I started thinking about the AM radio in my 1965 Falcon Futura Sports Coupe with faded vinyl top immediately after I heard of the death of Ralph Emery the other day. And I thought about the book that never was.
More details on those thoughts and others that come to my head as I freestyle my way through this little tale. Typos, etc., be damned when I start recollecting.
Ralph was a legend, of course, in Nashville. He made his bones as an all-night radio guy and became what some call "Nashville's Johnny Carson" on TNN. And everybody either knew him or thought they did. In my case, it's a little of both.
Ralph was a legend, of course, in Nashville. He made his bones as an all-night radio guy and became what some call "Nashville's Johnny Carson" on TNN. And everybody either knew him or thought they did. In my case, it's a little of both.
I was fortunate to be invited to join him and Tom T. Hall and others at their "Old Farts Movie Outings" (not an official name, perhaps even something I made up.)
Tom T., who died last August, told me they always picked action movies, cowboy movies if possible, and went to matinees.
It was the kind of stuff their wives wouldn't like. No good Clint Eastwood movies? Well, maybe there's a new Terminator or Bond film. I don't know if they ever made it down to "The Fast and The Furious" franchise, but I'm sure they liked "Rocky" and "Rambo."
I think my friend, Bobby Bare, may have been a part of that gathering as well. I don't want to call him right now because he's taking his nap. Besides that, I've spent enough time in recent months talking about mutual dead friends and acquaintances lately. It can get kind of depressing. I like to call Bare because it cheers me up. Him, too, I hope. Actually, while he prefers to be called "Bare," I usually call him "Bobby," because that's what Shel Silverstein called him when we first crossed paths in 1972. I won't go into that tale here, because this is about Ralph Emery.
I've known Ralph for decades.
We weren't close friends, but his mastery of broadcast skills (I preferred his radio work, which I used to listen to on late-night drives) made him a legend and, at least, an acquaintance of mine and, I'm sure, yours.
I particularly welcomed Ralph when I was a sports writer at The Leaf-Chronicle in Clarksville, Tennessee. That job had me traveling to cover football and basketball games in Paris, Fort Campbell, Erin, Dover, Springfield, Dickson, Lebanon and Cunningham, to name a few of my exotic late-night wanderings in my 1965 Falcon. In its latter years, I had to take a passenger, because someone needed to put their hand over the carburetor and cause suction so it would start. "Hey, xxxx, you want to come with me to a game and work hand magic on my carburetor?" I'd ask friends and acquaintances. Oddly, I seldom got rebuffed. Nothing like a good carburetor job to break the ice, I suppose.
Anyway, driving around the then-frontier-like area, back when this was a great place to live, about the only thing I could depend on was WSM-AM 650 radio, with Ralph and whoever he had for a drop-in, whether it was Willie, Cash, Waylon, Tammy, whoever. And, between his own recollections and discussions with Haggard and the like, he spun the 45 rpm records, back when they still had them. Classic country, the type of stuff that appealed to all-night truckers. Lefty, ET, Tex, Loretta....
I learned a lot about the art form of country music just by listening to Ralph. By the way, I had neither a tape deck nor FM radio in the Falcon, so it really was like Ralph, on the clear channel, who was the only constant in my journeys back to Clarksville after ballgames ended and I was on my way back to the newsroom to get the coffee pot going, get my fresh Merit 100s pack ready and write about the game or games. Oh, like I said, I often had company in the passenger seat, someone who could give a hand-job to a carburetor while I worked the ignition.
That's about a half-century ago, now. But when I did meet Ralph in person, he was like an old friend, at least to this old guy who learned so much by listening to his show.
Since I came to Nashville in 1988 and eventually was in charge of music coverage, my path and Ralph's crossed a few times. I interviewed him once for a now-defunct Country Music Association Closeup magazine piece. Liked the guy. Laughed at his tales of Stonewall and Little Jimmy.
About five or six or even eight years ago, Ralph contacted me about writing another book about his life, to cover things left out of his own previous writings.
I was flattered and even excited by the prospect.
He asked me to meet him at Hillwood Country Club for lunch and we'd talk it out. With as much admiration as I had for him and the love I have for writing about classic country musicians and personalities, I really didn't worry much during my first fruitless hourlong wait. At least the white-jacketed servers were kind as they refilled my coffee cup.
But then I finally called him, and he apologized that he'd forgotten our appointment that he'd established. He really was upset with himself for taking my time, and we rescheduled for the next Wednesday.
