Hillbilly Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus, Todd Gold Page A
Authors: Billy Ray Cyrus, Todd Gold
Tags: General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, music, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Religious, Composers & Musicians
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suggested we move our equipment into his spacious Bellefonte home and use it for rehearsals. He was a successful middle-aged man who had gone through a divorce and remarried a younger gal. Ken liked having us around to fire up the joint with some loud music. As for us, it was a sweet setup that beat the hell out of the measly carport at my mom’s house. We jokingly referred to it as Sly Dog Lodge.
Beyond offering a place to rehearse, Ken became our manager. In April, he threw a birthday party for his wife and we provided the music. A month later, he arranged for us to play an assembly atSummit Elementary School in Ashland and then for one thousand inmates at the nearby federal correctional institution. Both gigs were unpaid and arranged at the last minute, but I was desperate to play in front of people.
However, the day after we played the elementary school, I told Ken no more free gigs. I told him my goals. I wanted Sly Dog to become the house band at one of the local bars or clubs by my twenty-second birthday on August 25. I wanted to be signed to a major record label by my twenty-third birthday. I wanted my music to be heard around the world. And I wanted my music to share God’s light and love.
Our first paying job was in the restaurant at the Jesse Stuart Lodge at Greenbo Lake State Park, the same place I’d worked a few years earlier. The lodge’s clientele, mostly middle-aged folks looking for quiet in the woods and gentle country tunes at dinner, got a surprise when we served up a set peppered with the Allman Brothers Band and ZZ Top. No one complained, though, and Ken divided the night’s pay: $150. Thrilled, we split it five ways, gave Ken a five-dollar commission, and spent the rest of the night celebrating.
“Thirty bucks apiece,” I said, toasting the band. “We ain’t rich. But we’re on our way.”
A week of playing in front of an audience taught us more than a month of rehearsals. We screwed around less and made fewer mistakes. We all played with more intensity and focus and we paid more attention to the way we blended with one another. When we were in front of people, there was no middle ground. It was all or nothing.
After the first few gigs, guitarist Pat Williams dropped out of the band, wanting a more stable life. I recruited my high school buddy and former baseball and football teammate J.R. Gullett as his replacement. J.R. was a genuine musician and country music authority who lent authenticity to our southern rock sound. Plus, he sounded great on those harmonies. Our voices blended really well together.
We played the lodge a few more times and also at several other similar venues, but each gig only made me hungrier to play more frequently. I was doing all I could do to get us booked in one of the numerous clubs in the area. I didn’t care if it was the Catlettsburg Boat Club, the Auger Inn, the Red Fox Lounge, or one of the other rough-and-tumble watering holes where folks unwound after work. I wanted to take that next step, and the next one.
“Be patient,” Ken advised.
“But my birthday’s around the corner,” I said. “Remember my goal is to be playing one of those places before August twenty-fifth.”
“I know,” he said. “You’ve told me. But as you can imagine, these people haven’t even heard of you yet.”
“They will,” I said. “I believe if you build a place high enough on the mountain, then surround it with enough lights, and play really loud, I mean really loud, the world has to take notice.” I smiled. “Either that, or they’ll tell you to turn that shit down.”
CHAPTER 10
Tarot Cards
E IGHT DAYS BEFORE MY birthday deadline, there was good news: Sly Dog had its first headlining gig at the Sand Bar, a popular club in Ironton, Ohio. The Sand Bar was located inside the Marting House Hotel, a place that dated back to the 1800s and was full of charm, if old and dilapidated was your style. J.R. described it as “clean but rough.”
The place had
Beyond offering a place to rehearse, Ken became our manager. In April, he threw a birthday party for his wife and we provided the music. A month later, he arranged for us to play an assembly atSummit Elementary School in Ashland and then for one thousand inmates at the nearby federal correctional institution. Both gigs were unpaid and arranged at the last minute, but I was desperate to play in front of people.
However, the day after we played the elementary school, I told Ken no more free gigs. I told him my goals. I wanted Sly Dog to become the house band at one of the local bars or clubs by my twenty-second birthday on August 25. I wanted to be signed to a major record label by my twenty-third birthday. I wanted my music to be heard around the world. And I wanted my music to share God’s light and love.
Our first paying job was in the restaurant at the Jesse Stuart Lodge at Greenbo Lake State Park, the same place I’d worked a few years earlier. The lodge’s clientele, mostly middle-aged folks looking for quiet in the woods and gentle country tunes at dinner, got a surprise when we served up a set peppered with the Allman Brothers Band and ZZ Top. No one complained, though, and Ken divided the night’s pay: $150. Thrilled, we split it five ways, gave Ken a five-dollar commission, and spent the rest of the night celebrating.
“Thirty bucks apiece,” I said, toasting the band. “We ain’t rich. But we’re on our way.”
A week of playing in front of an audience taught us more than a month of rehearsals. We screwed around less and made fewer mistakes. We all played with more intensity and focus and we paid more attention to the way we blended with one another. When we were in front of people, there was no middle ground. It was all or nothing.
After the first few gigs, guitarist Pat Williams dropped out of the band, wanting a more stable life. I recruited my high school buddy and former baseball and football teammate J.R. Gullett as his replacement. J.R. was a genuine musician and country music authority who lent authenticity to our southern rock sound. Plus, he sounded great on those harmonies. Our voices blended really well together.
We played the lodge a few more times and also at several other similar venues, but each gig only made me hungrier to play more frequently. I was doing all I could do to get us booked in one of the numerous clubs in the area. I didn’t care if it was the Catlettsburg Boat Club, the Auger Inn, the Red Fox Lounge, or one of the other rough-and-tumble watering holes where folks unwound after work. I wanted to take that next step, and the next one.
“Be patient,” Ken advised.
“But my birthday’s around the corner,” I said. “Remember my goal is to be playing one of those places before August twenty-fifth.”
“I know,” he said. “You’ve told me. But as you can imagine, these people haven’t even heard of you yet.”
“They will,” I said. “I believe if you build a place high enough on the mountain, then surround it with enough lights, and play really loud, I mean really loud, the world has to take notice.” I smiled. “Either that, or they’ll tell you to turn that shit down.”
CHAPTER 10
Tarot Cards
E IGHT DAYS BEFORE MY birthday deadline, there was good news: Sly Dog had its first headlining gig at the Sand Bar, a popular club in Ironton, Ohio. The Sand Bar was located inside the Marting House Hotel, a place that dated back to the 1800s and was full of charm, if old and dilapidated was your style. J.R. described it as “clean but rough.”
The place had
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