Perspective

When it comes to performers, the connection between singer and songwriter is not just important — it is an absolute must. Since country music was born a century ago, it has become America’s heartbeat, and its lyrics pay tribute to American values in a way no other musical genre can rival. When a singer, a songwriter and a song fail to connect, the result is like a sore thumb on the airwaves. It’s hard for any performer to replace the passion a songwriter puts into lyrics based on personal experience. That’s why the country’s iconic artists often write their own songs. When it comes to writing from the heart, no one ever put the lyrics of his life to music better than “The Hag,” Merle Haggard.  Haggard was a Depression-era baby, a true child of the Dust Bowl. Along with other families moving from Middle America to California in search of a mythical lifestyle, Haggard was the son of “Okies,” his parents relocating to the West Coast to escape the Oklahoma drought. Haggard drove that point home point decades later with his 1968 signature song, “Okie from Muskogee.” But he was more than an Okie. Haggard was a working man — a blue-collar, flag-waving, right-winged performer whose music appealed to the millions holding similar values at the height of the cultural shift of the 1960s.  Young Haggard did little to overcome the hard lot he drew in life. He spent years in juvenile detention facilities and eventually wound up in San Quentin State Prison, mostly for minor but habitual offenses. By the time he left prison for good in 1960, he had a new attitude, knowing that another misstep could send him back for good. In true blue-collar style, Haggard assumed what is often joked about as the lowest of jobs — ditch digger. In his spare time, he pursued music, writing songs that recounted his life and experiences. By 1970, Haggard had climbed the charts to become one of the most famous musicians in America.   In 1974, America’s oil embargo shined a spotlight on one of the blue-collar jobs Haggard paid tribute to in his songs, the truck driver. At the time, drivers were on the verge of national heroism and enjoyed status as cultural icons in the U.S. In fact, it’s hard to discuss 1970s culture without at least casually referencing truck drivers and the “fans” passing them on the interstates begging for the satisfying air-horn salute. It was only natural that Hollywood seized the moment to propel truck driving even higher in the public consciousness.   In 1973, producers Barry J. Weitz and Philip D’Antoni (a 1973 Academy Award winner for “The French Connection”) pitched the NBC network on a television movie capitalizing on the public’s interest in truck driving. In May 1974, their idea aired as “The Tandem,” starring Claude Akins and Frank Converse as independent truck drivers Sonny Pruitt and Will Chandler. The movie’s plot focused on a pair of rogue drivers coming to the aid of citrus growers exploited by the agriculture industry. “The Tandem” was received well enough that NBC signed Akins and Converse on for the ensuing series, “Movin’ On,” that debuted in the fall of 1974.  Theme songs were all the rage in 1970s television. A good theme song went a long way toward making a series successful. Weitz and D’Antoni knew “Movin’ On” had to connect with a blue-collar audience. They also knew no singer in America connected to the “working man” more successfully than Merle Haggard.  When offered the chance to write and perform the theme to “Movin’ On,” Haggard wasn’t sure he was right for the job. As a singer-songwriter, he had become successful because he’d lived his lyrics. Since recording his first No. 1 Billboard Country single in 1966, Haggard had released 27 singles, 22 of them hitting No. 1 and the other five rankings no lower than No. 3 on the charts. Writing a song with a predetermined title for a TV series with a predetermined plot was like nothing Haggard had done musically. Perhaps the idea offered a challenge he couldn’t resist. But more likely, Haggard realized that the theme song, no matter if it ever reached radio, guaranteed him a national audience of millions of television viewers at least one night a week on television at precisely 8 p.m. Eastern time.  Haggard decided to write the song like he would one about his own life, only he wrote through the eyes of an observer of the show’s fictional characters. In fact, he makes reference to “Will and Sonny” in the lyrics. The words pay homage to truck drivers and the work they do, with a special emphasis on the importance of the trucking industry in the phrase, “The white line is the lifeline of the nation.”  While “Movin’ On” only lasted two seasons on television (44 episodes), it served as a precursor to the CB radio craze and other truck-driving cultural icons such as C.W. McCall and his massively popular song, “Convoy.”  As for Haggard, the brief popularity of “Movin’ On” forced him into a situation of recording and releasing the song as a radio single. He did just that in 1975, and “Movin’ On” joined the likes of “Sing Me Back Home,” “Mama Tried” and “If We Make It Through December” as a No. 1 Merle Haggard recording. While it may not be remembered as Haggard’s most popular song, “Movin’ On” was one the public begged for in the mid-’70s, and Haggard did not disappoint his audience.  Until next time, make sure the only fever you run is for “jamming gears,” and stay safe as you prove Haggard’s words to be true. Truck drivers are truly the “lifeline of the nation.”    

Louisiana-born Ted Daffan (1912-1996) had already made his mark as a singer/songwriter in southeast Texas when he pulled into a roadside diner one evening in 1938. Little did he know the diner would inspire a new song — a short, simple tune that would make Daffan a pioneer of a new category of American music. Historians agree that when Ted Daffan went home and penned the lyrics to “Truck Driver’s Blues,” he gave birth to “truck-driving music,” a genre that lives on 82 years later. The irony of the background to “Truck Driver’s Blues” is that Daffan’s simple observations and simple lyrics satisfied the needs of a society in the grips of the Great Depression, a society for which simplicity was a luxury. In the process, the song also made Ted Daffan quite wealthy for a musician of the time. After graduating from Lufkin (Texas) High School in 1930, Daffan taught himself to play the Hawaiian guitar, the metallic sound of Hawaiian music catching his ear. By 1933, he played well enough to land a spot with The Blue Islanders, a band with a regular radio show on Houston’s KTRH. When The Blue Islanders folded, he played with other bands such as The Blue Playboys and The Bar-X Cowboys, signaling a movement toward western swing. Daffan held an interest in electronics, particularly how they could be used to improve instrumental music. During the 1930s, he experimented with amplified guitars and operated a shop in Houston specializing in electrical instruments. By the end of the decade, Daffan and his amplified steel guitar blazed a new trail in western swing, a style of music previously known for its use of twin fiddles. The steel guitar put the “twang” in western swing — and eventually in mainstream country music. Today the instrument is regarded as one of most difficult to master. But Daffan was ahead of his time. Daffan considered himself a songwriter first and a performer second. “Truck Driver’s Blues,” the song for which he is arguably best remembered, took shape two years before he began a serious recording career. Daffan turned to fiddle-playing bandleader Cliff Bruner with his song, hoping Bruner and his Texas Wanderers could make it suitable for airplay. Likewise, Bruner had a contract with Decca Records, the label that gave Bing Crosby his break in the music business. History proves Daffan made a wise choice. The story of “Truck Driver’s Blues” is almost too perfect to be anything but a legend, but it is a story music historians repeat as factual. Daffan’s stop at the unknown roadside café, perhaps a precursor to the truck stops of later years, gave him the chance to observe several truck drivers. As Daffan waited for his meal he watched, as one after another, the drivers parked their rigs andentered the diner. Before sitting down, every driver stopped at the jukebox, put in a couple of nickels and hung around to hear a favorite tune. Realizing that Depression-era truck drivers willingly spent five or 10 hard-earned cents on something as simple as a song gave Daffan an idea. What would truck drivers pay if one of those songs in the jukebox focused on the drivers themselves? As the story goes, Daffan saw dollar signs — or at least a lot of nickels — all destined for his pockets. A few hours later he penned what would become the first truck-driving song. When the Texas Wanderers recorded “Truck Driver’s Blues” in early 1939, it was an instant success. In the early days of country music, a major hit sold about 5,000 copies. Released on the Decca Records label, “Truck Driver’s Blues” was not only the top-selling record of 1939, but it also sold a staggering 100,000 copies. Ted Daffan had indeed struck a chord with a new audience, and in the eight decades since, many songwriters and performers have made their marks on music following Daffan’s lead. “The blues” had been around a lot longer than Ted Daffan. In the first few decades of the 20th century, the blues, a music genre thought to have originated in Africa, became mainstream. The Great Depression was a period when most Americans had a case of the blues, and the songs of the 1930s are nothing less than a musical history of the years of poverty. Whether the blues performers sung of breadlines, tax collectors, the Dust Bowl, prohibition, Wall Street, milk cows or perhaps the most collective, “The All In and Down and Out Blues,” the songs struck the collective nerve of society. Daffan recognized the same look of “the blues” in the faces of truck drivers. More than 80 years after The Texas Wanderers recorded “Truck Driver’s Blues,” the lyrics are just as applicable as they were in 1939. Drivers of the 21st century may travel America on controlled-access highways designed for speed rather than the winding two-lane roads following pig trails of days gone by, but the worries of yesteryear remain alive in the trucking industry. Like many blues-related songs, “Truck Driver’s Blues” begins with a familiar line of misery, “Feelin’ tired and weary.” Beyond those opening words, however, Daffan sums up the life of a truck driver in just three short phrases: “Keep them wheels a-rolling, I ain’t got no time to lose. There’s a honky-tonk gal a waitin’ and I’ve got troubles to drown. Never did have nothin’, I got nothing much to lose — just a low-down feelin’, truck driver’s blues.” Those sentiments, the same truck drivers have today, are what “Truck Driver’s Blues” put to music — no time to lose, troubles to drown and nothing left to lose (other than the blues). “Truck Driver’s Blues” is a simple song written in simple times. And as Daffan discovered after an evening in a roadside café, satisfying Americans’ simple desires through simplicity itself can be lucrative — and groundbreaking. Until next time, when you’re feeling tired and weary, stay safe and pull off the highway. Staying safe can keep the blues at bay.

My previous columns, I believe, have made the point that my preferences in country music rest in the “classic” era — or almost anything recorded prior to about 1993. Still, one artist transcends time: George Strait.  From the first time I spun “Strait Country” on my turntable as a 15-year-old in 1981, I was hooked on the music of the artist who would one day be known as “King George” to millions. As much as I hated to fall in step with the crowd, it would have been impossible to part ways with George Strait and his 60 No. 1 singles. After all, I considered myself a George Strait “original.” I didn’t jump on the bandwagon midway through a career that saw him rack up more chart-topping songs than Elvis, the Beatles, and Strait’s closest competitor, Conway Twitty.  Strait covered a lot of territory before recording a pure truck-driving song, but it finally came on his 2008 CD, “Troubadour.” Solo performers and groups normally only release three or four songs as singles out of the 10 or 12 recorded on a CD. Over the years, Strait has recorded dozens of “would be” chart-toppers that never received radio airplay. “Brothers of the Highway” is just one, and in the opinion of a few truck drivers who have emailed me about the song, it might be his best.  The beauty of “Brothers of the Highway” is not so much in the way Strait presents the song; rather it is the way co-writers — including the late Kim Williams, Nichole Witt and Doug Johnson — composed the lyrics. The trio of writers skillfully connected the golden age of truck-driving songs — often considered a sort of musical mythology — with the reality of the important role truck drivers play in keeping the nation’s economy moving. In fact, in choosing Strait to record the song, the writers made a masterful selection. While remaining true to his musical roots, Strait has a proven record of successfully crossing boundaries throughout his career, one now entering its fifth decade.   “Brothers of the Highway” offers listeners a choice when categorizing it in a country-music sub-genre. In two minutes and 43 seconds, Strait sings a love song, a road song, a truck-driving song and a ballad — one of pirates and heroes.  The title, “Brothers of the Highway,” prepares the listener for what lies ahead. It begins as a love song, as Strait sings of a driver once again saying good-bye to his wife who, like other wives Strait describes in countless songs of rodeo and life as a musician, knows she can’t hold him back from his calling to the highway.  Next, as the driver pulls onto the road, Strait gives a nod to the 1960s and ’70s, when truck-driving songs built up drivers as modern-day cowboys. When Burt Reynolds solidified the image of a truck driver as a cowboy, outlaw and hero in the movie “Smokey and the Bandit,” he successfully tied generations of truck drivers together in a brotherhood reminiscent of pirates in early America. For all their flaws, pirates have carried a historical flair, leaving a taste of adventure in the mouths of the many children and adults who dream of the days when, as leaders of the brotherhood, captains like Johnny Depp guided ships.  Strait wastes no time connecting the beloved outlaws of days gone by to modern-day truckers through metaphors comparing those brotherhoods of buccaneers and the ships they sailed to the modern brotherhood of drivers and their terrestrial “ships” that carry cargo to all corners of the country. Both pirates and truck drivers head for the sunset, the trucks sailing on the freedom of the open road. Still, just as the listener’s mind drifts to childhood dreams of playing pirates with a fallen tree or even a cardboard box as a ship, Strait abruptly returns to reality. After all, unlike pirates who didn’t follow itineraries, truck drivers don’t have the same freedom. The highways and roads don’t allow for the same type of travel as the open seas.   In listing destinations and routes truckers might drive coast to coast (“Carolina west to Denver, Baton Rouge east to Pittsburg, Portland south to San Diego — sail on, sail on”), Strait does offer the illusion of free, open roads, albeit with a sense of urgency pirates seldom felt. After all, “truck-stop coffee, goes running through his veins” keeps the driver moving toward a destination a pirate only reached in a drunken state with an empty barrel of rum by his side.  