by Colin Escott
JACK DEWITT:
Jim Denny’s main objective was to take over the Grand Ole Opry. He was always running me and other people down. He thought he had enough strength to take it over, and I think he wanted to force me out. He was a strange man. A tough character. He had the worst rug, hairpiece, of any that I’ve ever seen, and he also carried a pistol, an automatic revolver. The big blowup came when I went to our board of directors and Edwin Craig, and they said, “You need to tell him that you will raise his salary to a certain figure if he will stay and run it for us, but if he’s not interested, just fire him.”
MARIE CLAIRE, Jim Denny’s assistant:
Denny had met with DeWitt two or three times about Cedarwood, and had been warned to sell it or leave WSM. Denny came in late the morning it all happened. As soon as he got in, DeWitt wanted to see him.
JACK DEWITT:
I brought Denny into my office and told him, “Jim, we’ve got a choice for you. You can stay with WSM, which we’d like for you to do. We will raise your salary [if] you devote your entire time to WSM and the Artists Service Bureau, and making money for WSM and managing the artists so that they are happy with WSM.” He said, “I don’t want to do that.” I said, “Well, Jim, I’m sorry, but we can’t do otherwise.” He said, “You’ll have to fire me.” He wouldn’t even discuss the higher salary we were offering him.
MARIE CLAIRE:
Denny never returned to his office. He went straight to Cedarwood [one block away]. He came in a few hours later, gathered his things. He said simply, “DeWitt let me go.”
KEN MARVIN, George Morgan’s sideman:
I saw Jim standing in the elevator just as the door closed. All he was carrying under his arm was his Billboard Man of the Year award.
JIM DENNY:
It’s a strictly personal matter between DeWitt and myself in which DeWitt feels that no employee of the station should be better off financially than himself. DeWitt feels that when he makes decisions, whether they are right or wrong, no one should contest them. I know I shall be much happier as an independent operator than being handicapped by working under the supervision of someone who knows nothing about the country music business.
Both artist manager Hubert Long (left) and Jim Denny (right) encouraged Opry acts to leave the show.
JACK DEWITT:
He tried to take over [the management and booking of] Roy Acuff, who wouldn’t go with him. He tried to take over Ernest Tubb, who wouldn’t go with him. He did take over Minnie Pearl, and I’ve never forgiven her. We brought in D. Kilpatrick, who was the first independent manager of the Opry. Denny thought he was the manager of the Opry, but he wasn’t.
Walter D. Kilpatrick, known simply as “D.,” was a tough-talking former Marine who’d been Capitol Records’ first Nashville producer. He had just left Mercury Records when Jack DeWitt approached him. Jim Denny didn’t leave the Opry alone, though. He promptly started the Denny Talent Agency and recruited several Opry stars, including Carl Smith and Little Jimmy Dickens, for a show he was assembling on behalf of Philip Morris. Structured like the Camel Caravan, the Philip Morris Caravan toured the United States for eighteen months.
LITTLE JIMMY DICKENS:
Jim took some of the [Opry] talent with him. I checked with [my manager] and we studied it over, and he—not me—decided that it wouldn’t be feasible for the deal we had with Philip Morris for me to stay with the Opry. He thought that when we were through, we could come back to the Opry, so I took his and Mr. Denny’s advice. But it didn’t work out that way. Once I took that show, that cooled it for me with the Opry.
The lingering bitterness from Denny’s departure meant that Jimmy Dickens wouldn’t rejoin the Grand Ole Opry until 1975, almost twenty years later. Encouraged by the success of “Heartbreak Hotel,” Jack Stapp left WSM and the Opry in July 1957. Meanwhile, Red Foley’s Ozark Jubilee was posting excellent ratings on Saturday night . . . the Opry’s night. Denny’s successor, D. Kilpatrick, had to recruit artists to replace those who’d defected, and address the problem of declining attendance.
D. KILPATRICK:
Rock ’n’ roll was the enemy, and I do mean the enemy. At the time Presley hit, we couldn’t draw breath in the auditorium. We couldn’t draw nothin’. I remember addressing a group of women voters and telling them that rock ’n’ roll was the devil’s workshop. I thought it was then, and I know for a damn fact it is now. The problem was that the country guys began sounding like the pop guys, and it got so you’d need a computer program to tell the difference. I didn’t want to compete with rock ’n’ roll or pop music. I said, “Let’s do it our way, then we got something very distinct to sell.” And yes, I’m the son of a bitch that wouldn’t let them bring drums on the Opry stage. It was the principal instrument in rock ’n’ roll. Why take the thing that’s killing you and give in to it?
STONEWALL JACKSON, Opry star:
At the Ryman, you’d only have a few rows of people up front. This really hurt Ernest Tubb. It hurt him deep. He was like a man grieving, like he’d had a couple of kids die. The gravy got a bit thin there. It was the lowest ebb I’ve ever seen country music at. When Presley hit, it just preempted country to the lowest amount I’ve ever seen it preempted.
D. Kilpatrick and the Everly Brothers at the 1958 Disc Jockey Convention. From right: Don Everly; Phil Everly; Kilpatrick; Ott Devine of WSM; songwriters Boudleaux and Felice Bryant (who’d written several of the Everlys’ greatest hits, including “Bye, Bye Love” and “Wake Up, Little Susie”); Archie Bleyer, president of Cadence Records; and Jack DeWitt of WSM.
The Everly Brothers playing at the Disc Jockey Convention.
GRANT TURNER:
One Saturday night around Christmas, there was hardly anyone there. All the stars were home for Christmas, but no one was at the show to see ’em. I was worried about the Opry then.
The closest D. Kilpatrick came to rock ’n’ roll was the Everly Brothers. Although they were only in their early twenties, the Everlys had been performing on country radio for more than ten years, and for a long time, they were the only successful rock ’n’ roll act managed and produced in Nashville. Their country pedigree was just long enough to satisfy Kil-patrick.
BILL ANDERSON:
My mom and dad came to a convention in Nashville in 1958. It had been four or five years since they’d been there, when it was wall-to-wall people. They came back and told me that they’d been by the Opry on Saturday night, and they’d stuck their heads in the door, and they were amazed. It wasn’t even half full. They said, “While we were standing there, a whole bunch of people came streaming in the door. They poured out of the little shops up and down Broadway and came running and screaming and standing at the door.” It was because they’d introduced the Everly Brothers. My mom and dad said those people stood there and screamed while the Everly Brothers were onstage, and as soon as they went off, these people left. I remember getting a call from Hank Snow’s manager asking me if I wanted to book him. He was coming through Commerce, Georgia, where I was a deejay. I thought, Goodness, we’re probably talking thousands and thousands of dollars. His manager said, “I can let you have Hank and the band at a real good price.” I said, “How much?” He said, “Two hundred and fifty guarantee.” I was stunned, but that was the real low ebb.
HAL SMITH, Ernest Tubb’s booking agent:
Things were on the decline, not to where we were starving, but certainly not doing as well as we had. TV was red-hot all of a sudden. Ernest came out to the office and we talked everything over. We came this close to concluding that the best thing to do was get out of the business. His brother was in the insurance business in Texas then, and Ernest said, “I could go into business with Bud, but this is all I’ve ever done.” It was so sad.
Country music survived and prospered again, but the Opry’s older stars, like Ernest Tubb and Roy Acuff, were sidelined. Eventually, they would be recognized as the music’s elder statesmen, but in the 1950s they had to contend with lower personal app
earance fees and lower record sales. The Opry itself had to walk a fine line between bringing in some of the newer stars that younger listeners wanted to hear without alienating the older audience.
Archie Bleyer, president of Cadence Records, presents the Everly Brothers with a gold record, while the Opry’s Grant Turner looks on.
9
SURVIVING NASHVILLE
Replacing departed cast members, D. Kilpatrick kept it country. In November1956, he signed an artist who accomplished something that no one had accomplished since the show’s earliest days, and someone who definitely kept it country.
