matthews Band. Goodman went out to hear their show and was impressed. “Sign them,” he said.

  “Well, we love them too,” the marketer said. “But we just don’t have any idea what to do with them.”

  “But that’s your job, isn’t it?” Goodman answered, making the line of demarcation very clear.

  Goodman kept watch over the label’s handling of Dave Matthews, and of course, in the end RCA had another major act on their roster.

  Image is another area where an artist often faces challenges. Public relations d
epartments can make dangerous changes when it comes to the way an artist is presented to the public. One young female singer was the subject of countless glamour photo sessions as her label readied her debut album. Her press kit showed her to be ultrafeminine and sexualized. To the public, she looked very Cosmopolitan. In reality, she was closer to Outdoor Life. She preferred carefree hairstyles and little makeup, and often dressed in military-style shorts and T-shirts. None of this, of course, had anything to do with the fact that she was a singular musical talent. When she began playing the clubs where country singers get their start, promoters began to call Nashville with complaints.

  “Who the hell is this little hippie chick singer? The photo you sent me showed her in some contraption that looked like a bra.”

  The image problem reared its head early in Garth’s career, but this time it concerned the press, not the record label. With the emergence of three presumably viable artists in cowboy hats, the press seized on a term to replace “Class of ’89”: hat acts. Garth Brooks, for one, hated the term, thinking it stereotyped them and demeaned the western traditions found within their music.

  “I don’t like labeling things,” he said. “Sticking people or music into little boxes just so it’s easier to talk or write about makes no sense. Everything has layers, textures, and that’s where the beauty of it comes in.”

  It was one of the “hat acts,” Clint Black, whose debut album captured the most attention when it was released, and it was he who was named the Country Music Association Male Vocalist of the Year in 1990, when Garth took home the Horizon Award, for newcomers.

  Everybody loves a horse race, and that’s what the media attempted to set up between Brooks and Black once Garth proved to be an able adversary. The two were often compared, with Black usually winning by a nose. Several magazines even approached the artists to pose together, almost in combative mode.

  “This is messed up,” Garth confided. “There’s no conflict between Clint and me—why act like there is? I love Clint Black music and I hope he likes mine. The whole thing sounds like some kind of a setup or a game, and I am not going to play.” Garth wisely turned down the photo ops, continuing to build his fan base on the road.

  There was an initial bump in Garth’s relationship with the press when the story of Sandy Brooks’s fist-through-the-bathroom-wall spun out of control. Always candid to a fault, Garth mentioned it to a newsperson, and once that horse was out of the stall, it ran. Garth’s family, of course, had long known about it. It was an amusing incident that showed the new family member was a woman to be reckoned with. And in the end, that’s how America looked at it. When it first grabbed headlines, Garth was aghast to see a funny family story become tabloid fodder, and feared it would in some way tar his wife. Sandy, of course, was made of strong stuff and couldn’t be brought down by the flurry of stories.

  * * *

  GARTH PLAYED A SERIES of important shows in 1989 when he opened for superstar Kenny Rogers: the Philadelphia Civic Center; the Northfork Theatre at Westbury, New York; and the Fox Theatre in Detroit. Although Rogers hadn’t had a chart-topper in two years, he remained one of the genre’s biggest stars. What Garth saw impressed him. “Kenny treated his opening acts with great respect,” reflects Bob Doyle. “They didn’t have to worry that they wouldn’t get a decent sound check, or that they would be ignored on the tour. Kenny made it a point to get to know his opening acts, to appreciate their music and to let them know about it. He also treated his band and crew very well. Through all the tours of the 1990s, no matter how big Garth’s career got, I never saw him do anything less.”

  Unfortunately, out there on the road Garth ran into the oldest problem in the world: another woman. Garth counted on the “code of the road” to protect him. Bands and crews usually keep indiscretions to themselves—what happens on the road stays on the road. But too many within his circle were very loyal to Sandy. And when word got back to her, suffice it to say she was not amused. On November 4, 1989, she called her touring husband and laid down the law. The next night on tour in Missouri, Garth broke down onstage, explaining his emotions to his fans by saying that his marriage was in trouble and he was to blame. When he finished that concert run, Garth headed home where Sandy again explained that it was “my way or the highway.” Garth said, “Your way.”

  In 1993 Garth talked to Rolling Stone’s Anthony DeCurtis about what had gone wrong. He explained that when he had left Sandy to come to Nashville in 1985, he’d envisioned himself as becoming a hot guy around town, surrounded by girls. When he went home to Oklahoma and got married, he believed he’d matured. Once he got a record deal, he learned otherwise. In the end he regretted his actions not only because of Sandy, but because of friends he’d expected to cover up his deception.