Finally, Strait concludes with a line proving, if the listener has yet to catch on, that “Brothers of the Highway” is a different type of trucking song. Rather than contributing to the outlaw image of truckers — dodging scales, tearing up “swindle sheets” or taking “little white pills” to keep their eyes open wide — “Brothers of the Highway” is a tribute to truck drivers and the miles they travel in service to America.   In the 12 years since George Strait recorded “Brothers of the Highway,” the song has been covered by the bluegrass group Dailey & Vincent and more recently by a real-life truck driver, Tony Justice, joined by former driver-turned-musician Aaron Tippen. When the song wraps up with the line, “God bless you, brothers of the highway, children of the wind,” the meaning of the tune is clear. With it, Strait added a truck-driving song to his discography and, as he so often does with all topics of which he sings, he offered truck drivers the praises of a king.  

I’m not much into what Nashville passes off as country music these days, but let’s assume for a moment that these artists are worthy of “country” status: Shania Twain, Anne Murray (she’s approved), K.D. Lang, Terri Clark, Paul Brandt and Emerson Drive. What do these half-dozen performers have in common? If you said they are all Canadian, you’re right. Then again, if you answered that if he was still alive, Charles Thomas Connors — better known as “Stompin’ Tom Connors,” would have loathed all of them, you’d also be dead-on. Canadians love country music, and their country has offered its share of home-grown talent. But Nashville is where careers are built, and Canadians seeking high billing in country music usually relocate to the city in search of stardom in the U.S. and Canada. Stompin’ Tom Connors, one of Canada’s most successful country musicians, never relocated. He never became a star in the U.S. His music, even “Bud the Spud,” a trucking song of the “golden age,” received no airplay in the U.S. But one fact always remained true — Tom Connors didn’t care. Connors was born in 1936, in Saint John, New Brunswick. His teenage mother was poor, a fact Connors described when saying they lived in the “poorest, most run-down part of Saint John.” Connors later said he didn’t realize how poor he was until he saw his mother steal food for the first time. Young Tom must have led an eventful life. When Connors discussed his autobiography, he said that he tried to remember every moment of his life. Mentioning 130 pages of single-spaced narrative, Connors said, “That covers everything through age four.” While Connors was still young, his mother was sentenced to a low-security prison; stealing food to avoid starvation was likely the worst of her crimes. With nowhere else for Connors to go, she brought him along. In short order, authorities stepped in, and a family living in Skinner’s Pond, Prince Edward Island (PEI) adopted him. The province would provide inspiration for Connors’ first hit single, but he traveled a long road before recording music. Connors hitchhiked out of PEI at age 15, spending 13 years working odd jobs and writing songs. He finally settled in Ontario, accepting a one-year contract to entertain at a hotel. He soon launched his recording career. Connors never sought the nickname “Stompin’ Tom.” Instead, the owners of the low-class, loud and rowdy venues he played gave it to him, and it stuck. Connors couldn’t just tap his toe to keep time with the music; he wanted to hear his foot. He stomped the stage with his boot heel so hard that venue owners complained he cracked the stage. Connors began bringing plywood to shows, stomping on it until it was broken. He’d then complain about low-quality lumber and call for another piece. When asked why he stomped so hard, Connors answered, “It’s just a stage I’m going through.” Connors is credited with writing more than 300 songs and releasing four dozen albums. His sales topped 4 million records — virtually all in Canada. In fact, Stompin’ Tom didn’t allow his music to be released in the U.S. He was a proud Canadian who sang about Canadian topics. He admitted he had no love lost for Canadians who left home to achieve stardom in Nashville — “turncoats,” he called them. Aside from his song “The Good Ole Hockey Game,” played today at many National Hockey League arenas, his music is virtually unknown to Americans. While enjoying his greatest