Devil Sent the Rain by Tom Piazza Page A

wondered if there wouldn’t be some state loyalty involved in Martin’s whiskey preference. He had begun life in Tennessee, after all, and had spent the past twenty-five years living there. Tennessee was the home of the Grand Ole Opry, etc., etc., and for all I knew some kind of horrible blood rivalry might exist between Tennessee and Kentucky. So I went back to the liquor store and picked up a bottle of Gentleman Jack as well, to cover the Tennessee base.
    Now I reminded him of the conversation, made a little speech about my rationale for the choice, during which he looked blankly at the bottles, and then I handed the bottles to him, feeling proud of myself.
    â€œI drink Seagram’s 7,” he said. Then he walked across the kitchen, stashed the bottles in a cabinet, and that was that.
    The interview started slowly. We discussed a few things perfunctorily for a while (Do you have a favorite country singer? “George Jones.” Why? “ ’Cause he’s the best.”). He also said he liked Hank Williams, Roy Acuff, Ernest Tubb, Bill Monroe, Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, and Marty Stuart. His favorite guitarists were Chet Atkins and Doc Watson. Not Merle Travis? I asked. “Well, yeah, I would have to say Merle Travis. Put Merle Travis in there . . .”
    Before long, though, he steered the conversation to what turned out to be his main preoccupation: the fact that he has never been invited to join the Grand Ole Opry. His exclusion clearly causes him pain; he has various theories about why he has been passed by, but he has not given up hope of being asked. He produced letters from a number of people in and out of the music business in which they sang his praises and expressed wonder that he wasn’t on it. It is obviously the great frustration of his life. To grasp why, one has to realize that to someone of Martin’s generation, who grew up listening to it on the radio, the Opry was country music. All the greatest stars were on it; it was the pinnacle of exposure and prestige. Being on the Opry was tantamount to being in a family; being asked to join was the final seal of approval on a performer, an entrance into a pantheon that included all of one’s heroes—Hank Williams, Roy Acuff, Bill Monroe, Ernest Tubb, and on and on. Martin has been lobbying for his inclusion for years, and we talked about the question for a good while before I could lead him on to other things.
    Once we got past the topic he relaxed a little and actually started to be fun company. He has a good sense of humor, which balances out his tendency to talk about how rough he’s had it. He really started to warm up when he talked about hunting. A perfect day, he said, is one on which he can “get my beagle dogs and take ’em out and run ’em and just enjoy their voices.” It turns out that he has named most of his hunting dogs after other country singers. “My beagle dogs,” he said, “are named George Jones, Earl Scruggs, Little Tater Dickens, and Marty Stuart. My coon dogs are Tom T. Hall, Turbo, Cas Walker, Cas Walker Jr. . . .”
    â€œTurbo?” I said.
    â€œHe’s named after that motor in them hot rods; we say his voice sounds like Number Five just went by.” Martin then did an eerily realistic dog bark—guttural at first, then quickly louder and tapering off, like a loud car passing really fast. “I go out huntin’ sometimes with Marty Stuart [referring now to the man, not his canine namesake]. Earl Scruggs just called the other day; he just had a quadruple bypass operation. Little Jimmy Dickens goes hunting rabbits with me. Ain’t nothin’ no better than a rabbit fried in a skillet, good and brown, and make gravy in the skillet, then make you some biscuits, then you can just tell Kroger’s what to do with their steaks.” At this he laughed a beautiful, infectious laugh.
    â€œCountry music,” he said,