He told me the Germans marched the Jews in there and burned ’em. I got out of there as fast as I could. I don’t like to feel hatred for anybody, and I was feeling hatred over what the Germans did. I just didn’t understand it, and I haven’t been back to Germany since. The place I want to go to is Israel. Doo and me have talked about that a lot. We were gonna go a few years ago, but they had all that trouble and we didn’t want to get caught in a skyjacking or nothing. But we’ll go there soon. That’s one of my big ambitions.
Really, all kinds of prejudice bother me. I’ve heard more than enough color prejudice from other people, but I don’t have it. I’m always happy when black people come to my shows or ask for my autograph. At the motel in Nashville they all know me. I’m very comfortable with blacks—maybe because I’m part Cherokee and we understand each other. I don’t know.
I don’t like to talk too much about things where you’re going to get one side or the other unhappy. It’s like politics. I’ve got strong opinions on a lot of things I don’t talk about. You come out for one side, the other side won’t like you. And anyway, my music has no politics.
Politicians are always asking me to support ’em, and I’ve had lots of politicians on both sides be real nice to me; there’re some that I count as my friends. But I ain’t gonna endorse ’em because that would make the other side mad at me. What party am I? Well, let’s put it this way. My Daddy was a Republican because that’s what people are up in the mountains. But that don’t mean I have to be. What party was Franklin Delano Roosevelt in? See, there’s good on both sides.
George Wallace called me up and wanted me to do a fund-raising show for him. I said politics and music mix about as well as liquor and love. George McGovern came to one of my shows and talked to Doolittle. He even led the applause when we finished our show with “God Bless America Again.”
That song now, is a perfect example of what I mean. Bobby Bare and Boyce Hawkins wrote it back in the 1960s when we had all that trouble about the war in Vietnam, and college kids were killed by the National Guard at Kent State, and there were beatings in Chicago. It looked like this country was really breaking up. Well, that song is about some person with not too much education who just can’t figure out what’s going on. So all he can say is “Wash her pretty face, dry her eyes and then, God bless America again.”
Now some people thought that song was in favor of the government and against the long-haired people. But I’m still singing that song today, and we’ve had a vice-president and then a president of the United States both quit office when they were accused of things.
And I still don’t understand what’s going on—I feel like it’s about time for honest people to start running this country. And I don’t care what party. Just get somebody that will feed the poor people and forget about these wars. I wasn’t for Vietnam. When I told that to the hippie newspaper in Atlanta, The Great Speckled Bird, all my people got nervous. Both my sons were in the service in Asia, and they said there was dope and everything. It was a big waste.
Anyway, things still ain’t rosy today. You just go out in your cities and look at the back streets. There’s so much poverty in this country—Doolittle’s had hundreds of men asking for just any kind of job on the ranch. I’m waiting for a politician who’ll help the people. Then maybe I’ll support him. Or her.
29
Confessions of a Bug
I’m glad that Raquel Welch just signed a million-dollar pact,
And Debbie’s out in Vegas, working up a brand-new act….
—“One’s on the Way,” by Shel Silverstein
My friends in Nashville say if I wasn’t an artist, I’d be spending all my days as a bug, you know, one of those fans who are always bugging famous personalities. Just let me loose in Hollywood, I’d go crazy. I’ll introduce myself to anybody, ask for his autograph, just stand around and gawk. I’m terrible. I even embarrass myself.
You saw me on that Grammy television show, right? I was so excited being in Hollywood, I came on screaming, “Here I am, if anybody wants to make me a star, here I am!” Then I forgot to read the names of the singers nominated for the award. I lose my mind when I get out there.
I remember the first celebrity I ever saw: remember “Hoss,” that big guy on “Bonanza”—Dan Blocker? Me and Doo were pushing my record down in Texas or Oklahoma somewhere and we saw him. I just stood in the crowd and got his autograph—told him I was a singer. He was a real nice fellow. I was real sorry when I heard about him dying.
