âwhat makes it is youâre singing by the way youâve had to live. And if you had a hard life to live, then you sing a hard life song. Then you turn around and sing about how good you wish it could have been. When I sing, whether itâs recording or at a show, or just sittinâ down here with you, I give it all I got from the heart. And if itâd be something sad in there, Iâve hit that sad road. âCause I used to be barefooted, no shoes on my feet, had no dad when I was four years old, nobody to give me a dollar to go to a show. Had to walk five miles to town to see a show. Weâd get one pair of shoes when it frosted, and time it got warminâ up your toes was walkinâ out of âem. You wore âem day and night and everywhere you went.
âIn writinâ songs,â he went on, âyou gotta have something good to write about . You canât just sit down and say Iâm just absolutely gonna write a song out of nowhereâand thatâs just about the way the song sounds. It has to hit you.â
Referring to a recent song he had written, he said, â That song started and Iâm sittinâ on the damn commode âall reared back and I start in to write that thing. And Iâve heard a lot of people say thatâs where it started , on the commode. Well, Iâll tell you, the best place to read the newspaper, get you a glass and sit on the goddamn commode and read and read and read and enjoy it betterân anything in the world.â Again he laughed and laughed at this. He was so out front with everything, and I decided I really liked him, even if he was hard to deal with.
I asked him if he had a favorite time in his life. He thought for a second and said, âI was glad that Bill Monroe hired me, but sometimes that was rough there. Traveling six in a car, with the bass tied on top, used to sleep on each otherâs shoulders, that was the pillow, worked seven days a week, seven nights . . . I guess for enjoyment, when I had Paul Williams and J. D. Crowe with me, on the Louisiana Hayride, and in Wheeling, West Virginia. We could really sing it, really pick it; we had it down just right. J. D. Crowe was fourteen years old. I learned him how to sing baritone and how to tone his voice in with mine. Paul, too. We slept in the same house and could rehearse and get it down like we wanted to.
âSeems like thatâs when I liked to sing, and . . . Weâd ride along in the cars and sing our songs and enjoy it, get it to soundinâ good. In those days everybody liked to sing, and liked to hear that harmony, liked to get it better so they could make more money. Playinâ in them little bars for five dollars a night and tips. And sayinâ, âOh, God, please help me get good enough to get out of here.â And mean that. Now the boys meet me at the festivals backstage, we show upââAre you in tune?â âYeah, let me see if we areââgo on, do the show, and go off . . . It just ainât as good as it was then. And I hate to say this, but it never will be, because itâs run different. Most of the bands donât even travel in the same car and come to the shows together. They come with their girlfriends, or their wives, or whatsoever, so itâs a girlfriend deal, itâs not a professional deal. And it shouldnât be like that; business should be business . If youâre gonna make a living at it.
âTheyâre payinâ big money, though,â he said, with a tinge of bitterness audible now. âBut thereâs little rehearsinâ. No rehearsinâ, to tell you the truth. My band donât know what it is to rehearse. If they get out there the night before I do, or stay a night after, they might jam out there and play everything in the world, but thereâs no rehearsinâ. Nothinâ serious . You canât go into a job just laughinâ and having
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus