By Gregg Davidson

BILLY RAY CYRUS

(PART 9)

As a driver for Billy Ray and Sly Dog, it was a constant endeavor to balance getting proper sleep with sticking to a tight road schedule. I wasn’t required to actually be on hand during any performances, but I did have to be present at the end of each show to insure that the music and sound equipment was securely packed away and ready for transport to the next venue, so I usually just waited and watched the show.

I was always impressed with how Billy (who because of interviews and personal appearances probably got less rest than any of us) managed to always deliver a dynamic and vibrant performance every single night. Even after having read a bad review, or dealing with a less-than-accommodating interviewer, he always was able to put aside the negative and give his fans nothing less than a stellar, energized performance.

One thing we soon discovered was that because an extraordinarily large degree of his audiences were women, a number of them would bring along their children to the shows, many of whom were themselves taken with the fun, celebratory, upbeat melody line of “Achy Breaky Heart”. I hadn’t seen so many youngsters at a concert since KISS were in their commercial heyday, but this development presented a special problem.

With so many of the younger fans not used to staying up so late past their bedtimes, the band had to resort to performing the song twice. The first was almost an hour into the show so that the parents with wee ones could leave early with their sleepyheads having heard the song that they came for. It was again performed as an encore for anybody that might have come in late or missed it the first time due to a bathroom break or a diaper change and were still there. It’s the only time in musical history that I know of that such an unusual occurrence was necessary.

Another unusual, if less popular incidence soon became a regular part of the routine. Most professional live shows are scheduled to begin and end at very specific times, often to avoid putting bands in violation of locally enforced curfew laws. Some venues have specific “kill switch” times to avoid heavy fines imposed on productions that violate their cities’ noise pollution ordinances.

After many of Billy Ray’s concerts, some of the more rabid fans simply would not leave, boisterously chanting “One more song! One more song!”

To an extent, Billy would always comply, returning to the stage with a lively cover song or two to round out the night, but at times it turned into five or six. While lovingly appreciated by the paying public, some venue owners and members of the production crews (light and sound men employed by a company who lease out equipment and operators to management companies or record labels) grew irritated with having to now wait longer to get to sleep or to get back onto the road.

I overheard their grumblings more than once, but at one show I distinctly remember the promoter telling them to lighten up, reminding them that despite his huge star-power, it was all still very new to Billy Ray and he didn’t want to disappoint any fans on his first run out of the starting gate. Some of the workers accepted this and waited patiently, but others still complained.

The workers that do the grunt work of unloading the band’s personal equipment, lugging it all onto the stage and setting it up (with proper instruction) also must disassemble it afterwards and haul it back onto the trucks. These people are often either employed by the venues or are temporary volunteers. Some of them are inexperienced with moving around such equipment and are unaware of how delicate some of it is or how uneasy many musicians are about strangers handling their personal gear.

When any band takes their show on the road, there are certain to be instances of culture shock and the occasional clash with the local color. Usually the occurrences are mild and without serious consequences, and I got really good at avoiding them.

Billy Bob’s is a huge indoor venue in Fort Worth, Texas with several stages. Once inside, you are able to pay one price and choose between seeing a selection of different musical acts from Country to Blues to Hard Rock. As a headliner, Billy Ray was booked to play on the largest stage and as I pulled the equipment truck around to the loading dock, I was met by a small group of young twenty-somethings in boots, cowboy hats, and string ties who were to be my laborers.

On this one particular night, I’d been nursing a headache and didn’t feel like spending any more time than I had to at the club. When I threw open the vehicle’s sliding panel that served as it’s only access door, I asked very nicely if they would unload the truck first before they started to set it all up, thinking that I might get back to the hotel a little quicker than usual. A couple of the smaller guys raised their eyebrows and began to grumble under their breath, but I gave it no second thought.

I wasn’t required to actually participate in setting up or tearing down any of the equipment, that was why they were there, but as a drummer, I always tried to pay close attention to their activity and I occasionally saw the need to show a clumsy worker or two how to properly handle delicate and expensive percussion hardware. These guys didn’t like my kind of “help”.

Drummers are especially concerned with their cymbals, snare drum (the one with a wire strainer on it’s bottom that rests on a low stand between the drummer’s knees), hi-hat stand (a foot-controlled piece of hardware that opens and closes two opposing cymbals), and “kick” pedal (another foot-controlled apparatus, usually spring or chain operated, that holds a batter to strike the large bass drum that rests on the floor). If any of these components are damaged bad enough, all of the duct tape in the world can’t hope to make them workable enough to get through a two-hour show.

Once inside, I gave them a quick idea of what was supposed to go where and quickly threw together the basics of the drum set before leaving to get some rest. When my alarm went off, I drove back over to the venue’s dock and went in. Still a bit worse for wear, I simply stood by out of their way and supervised as the modern day cowboys lugged the heavy speaker cabinets and other gear back into the equipment truck.

One dude in particular was still grumbling, obviously not pleased with the fact that I was showing no sign of offering any physical assistance and was, in his eyes, bossing them around. Where earlier he had at least been somewhat coy in expressing his frustration, he was now not attempting to hide it at all. In fact, I was sure that he wanted me to overhear his complaints concerning this bunch of Kentucky hillbillies who were now in his neck of the woods, talking to the local women, playing some kind of fancy music that wasn’t really Country and taking away jobs from real Country bands.