Well, I ain’t changed any since then. I was doing a television show in Hollywood a few years ago when I found out Flip Wilson was in the next studio. “Flip Wilson!” I said. “Point me where I can find Geraldine, ’cause I want to get some tips from her.” I found Flip in the wardrobe department, and he was real nice. He said he knew who I was. Later he dressed up like Geraldine and came over to the Dean Martin set and said he wanted to give Loretta Lynn some tips. I laughed so hard. Now we’re good friends, and whenever I do a television show I want him to be on with me.
There’s only one famous man I’ve ever had a problem with. I ain’t gonna say who, because he’s an important man on television. I ran into him at NBC one time and said, “Hi, I’m Loretta Lynn.” Well, he looked at me like I was delivering the garbage and he gave me a real fish handshake and then turned away. I don’t know if he knew who I was, but it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t treat anybody that cold.
But I’ve had some real thrills in my life, too. Like my favorite actor has always been Gregory Peck. I’ve seen him in everything he’s ever done—To Kill a Mockingbird, and Duel in the Sun are my favorities. To me, Gregory Peck is everything—he’s handsome, he’s smart, he’s polite to people, he’s brave. I’ve always had admiration for that man, so when I got to Hollywood a few years ago, I kept telling David Skepner I wanted to see Gregory Peck. The people at MCA said they would arrange it, and finally they did it for my birthday. They said I was going for an interview, but instead they took me right into his office. He just raised up out of that chair like a good ole country boy that’d been behind a plow all his life. I knew it was Gregory Peck the minute I saw him—big man, black hair, all man. He was like country, so down to earth. He looked exactly like he does in all his movies.
He and Doolittle started talking about farming. For almost an hour they talked about horses and cattle and stuff. And me? I just sat there with my mouth open and looked at him. Finally, I found my tongue. I said he looked Indian, what with those high cheekbones. And I was telling him about parts of his movies that he forgot. Like David and Bathsheba, with Susan Hayward. To me, that’s one of the greatest movies I’ve ever seen. Now when I want to see it, I’ve got a copy in my recreation room.
When we were finished talking, I got a big picture of him. That one’s hanging in my bedroom, and I’ve got one in my pocketbook, too. Doolittle didn’t mind—he just put up a picture of Dolly Parton. Anyway, I’m still dreaming about doing a movie with Gregory Peck as the producer. It would be terrific.
There was a television movie I was supposed to be in, playing a woman who was a mother by the age of fourteen. Sound familiar? It would have been about immigrants traveling across the country. I liked the idea, but we couldn’t work it into my schedule. We were booked six months ahead, and they called me three weeks before the filming was to start. Television is funny that way. It’s too bad. I could have played that as myself and wouldn’t have needed any acting lessons. I’ve got to act natural, can’t be nothing but myself.
It’s like when they had me on the “Dean Martin Show.” Now that was a mess. I was rehearsing all week and never saw Dean Martin. He’s got this standin who rehearses all week. Then Dean Martin comes in for the show, and you’ve got to push him into his place because he hasn’t rehearsed. Anyway, they wanted me to sit in Dean Martin’s lap at the end of a scene. I said no, I wasn’t raised to sit in other men’s laps, not even for television. I don’t sit in Doolittle’s lap in public; it’s just bad manner
s. All these Hollywood people were looking at me like I was crazy. I didn’t care. I know what’s right and wrong and I wasn’t sitting on Dean Martin’s lap. Finally they said I didn’t have to, which was a good thing, because there was no way I was going to.
The next day the producer sent me a dozen roses and said he wanted to meet the woman who wouldn’t sit on Dean Martin’s lap. I guess they’re not gonna forget that too soon. But I did the same thing on Dinah Shore’s show. The producer wanted me to model with a silver cigaret holder. I said I didn’t smoke and wasn’t going to model any holder.
But I love being around show business. I’ve met so many stars: Vic Damone—he followed me on a show one time and we both messed up our lyrics. Lorne Greene—I ran into him in the restaurant at the Sheraton Universal Hotel. He had beautiful gray hair, said he knew my records. Louis Armstrong—we talked about doing an album called “Loretta Sings the Blues,” but he said he wasn’t strong enough to record at that time. He died two months after that. Of course, Dinah Shore—she’s my special friend, always giving me good advice. And Mike Douglas—the minute I walk into his studio, I feel at home. He understands my Butcher Holler ways and he just lets me be Loretta. I like a person who don’t make fun of your accent or your upbringing. That happened to me with one talk show one time. I told the guy after the show I wasn’t going to be back with him. And I didn’t for a long time. I heard he got some bad mail about it.
