Loretta Lynn_ Coal Miner's Daughter - Loretta Lynn [101]
I remember at the tryout, he looked familiar to me. I said, “Ain’t I seen you before?” And he said he used to back me up whenever I played in Columbus, Ohio. So I knew he could play my music. I listened to a few notes and told him to be on the bus with his bags packed in half an hour. Dave ain’t been off my bus since.
Dave is an important part of the show. He watches me real careful and makes sure the band is following me. If I break time or something, he breaks time right with me. He’s real proud of being my lead guitar man.
My boys get paid a straight salary, fifty-two weeks a year. Plus, they get six or eight weeks off after Christmas when I go to Mexico, and time off when I’m in Nashville. The only deal is, they have to be ready to go with me whenever we have a show. Most of ’em live in Nashville now. They bring their wives and kids around, and we get to know each other. I think a man works steadier when he’s got a good family.
Now the bus is nearly empty, except for a fellow from my record company. We talk business for a few minutes. Then Cal Smith gets on. Cal is one of the best singers in the business, and he’s been making this tour, along with Ernest Tubb and his band. Cal is from Oklahoma, and he used to be the front man for Ernest, so he’s having a great time with his old buddies.
“Where you been?” I ask him.
“On Ernest’s bus,” Cal says. He’s one of these people, you can never tell if he’s joking or serious.
“What you been doing?” I ask.
“Getting interviewed,” Cal says.
I decide not to ask him the details. It’s probably better I don’t know. Cal has been egging Ernest’s band and my band into all kinds of crazy stunts. Lately he’s been imitating the Wilburn Brothers, something he knows I don’t like. He’ll get on stage and talk with his hands up in the air—drives me crazy. Now he’s got my whole band doing it behind my back.
Last week my boys put Ernest’s bus up on jacks and it took ’em an hour to get it off. But Ernest’s boys paid us back. They’ve got this bus driver named Hoot who looks just like Gomer Pyle and talks like him, too. Me and Ernest are supposed to sing our big record, “Sweet Thang.” Well, last week they sent Hoot out in Ernest’s clothes, about three sizes too big. Hoot starts moving his lips and his hands, while Ernest was singing offstage. The audience thought it was hilarious but I was going crazy. The whole bunch of ’em is nuts.
Luckily, there’re a few normal people left in the world—I think. About 6:30 P.M., two of my fan-club presidents from Kentucky, Jean Powers and Martha McConnell, come pecking on my door. I give ’em a big hug and we talk about the old mountain days—they both grew up in eastern Kentucky—and the fan-club activity. They put out a newsletter, plugging all my new records. Whenever I get near Kentucky, they come visit me. I’ve got a rule that I only let fan-club presidents on the bus. That avoids a lot of hard feelings. I just can’t let everybody on—the insurance company won’t let us.
Around 7 P.M., Jim Webb pops in the bus and says Ernest’s show is just beginning. That means I’ve got about an hour to get ready. Martha and Jean are welcome to stay, but I’ve got to go in the back of the bus and work some miracles.
The back of the bus is about twelve feet long and six feet wide. That’s where I spend half my life, it seems. I’ve got two purple couches that open into one king-sized bed when Doolittle is around. Far in the back, I’ve got a Hollywood vanity and sink and makeup table. There’re bright fluorescent bulbs lighting everything up. I sit on a high-back swivel makeup chair that’s white with purple trim.
On the other side, there’s a closet holding over a hundred dresses. I make some, and some are shipped by Barbara Smith who works in my office and is a close friend. She does most