I was well familiar with this type of personality. There are many examples of it right here in Greenup County. Suspicion and distrust of outsiders is symptomatic of people who feel somehow threatened by the unfamiliar or any type of unexpected influence on the local culture. Some hill folk tend to be rather clannish in this respect and resist change, sometimes violently. Personally, I’ve always felt sorry for those with the old “good enough for Grandpa, good enough for me” mentality and attitude. That sort of closed mindedness is what impedes progress and cultural growth. Ignorance is bliss as they say, so I was wondering why this brazen young buck wasn’t as giddy as a schoolgirl with a new pony.

Any idiot could tell that this punk was trying to provoke me into a confrontation. Surrounded by his cowboy buddies, he must have felt some sense of security, figuring that they had his back, but I was too smart to play into his trap. As a pacifist, I detest physical conflict, especially over such trivial matters, so not wishing to make a scene, I remained composed and held my tongue, not allowing myself to divulge any hint of frustration, which must have angered him even more.

After they finished the job, I unlocked my cab door and started to climb back inside. I paused to roll down the window in order to enjoy the fresh summer breeze that was accompanied by a hint of honeysuckle, and hoping to pull away without incident, but the now red-faced cowboy could not let it go.

In an obvious last-ditch effort to incite me to hostility, he loudly belittled me for the “girlie” colored shirt I was wearing, my earring, and my long blonde ponytail, calling me “Goldilocks” and laughing as he stated how I was “still stuck in the sixties”. Ignoring his taunts, I put the truck in gear and pulled away a safe distance before stopping long enough to reply in my best smart-aleck tone: “I might be stuck in the sixties you stupid cowpoke, but at least it ain’t the eighteen-sixties”.

Having the last laugh, I revved the engine and maneuvered my way back toward the main road while I watched him throw his white ten-gallon hat down in a burst of anger, at which point it rolled off the dock and directly into a muddy puddle of rainwater. I suppose that it isn’t just the good guys who wear white hats anymore.

Later on, Sly Dog drummer Greg Fletcher was growing ever more incensed at the way his gear was being mishandled and approached me about becoming his drum technician or “tech” for short, which means personally setting up the kit, breaking it back down, and putting the dozen or more components away in the proper road cases. It might also mean doing any repair work or finding a local craftsman to do so, but Fletch had a brand new Mapex kit thanks to a sweet endorsement deal, and any badly damaged parts could simply be replaced upon request. Still, it was always a concern due to the time and effort involved in locating a nearby dealership. When hired hands saw me actually doing something, they were generally less confrontational.

One thing I admired about Billy Ray and the band during this period was how grounded everyone remained in spite of how many awards, compliments, and accolades were being thrown their way as the most celebrated band on the planet . A great example of their earthiness was revealed to me one day in Biloxi, Mississippi. After a sound check and a return to the hotel, everyone had a few short hours to themselves before climbing onto the tour bus to head for the venue. We didn’t get more than a few blocks into the trip before we had to merge onto interstate 90, the freeway that served as the only access route to our destination.

After managing to enter the heavy traffic, I quickly realized that we were nearly at a standstill, surrounded by gridlock in the heat of the evening sun. Wondering what could have caused such congestion, I figured that there had perhaps been an accident ahead or some other such emergency. We soon realized that the traffic was being caused by everyone trying to get to the Billy Ray Cyrus concert at the same time on a highway that should have been planned better. We were caught in a traffic jam created by our own audience!

We soon started hearing shouts and car horns emanating from a number of the other vehicles around us and peered out the windows to witness dozens of people, mainly young women, hanging out of their cars and trucks and cheering or yelling at the tops of their lungs. We should have expected as much. After all, there was a scripted BRC monogram boldly painted in huge gold lettering down both sides of the bus, and a mural on the rear surrounded by the words “WHER’M I GONNA LIVE WHEN I GET HOME”, the title of a popular song from the album.

Upon further inspection, we spied Billy Ray’s head hanging out of the rear window waving and smiling for people who were snapping his photo. Some of the stranded motorists even jumped out of their non-moving vehicles and were managing to get autographs from him.

A few other fans spotted us peering out of our windows at them and began cheering as we flashed them our best friendly smiles along with return waves. Guitarist Michael Joe Sagraves pulled back one of the window shade’s cords giving them and us a wider view and a thunderous roar immediately erupted from the nearby cars. Fletch flashed a peace sign and bassist Corky Holbrook offered them a thumbs up.

Keyboardist Barton Stevens (reknown for his humorous clowning around) stood up, waved, and then stated in a thick and purposefully exaggerated hillbilly accent, “Look boys! We’re stars!”

Guitarist Terry Shelton hadn’t been participating in our two-way voyeurism. He’d remained calmly at ease on the couch facing the opposite direction while engaged in the act of tuning up one of his guitars with an electronic tuner, never even looking away from his task. As soon as Bart had spoken, Terry didn’t miss a beat and responded in his matter-of-fact way by saying “No boys, what we are is the luckiest bar band in the world.”

That humbling statement and others like it are one of the things that I love about Terry. Never under any illusions of inflated self-importance, has he always managed to find the right words to lasso any in any semblance of ego trips. I recently told him that I wanted to relate this particular story in my BRC article, using his quote as an example and he insured me that he still feels that way. He is one who understands that musical talent and determination are definitely significant factors in what it takes to become a successful, popular recording artist, but he also knows that luck is the card that trumps all others.

To be continued…