But most of the people have been great. My twins are bugs just like me. They want to meet Gregory Peck. And you know what? When I got the top vocalist award in 1972, they weren’t excited for me—they were excited because they got to see Charley Pride. Now they’re asking me if I really know Dolly Parton. I figure that must be Doolittle’s influence.
FLOOR PLAN OF THE LORETTA LYNN BUS 7′6″ × 38′
Diagram of bus by Marianne Vecsey
30
On the Road
I hear her voice, in the morning hours she calls me;
The radio reminds me of my home far away;
Driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday—yesterday….
—“Take Me Home, Country Roads,” by John Denver/Bill Danoff/Taffy Nivert
Now that I’ve told you just about everything in my life, maybe it’s time to take you along with me for a few days, so you’ll see all about my “glamorous” life as a country singer. Usually the way that works, people get all excited about traveling in my bus. But after a day and a half they start asking, “Hey, where can I catch a plane out of here?”
Our schedule is a bunch of one-night stands. It isn’t good business to sit in one place too long. You figure all your fans are gonna make an effort to see you one night. But there may not be enough for two nights. Plus, I’d rather keep moving than stay in one town. It makes the time go faster. You stay in one place for a week and you swear you’ve been there a month. But the traveling can get pretty rough, too.
Let’s take a weekend in May, the first weekend when my writer, George, was traveling with us. After a couple of days with my boys and me, George didn’t know which end was up.
We were in the middle of a long tour. We try to make the dates as close as possible, in a straight line, but it’s not always possible. When you get a good offer in Toronto on a Thursday night, you take it. That’s why we have the bus, so we don’t have to depend on airplanes. We can go a thousand miles between shows if we have to. On this trip, we’d gone from West Virginia to Toronto and back into Ohio again. I had this migraine headache, and my doctor had just told me my blood pressure was up. So I was a little scared and got to thinking about giving up this business, and I was missing my twins, like I do, as this weekend started.
Friday, May 5, Cincinnati, Ohio: It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and I’m trying to take a nap in my hotel room. We’ve been driving all night from Toronto and I’m exhausted. I just took a nice, long bath and I’d love to sleep some more, but my fans are running up and down the hallways, giggling and banging on doors. We try to keep our hotel a secret, but it’s not hard to spot our big bus with my name on the side. The hotel’s not supposed to give out our room numbers, but the fans find out somehow. Bless ’em, I love ’em all, but I wish they wouldn’t disturb me and my boys when we’re trying to sleep.
At times like this, I really feel sorry for Jim Webb. He’s been with me a couple of years now. He used to drive for Continental Trailways, but he never had a schedule like this. He’s expected to drive all night, though Dave Thornhill, my lead guitar man, takes over on long hauls like last night. Jim is trying to sleep in the next room, and they’re banging on his door.
There’s no sense trying to sleep. I look out the window, at the interstate highway over the river into Kentucky. The bridge is jammed with mountain people heading home for the weekend. I start thinking about the hollers in May, how they’re just bursting with green leaves. Then I remember the old Depression days, and I decide I ain’t so homesick after all.
Jim Webb gives up sleeping, too. He bangs on my door and wanders in—he’s a big boy, around six-foot-four, from Laurel, Mississippi. His hair is styled just like Elvis Presley’s. Jim is a very important part of my tour. In addition to driving the bus, he takes all the telephone calls and makes travel arrangements. I depend on him, particularly when Doo’s not around, like now.
“Did you eat yet?” Jim says. That’s one of his jobs—to make sure I remember to eat. We’re always worried about keeping my weight up, so he orders me a steak and baked potato with string beans and salad and pie and ice cream. He watches over me until I finish eating. Then it’s time to leave for the show. I just wear my regular travel slacks and go down to the bus.