  “I was playing in a ballpark that I had no license to play in. But another thing was, I had some great friendships that I ruined because I pushed them over the line of friendship, and now I don’t get to talk with those people anymore. And I learned a lot from those people because as human beings they were cool. So apologies to both need to be made. I was fortunate enough to be given a second chance.”

  Did he see the infidelity as a natural part of being a musician on the road?

  “I don’t see it as a necessity. Anybody starting out saying, ‘Man, it has to happen’—bullshit. It doesn’t. I’ll put it this way: If I was a lawyer, it would probably have happened the same way. I think it had more to do with a guy growing up and accepting the responsibilities of marriage than it had to do with somebody playing music.”

  If Garth thought his mother would stay out of this fray, he was wrong. Colleen was always willing to tell her son the unvarnished truth. Colleen’s main worry was that Garth didn’t understand why it had happened and how to guard against temptations in the future.

  So she sat him down and asked him if he knew the difference between an isolated incident and an actual affair. Garth’s face reddened. “Well, I guess an affair keeps on going.”

  “That’s right,” Colleen continued. “And you didn’t have an affair. What you had was an infatuation with an older woman who treated you like no one has before, made you feel like a man of the world and very exciting. Son, you could be the ugliest man in the world, but in that spotlight you’re going to find hundreds of women who’ll make you think you are the handsomest man on the face of this earth. It’s the spotlight. Don’t fall for it.”

  From then on Garth made Sandy an integral part of his career. When possible, she traveled with him. He not only brought her to industry events and awards shows, he took her with him on the stage when he won. Sandy, in fact, started to become nearly as much a public figure as her husband.

  With his marriage starting to mend, Garth thought his troubles were behind him. He always believed that no matter what Nashville said, his audiences would tell him the truth. And audiences told him that “The Dance” was a hit.

  “I think ‘The Dance’ is definitely right for a single,” he told Allen Reynolds. “The audiences are really responding to it.” He was so excited at the prospect of taking the song out to country radio that he started thinking about some ideas for a video.

  On December 9 “If Tomorrow Never Comes” hit number 1.

  But trouble was brewing on another front, and Capitol Records was just about to be thrown into a tailspin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Watch your back, pal”

  Lynn Shults pulled into a parking space, slunk out of his car, and trudged into the bar. He planned on getting drunk. Not just any old garden-variety drunk, either. He planned on getting blitzed, hammered beyond recognition, bust-up-the-bar drunk, bust-your-ass-and-still-lose-your-job drunk.

  He found his fellow pink-slipped Capitol staffers still in shock and contemplating their bleak futures in an industry that wasn’t hiring. One of them had placed his Capitol Records corporate credit card on the table, offering to put every drink on the card as an adios to corporate duplicity.

  “Hell
yes,” Lynn said. “Let’s drink the best damned booze they’ve got and charge it to Jimmy Bowen.”

  ON DECEMBER 11, JIMMY Bowen took over Capitol Records and fired all employees but two, who were left to sit alone in the empty building once Jim Foglesong, Lynn Shults, and the rest of the staff had been ousted. It was the second time Bowen had told Foglesong to hit the bricks, the first being in 1984 during an MCA takeover.

  Bowen had moved from L.A. to Nashville in the late 1970s, learning the country end of the business from Outlaw Tompall Glaser. He soon convinced an old friend, MCA Records’ Mike Maitland, to name him vice president and general manager of the label’s Nashville branch, replacing Jim Foglesong. One of his first tasks as a power broker was to begin the upgrading of Nashville’s analog studios to state-of-the-art digital. As Bowen often laughed, “I taught the hillbillies how to make a forty-thousand-dollar record for two hundred thousand.”

  Bowen hadn’t stayed long at MCA the first time around, accepting a job at Elektra/Asylum after only a few months at MCA. Over the years Bowen would head MCA, Elektra/ Asylum, Warner Bros., Universal, and Capitol. And while his first stay at MCA was short, he usually stayed about five years at a company before moving on. He almost always brought his own team to the labels he took over. The word that Bowen was sniffing around a company prompted night sweats among staff.

  Despite some grudging admiration for Bowen’s making many of Nashville studios state-of-the-art, a sizable contingent feared him, considered him as tough an executive as the town had ever seen. And while he had been accused of publishing conflicts, as a label head, Bowen once famously said, “If you get the music right, you don’t have to steal a penny.”

  In fact, Bowen appeared to wage a battle against producers using songs they owned on their artists’ albums, decrying the practice loudly and repeatedly. For many, the real issue involved just how and why Bowen always ended up producing the big-money acts at every label he ran.