success from 1970-1972, when he had three No. 1 and two No. 2 songs on Canada’s country charts, the title song from his 1969 album, “Bud the Spud,” may be his most lasting. In “Bud the Spud,” Connors sings of a PEI truck driver hauling potatoes across Canada. Connors’ reputation could have caused fellow countrymen to believe he meant the song as an insult to Americans. Many recognize Idaho potatoes as the gold standard, but the Canadian maritime provinces are also well-known for producing them by the tens of millions. In fact, Canadians will claim Idaho’s crop can’t compare to its “budados,” almost as if Canada grows a different commodity. Of course, it’s the same root vegetable with the same spelling, but at least on PEI, it’s pronounced “bu-da-do” (with “u” as in “us,” “da” as in “day,” and “do” as in “dough). “Bud the Spud” struggled for radio play, but live audiences loved it. Eventually, DJs in Nova Scotia started playing the song based on listener demand. When Connors returned to PEI after a 14-year hiatus, audiences couldn’t get enough of “Bud.” Connors sang his song six times before closing in front of a rowdy church hall that would’ve stayed all night had he kept playing it. The story behind “Bud the Spud” isn’t much of a story at all. “It was written kind of quickly,” Connors said. “I wanted to write a song about PEI, and a friend wanted me to write him a trucking song.” The two songs gelled into one. The friend, Bud Roberts, didn’t care for the song and didn’t record it. For Connors, it was a blessing. The opening lyrics — “It’s Bud the Spud from the bright red mud” — referencing PEI soil, and the following lines describe the large “budados” it grows. With a truckload of the crop, Bud regularly ferries from PEI to New Brunswick before heading to Montreal and Ontario. “Bud” isn’t popular among Canada’s traffic officers — “Now the Ontario Provincial Police don’t think mucha Bud. … the cops been looking for the son of a gun that’s been rippin’ the tar off the 401” — referring to a 500-mile highway crossing Ontario. The remainder of the song praises “Bud the Spud” for his thirst of delivering PEI potatoes across Canada. Connors closes by commenting that Bud hauls “the best doggone potatoes that’s ever been growed — and they’re from Prince Edward Island.” “Bud the Spud,” if nothing else, had staying power. In 1994 the song became a children’s book featuring the travels of Bud and a dog companion, and in 2013 Parliament sang it before a hearing. Again, Stompin’ Tom couldn’t have cared less. In the 1970s Connors earned a half-dozen Juno awards, Canada’s top recognition for artists. Soon after, he decided the Junos didn’t represent Canada when they rewarded the “turncoats” who’d gone to Nashville. He even started a brief but unintentional racial controversy when he complained that country-music icon Charley Pride, one of few African-American country artists, was presented a Juno award. Eventually, Connors returned his Junos along with a letter stating, “As far as I am concerned, you can give them to the border jumpers who didn’t receive an award this year, and maybe you can have them presented by Charley Pride.” He also vowed to never accept another Juno nomination or award. Connors never buried his hatchet, later declining induction into the Canadian Country Music Hall of Fame. But he couldn’t avoid all recognition. A 2004 television show, “The Greatest Canadian,” ranked Stompin’ Tom as the 13th-greatest person born in the country. The top performing artist on the list, he beat out Canadian icons Bobby Orr, Gordie Howe, and even Dr. James Naismith, the man who invented basketball. Naismith’s presence on the list likely angered Stompin’ Tom, as he invented the game in Massachusetts the same year he left Ontario to live the remainder of his life in the U.S. Over the course of four decades until Connors’ death of kidney failure in 2013, he stomped his way across Canada. In the process, he recorded what is likely the most popular Canadian truck-driving song. And whether Connors would have liked it or not, “Bud the Spud” did become known outside Canada thanks to YouTube, where one of several videos has been visited more than a half-million times. Until next time, keep with the rhythm of the highway, and key up an Anne Murray tune for the heck of it. You’ll probably hear Tom Connors stompin’ a hole in his grave in the background.