This happened two more times. He always was generous with his apologies and his kindness.
Finally, he said he had so much going on that he didn't want to reschedule for a little while, but we'd get to it.
The last time we really had a conversation was late December 2018, when we bumped into each other at the funeral for Shirley Hardison, a former security guard at the morning newspaper and a long-time presence in that same role at Ryman Auditorium. She was beloved in the country music community.
I also loved her, as Shirley and her newspaper security guard cohort, Steel Guitar Hall of Famer Johnny Sibert -- who died in 2013 -- were two of the biggest boosters I had at 1100 Broadway during my 20 years in that building, where I worked for Nashville Banner and The Morning Newspaper.
They did not appreciate the way I was being treated by corporate hacks and their sycophants. I believe Shirley and John, like me, were quietly walked out the door when corporate types -- in their case a contracted security firm -- took over. I left, really on my own terms, the one stipulation being that I left. Long story there. There's a book about it somewhere.
By the way, Johnny Sibert had "settled down" in security guard work after years of top-tier steel work with the likes of Carl Smith, Kitty Wells and Little Jimmy Dickens.
Carl and Little Jim may have been a part of the Old Farts Movie Club. Nice guys, they certainly qualified.
Shirley certainly could have fit in well in that world of old country musicians, even though they were males. Well, to tell you the truth, she preferred friends with, well, talent ... and balls.
As my friend the musician and historian Peter Cooper, now Country Music Hall of Fame honcho and kind man, wrote when Shirley died: "Shirley had been in Nashville forever, and she used to run with the fun crowd back when Lower Broadway bars and cafes teemed with folks like Roger Miller, Willie Nelson, and Tom T. Hall. You name ‘em, Shirley knew them and had stories.
"Phil Everly of The Everly Brothers? She dated him, back in 1957, when the Everlys scored smash hit 'Bye Bye Love.'”
But let's get back to Ralph, who was a Country Music Hall of Famer, like so many folks I've been able to spend time with and hear their tall tales. If somebody wanted to talk, I always enjoyed listening, learning and sharing.
Ralph and I were together in the hallway of the funeral home before Shirley's service. I was waiting to sign the guest registry. As was Ralph.
He did not recognize me at first, then I reminded him that I was the guy who was going to write his most recent book. I joked him that he had stood me up three times, when I waited for him at Hillwood Country Club.
"Tim, I'm really sorry about that," he said, or words to that effect. "I decided that no one wants to read anything else about an old has-been."
I assured him he remained beloved and told him that if he changed his mind, I was available.
I was sorry I never got to write that book with him. I am so sure I would have learned a lot of great stories, as he knew everybody, was loved by most of them, and he loved them back.
I never got angry for Ralph standing me up. He simply forgot, which happens to "old farts," as he explained in his apologies.
I never joined the Old Farts for their movie outings. Most of them are gone now, but I'm glad that for the most part they were my friends.
I really didn't want to run this little semi-tribute on Saturday, January 15, when he died. There are so many more-important people whose lives he touched, and they were the ones who should be heard from.
All I really had to add to the picture of Ralph is that he stood me up a few times and I never got to write the book that he'd decided no one wanted to read.
And it's certainly no big deal if an older guy forgets an appointment. Just ask me as I plow into my eighth decade.
I have many, many friends in country music. Most of them are dead or otherwise incapacitated.
I'm just glad for the long, late nights in the old Ford Falcon Futura Sports Coupe when -- as long as I could get the carburetor working -- I listened to Ralph and heard his memories and the tall tales of folks who would drop in at the studio on the way home from Lower Broadway.
I finally had to sell the Falcon for $100 after the manifold blew up and the transmission went out and the carburetor stopped responding to the loving touch. Jimmy Gaiser, whose Gaiser's garage in a shack near Austin Peay had performed miracles in the past, told me it was time to let it go. (By the way, if I dazzled you with the name of an auto shop I used a half-century ago, I had to ask my dear friend Larry Schmidt, a native Clarksvillian and my first sports hire, for the name. Gaiser's kept my next two cars rolling, also. Mr. Gaiser and his guys huddled around a pot-bellied stove and ate food from Red's Bakery while WSM radio played in the shop, unless Sherwin Clift, Voice of the Govs, was calling an APSU game on WJZM.)
I had good tires on the dying Falcon, so I swapped them with my brother's for another $50.
I'm sure the radio dial was set to 650 on that day. It was about the only AM station I could get on that Falcon.
Photos from Country Radio Seminar and New York Times.