GRANT TURNER:
Judge Hay was still there. He was in charge of answering fan mail. [His official title was Audience Relations.] Someone had written a song, someone wondered what kind of mandolin Bill Monroe played, or what was Cousin Wilbur’s last name. Did Uncle Dave Macon eat country ham three times a day? And he conducted auditions on Tuesday mornings around ten o’clock. The Judge would bow his head as if in deep thought, remove his glasses and put pressure on his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he would lift his head and look the singer full in the face. He’d say, “Friend, I want to thank you for coming by today. We have a full roster of singers just now, so let me ask you to go back home.” But Stonewall Jackson was one Opry star that was hired in this way. I remember him standing in the corner of the studio with no microphone, and singing for the Judge.
The Grand Ole Opry cast, 1956, with Judge Hay in front.
Stonewall Jackson: November 3333
Stonewall had been farming in Moultrie, Georgia, and drove his farm truck to Nashville wearing his workday clothes. He had never performed on radio or recorded, and had no idea of what it usually took to get on the Grand Ole Opry. Driving up Franklin Road, he saw Acuff-Rose Publications and took a room across the street at the York Motel.
WESLEY ROSE:
One afternoon, we heard some guitar pickin’ and singin’ across the street in the motel. Then this guy came over and played songs for us. It was Stonewall Jackson. He was glad we liked the songs, but he said, “Mister Rose, I came here for just one purpose: to get on the Grand Ole Opry. Can you get me an audition?” I told him, “You can’t get on the Opry unless you’re on a record label. That’s a rule.” “Mister Rose,” he answered. “You get me an audition, I’ll end up on the Opry.” He was so young and so country and so appealing. I said, “I’ll try, but don’t get your heart broke if they don’t take you.” It couldn’t happen again in a million years. Back when we tried to get Hank Williams on the Opry, we had to work on it for three months, and he had hits at the time. Stonewall never had any records, but he just went down and knocked ’em out.
STONEWALL JACKSON:
The first phone call I ever got in Nashville was from Wes Rose. He’d got me an audition at the Opry. I went down and auditioned with Judge Hay the next morning at nine o’clock.
What happened next was both a fairy tale come true . . . and a bitter wake-up call for a young entertainer fresh off the farm.
D. KILPATRICK, letter to WSM management, December 10, 1958:
On October 19, 1956, Judge Hay requested that I personally audition Stonewall Jackson. The audition was around three p.m. and Stonewall was immediately employed on a temporary basis. I left for dinner around 5:30 p.m., and upon returning I observed a man named John Kelly talking to Stonewall in the entrance room of Studio B. It came to my attention that Stonewall signed a management contract with Kelly whereby Kelly would receive one third of Stonewall’s gross income and revenue. On November 2, I had Stonewall and John Kelly in my office to explain that such a contract was prohibitive and not to the best interest of the artist or the Grand Ole Opry. I told Kelly that we didn’t want to build an artist who was currently making little or no money, then to have the artist become a money-maker and be frustrated and bitter as a result of such a commitment made at an early stage of his career. This has happened to other Opry artists. If there ever was a greenhorn, it was Stonewall, but his natural simplicity and his extreme desire to sing, plus his ability to render a song charmed both Judge Hay and I. After much discussion, Kelly agreed to release Stonewall from his contract. Jim Denny stated to me that Kelly had caused him considerable trouble when he, Denny, was head of WSM’s Artist Service. Denny stated that he had personally threatened to run Kelly out of town.
STONEWALL JACKSON:
I was wearin’ patched khaki farm clothes and a beat-up hat. Ernest Tubb introduced me. He said, “Here’s a brand-new guy, just got in town from Georgia in his pickup truck. We hear that he sings a good country song, and we’re all gonna be rooting for him. Here’s a brand-new singer, you’ve never heard tell of him before. Here’s Stonewall Jackson from down in Moultrie, Georgia.” Ernest could build you up. He could make you look like a star by the time you hit the stage. The other artists were snickering. They thought the Opry had hired a new comedian, so they were ready to put the laugh on. I thought, “Man, this ain’t workin’ so good. It’s now or never,” so I just lit into it. I sang that sucker as good as I could sing, and the band got into it. Everybody got quiet. Ernest had to bring me back out four times. I felt accepted then.
An early Stonewall Jackson appearance.