In early 1966, Red Sovine had his second No. 1 hit on Billboard’s Hot Country Singles chart with “Giddy-Up-Go.” As many songs of the era did, upon reaching No. 1, it stayed a while, maintaining its position for six weeks. The recording, like Sovine’s other trucking songs, was characterized by its recited lyrics and attempt to present truck drivers as sentimental rather than an outlaw group of workers. In later years, for better or worse, Sovine followed the pattern with “Phantom 309” and “Teddy Bear.” The “Giddy-Up-Go” story features a truck-driving father abandoned by a wife who took his young son with her. The driver never found his family. Before the boy’s mother took him away, the youngster called his dad’s truck “Giddy-Up-Go,” words his dad painted on the truck. Many years passed before the father saw the same phrase on another truck along U.S. Highway 66. As one can imagine without even hearing the song, the phrase led to a much-delayed father-son reunion. Since “Jaws” became a national sensation in movie theaters in 1975 and was followed by a sequel in 1978, spin-offs, remakes and covers have become an expectation among fans. These types of films, TV shows and songs don’t require much creativity and can be turned out quickly and the original stars often return to build their success. Of course, the sequel never bests the original and is often added to the list of entertainment’s worst decisions. In the 1960s, sequels and remakes had yet to become popular. Singers and songwriters had a world of uncharted territory they could use to build legacies. But, with “Giddy-Up-Go,” a most unlikely source saw Sovine’s hit song as an early exception to the rule and tried to capitalize on it. Minnie Pearl (born Sarah Colley) is arguably the best-known comedian, male or female, in country music history. She spent over 50 years on the Grand Ole Opry and 22 years as a cast member of the television show credited with introducing country music to a national audience, “Hee-Haw.” A native of Tennessee and graduate of what would become Belmont University, Pearl was trained in theater and dance. During her career, Pearl recorded comedy albums, wrote several books and appeared on television. But she was never a singer. Then again, at least in many of his trucking songs, neither was Sovine. Perhaps the chance to release a “recited” single with chart-making potential motivated Pearl. In what was clearly an attempt to capitalize on the success of “Giddy-Up-Go,” Pearl inexplicably recorded a sequel, “Giddy-Up-Go Answer.” It debuted just weeks after the original fell from the No. 1 spot on country radio. In Pearl’s recording, one briefly hitting No. 1 on the country charts itself, she retells “Giddy-Up-Go” from the perspective of a waitress at the truck stop where Sovine’s father and son reunited. As fate would have it, the waitress was a friend of the wife who abandoned her truck-driving husband. One might expect “Giddy-Up-Go Answer” (what kind of title is that?) to be a statement from a strong-willed wife who left a husband who cared more for spending weeks alone in his truck than taking care of his family. But that is not the case. Instead, Pearl describes a wife who left with her son without a trace or a reason. In Pearl’s version of the story, she does mention that the wife had developed a terminal disease — something she apparently didn’t tell her husband. “So, without leaving a trace, she took her son and left town one night,” was the lyric spoken by Pearl in response to the wife’s knowing she needed to move to a dry climate. The wife and Pearl’s character became good friends, and Pearl recalled chats about the man left behind and the son growing into the image of his father. The wife soon dies, and Pearl continues working as a waitress, waiting for the “Giddy-Up-Go” truck to arrive. As it must, the song ends with Pearl witnessing the father-son reunion. “Giddy-Up-Go Answer” answers little, but it does leave a question for listeners to ponder. “Why?” Why did Pearl record the tune? Why did she think the original story needed an answer? Why did she think Sovine fans sought an answer? Why did she not think Sovine would have revealed an answer if it mattered?  “Answer” is nothing more than a retelling of Sovine’s story from an onlooker’s perspective — an onlooker without any insight or information to add the story. At the end, the listener is left unsatisfied. Sovine’s “Giddy-Up-Go” was completely in the artist’s character and played well to his audience — truck drivers. Pearl, on the other hand, stepped out of her role as a beloved country comedian to record what, for many, was a meaningless single. But the 1960s were different times, and country music had far less variety than future decades would offer. “Giddy-Up-Go Answer” was Pearl’s first and last charting song; in fact, it was the first and last song she recorded, period. Over the span of 54 years, Sovine’s “Giddy-Up-Go” remains a high point of trucking music history. Pearl’s “Answer” is mostly forgotten. And if Pearl ever doubted why her song lacked staying power, she might ask the truck-driving father when he pulls into her truck stop. “Sorry, Minnie,” he’ll say. “Giddy-Up-Go heard your song… and he done got up and went.” Be assured, no fan of trucking music is left asking, “Why?” Until next time, don’t lose sight of that white line, and if you come across a trucking song or any country tune that makes you ask, “Why?” drop me a line. Perhaps I can come up with an answer that makes some sort of sense.