That bus is important to us. We sleep in it and I do all my dressing in it. We found it was better to have a bus with a dressing room, instead of counting on using whatever they give us at the auditoriums. Sometimes they’ve got good rooms, and sometimes just a bathroom without even a mirror. But we’ve always got the bus.
We got our first bus in 1967, after my babies were born. It was better than traveling by car with Doolittle or Jay Lee driving. Now it’s like a second home. Truck drivers see my name on the bus and wave as they go past. Last year when there were gasoline shortages and the truckers went on strike, people were shooting out windows on trucks. But we didn’t have any trouble. In fact, that crazy Tom T. Hall had bought my old bus with the sign “Loretta Lynn” still on the front, and he didn’t have no trouble either.
Our bus cost around $147,000 to fix up. I designed it myself. It’s regulation length. The front is for the driver and has couches for sitting. The upholstery is purple velvet, and there’s a violet-patterned carpet and a ceiling of white leatherette. There are some little gold tassels and stuff to give it a fancy feeling. The boys say it looks like a hearse. Up front we’ve got a little refrigerator, a television set, and a tape deck, plus a table where the boys can play cards. Just recently we installed a microwave oven for cooking hamburgers and stuff. In the middle there’re eight bunks. The back part is for me.
The boys all crowd into the bus at 5 P.M. It’s the middle of the rush hour and we just squeeze our way across town. People line up on the sidewalks, waiting for city buses, and point their fingers at us. My boys wave back at the pretty girls.
“Now, boys, behave yourselves. You got two shows tonight,” I tell ’em.
“Ain’t no harm in looking, Mom,” says Don Ballinger in the little-boy voice he uses on stage when I scold him.
We get lost for a minute, as all eight musicians give Jim different directions to the Taft Auditorium. But Jim finds the place finally despite their help, and he maneuvers the bus halfway up on the curb, right next to the stage door. The boys start loading all their instruments and sound equipment onto the stage. Then they run a test, to make sure everything sounds right. Then they get into their stage uniforms. Tonight they’re wearing their brown suits that I designed for ’em. They’ve got an hour before
the show to sell albums and pictures in the lobby.
The boys share some of the profits from selling the souvenirs. Ken Riley, the tall drummer who used to be a tap dancer, is in charge of dividing the money. They call him “Bread Man” on account of money being called “bread” in my boys’ language. I feel real comfortable seeing my boys working around the bus. Those boys are just like a family to me. I remember one time, when I was having all those death threats, my dentist came to visit me at the bus. I looked out the window and saw my boys had him backed up against a wall. I said, “Boys, what in the world are you doing? That’s my dentist.” But they didn’t know. They were just a little jumpy.
Most people say, “The band would kill for Loretta,” and I guess that’s true. When I see ’em get an award, like Music City News voting ’em the top band last year, I’m as happy as they are.
I’ve had my band since I started breaking up with the Wilburns. Before that, I’d have to play with the house band wherever I went. If the band was good, I’d sound fine. But if it was bad, I’d get real nervous and couldn’t sing at all. One night the house band took off in one key and I took off in another. They were just a sorry little country band—steel guitar, bass, and fiddle. I told Doolittle, “Either I’m getting a band or I’m quitting.” So he got me a band.
I never told this story before, but I almost got an all-girl band. You don’t see too many women in country music. Sure, there’re the big stars, but all the bands and studio musicians are men, just about. And you know there’re women around that can play just as good as men. I used to have Leona Williams playing bass in my band and singing harmony. She’s one of the best musicians in Nashville, and now she’s out trying to make it on her own. I bet she does, too.
I was going to hold tryouts for women and call ’em “The Lynnettes.” But people started saying you can’t have a traveling girl band—if you had one incident, people would start gossiping about it. It was that old double standard again. If a man goes out on a date, people smile and say, “Well, that’s how men are.” But if some woman goes out on a date, people say, “She’s a loose woman.” And it wouldn’t be good for business if that kind of stuff got started. So we hired an all-man band, and I ain’t been sorry to this date because I love my boys. But an all-girl band would have been fantastic.
Loretta Lynn: Coal Miner's Daughter Page 22