Kilpatrick was on safer ground approaching Porter Wagoner at the Ozark Jubilee. Porter tried to position himself so that he could work both shows, but Kilpatrick forced the issue, and in March 1957, Porter moved to Nashville to join the Opry. Kilpatrick also hired Wilma Lee and Stoney Cooper from the Wheeling, West Virginia, Jam-boree. Other new hirees during the 1950s included Don Gibson, Billy Grammer, the Wilburns, Hank Locklin, Bill Anderson, Skeeter Davis, and George Hamilton IV.
Some of the younger artists, like Johnny Cash and the Everly Brothers, quickly found it impossible to meet their Opry commitments. They were on coast-to-coast tours and couldn’t afford to give up a lucrative Saturday night showdate to fly back to Nashville at their own expense to appear on the Grand Ole Opry. The Opry was still the dream of every country music performer, but the reality of membership led to persistent squabbles. Marty Robbins lashed out against the Opry’s restrictions and quit more than once, but nevertheless saw the show’s value in building a career and returned.
New Opry star Don Gibson with Minnie Pearl.
BILL MAPLES, journalist, 1958, in the Tennessean:
Robbins was fired last Saturday after his performance on the Opry’s Prince Albert Show. A station official quoted Robbins as saying he did not need the Opry. Robbins said he did not say this, but did criticize management. But Robbins and WSM patched up their quarrel and Robbins joined the Grand Ole Opry again. In returning to the Opry, Robbins will not benefit so much financially as he will from the prestige of the show and from its nationwide coverage by radio. Opry musicians are paid union scale which is $30 for leaders and $15 for supporting musicians.
Skeeter Davis, who joined in 1959, became best known for her 1963 crossover hit, “The End of the World.”
When Marty Robbins topped the pop and country charts with “El Paso” the following year, the trouble resumed.
D. KILPATRICK memo to Jack DeWitt, January 15, 1959:
Robbins’ demand that his vocal trio be used couldn’t have been worse. Our acts use four musicians and sometimes less, so we can’t allow Robbins to use eight other than himself. Before Roy Acuff’s departure for Europe, Robbins personally berated Acuff for consistently plugging the Opry and WSM on personal appearances. Robbins’ statement to Acuff was, “What the hell have they done for you?”
As hard as Kilpatrick tried to stand his ground, he knew that his bargaining position wasn’t good. “Live” radio was fading into memory, and, one by one, the other radio barn dances folded. The Old Dominion Barn Dance closed in 1957, and the WLS National Barn Dance, together with the Ozark Jubilee and the Louisiana Hayride closed in 1960. Out in Cali-fornia, Home Town Jamboree closed in 1959 and Town Hall Party in 1961. The Opry lost its Prince Albert network sponsorship in 1960, but hung tough.
BILL ANDERSON:
The other shows didn’t have the commitment from above. Edwin Craig was still there and he wanted to keep the Opry alive. The other thing that the Opry did, whether intentionally or not, was to be bigger than any individual star. Elvis was so big at the Louisiana Hayride, but when he left, the Hayride died. The Hayride was not bigger than Elvis, but the Opry was bigger than any of its stars.
Bill Anderson (seated) in his deejay days with (from left) Hawkshaw Hawkins; Hawkshaw’s wife, Jean Shepard; Stonewall Jackson; and Marty Robbins.
BUD WENDELL, WSM and Opry executive:
Some felt that the Opry was no longer meaningful to artists’ career longevity; that they were wasting their time to go with it, so there was a lot of turmoil. But the Opry was strong enough to survive and continue, and to be more accommodating and sensitive to artists’ careers. The Opry had been run in a somewhat autocratic fashion, because it had been the only game in town: If you wanted to be a star you had to be on the Grand Ole Opry. So we went from that kind of posture to one that was much more sensitive to the needs of the artists. We had to recognize that there were other, very significant media equally as significant as the Opry in building a career; and we had to understand that Opry members could make a heckuva lot of money instead of being there on a Saturday night. It was still an important piece, but it wasn’t the only way to get to the top. For many years, you could not be a major star without being a member of the Opry. Finally, the Opry woke up and realized that you could go around the Opry and become a superstar. So it had to kind of change its posture and change its relationships. Record companies were moving to Nashville, and managers were moving here, publishing companies were moving here, and we were trying to figure out how to reposition the Opry to keep it strong and make it attractive to artists of some stature to come in and play and walk away from those big dates.