When it comes to trucking songs of the “golden era” (1963-1977), songwriters were, for the most part, inspired by locations or experiences in the South, Midwest and on the West Coast. Most of the artists recording the songs hail from the same areas, although Canada has offered up a few trucking songs receiving U.S. radio airplay. But even Canada, where U.S. country music has a large following, has likely inspired more songs than its neighbor — Maine. A full-time country radio station of note didn’t even exist in the state until 1967. Even today, the number of nationally recognized country artists native to Maine can be counted on a few fingers. Dick Curless, a trucker turned musician, has yet to be surpassed as the most successful. Dick Curless was born in 1932 in Fort Fairfield, Maine. Today, Fort Fairfield is a hamlet of 120 residents in the secluded northeastern area of the state bordered to the east by New Brunswick, Canada. Before turning 10-years-old, Curless’ family relocated to Massachusetts, where in 1948 he began his music career with a local band. A few years later, he was in Korea driving an Army truck and known to soldiers as “The Paddy Ranger” on Armed Forces Radio. Upon returning to Maine, Curless didn’t immediately resume singing, instead buying a truck to haul timber. He did eventually return to the stage, his stature, baritone voice and eye patch helping him earn the nickname, “The Baron of Country Music.” Dan Fulkerson, a young DJ and aspiring songwriter in early 1960s Bangor, Maine, hitchhiked the roads around the city in hopes of catching a ride northward to Aroostook County. Truckers often gave Fulkerson a lift, and they traveled Route 2A northward from Haynesville, a tiny town equal in size to Dick Curless’ birthplace. Route 2A was long considered one of Maine’s most unforgiving roads (“highway” would be giving it far too much credit), but at the time, it was the only way to Aroostook County from points south. The winding, secluded route could be impassable in the winter months, and it supposedly claimed its share of truckers’ lives. Fulkerson had intended to pitch his song to Johnny Cash but instead chose Curless, preferring a local artist who could identify with Route 2A. His choice turned out to be a good one, as “Tombstone Every Mile” topped out at No. 5 on the Billboard country music charts. The focus of “Tombstone Every Mile” is the road Fulkerson traveled as a tag-along in big rigs, one he described as “a stretch of road up north in Maine that’s never ever, ever seen a smile.” Specifically, Fulkerson’s lyrics described only the portion of the road passing through the Haynesville Woods, just a few miles north of Haynesville. The two-lane road was known for a few harrowing 90 degree turns virtually invisible to a driver not acquainted with the route. Its location experiences average high temperatures below the freezing mark three months of the year, low temperatures below freezing nine months annually, and snowfall an average of seven months. When Fulkerson wrote the lyrics of “Tombstone Every Mile” and referred to the road as a “ribbon of ice,” he was not exaggerating. The most memorable phrase in Curless’s recording is, “if they buried all the truckers lost in them woods, there’d be a tombstone every mile.” Now, pinning down the number of truckers killed along Route 2A is difficult; in fact, the precise length of the stretch of Route 2A Curless sings of isn’t easy to determine. But local folklore supports the claim that the road isn’t exactly the most hospitable route for drivers of any vehicle. Route 2A is frequently noted as “the most haunted place in Aroostook County,” if not in the entire state. Locals and ghost hunters tell of paranormal experiences along the road, but few tales mention trucks. Still, even if “a tombstone every mile” isn’t an accurate statistic, the road has apparently snuffed out more than its share of lives. After riding “Tombstone Every Mile” into the top 5 singles charts, Curless recorded on and off over the years. When he did, he relied on his first song’s success and firmly implanted himself in the country sub-genre of trucking music. Other Curless hits through the mid-1970s included “Tater Raising Man,” “Travelin’ Man” and “Highway Man.” In addition to “The Baron,” Curless left no doubt he was a “man.” As many low to mid-level U.S. country artists do, he gained his greatest popularity overseas and ended his career in Branson, Missouri. He passed away in his beloved home state of Maine in 1995 at the age of just 63. It’s hard to say how much of “Tombstone Every Mile” is fact versus fiction. Even in Haynesville, locals debate the question. One longtime resident told a group of college kids what he thought of the stories. “All I know is that the road is a dangerous one,” he said. When asked if he’d change his mind if he saw a ghost, he answered, “Sure. If [someone] sat down beside me and vanished, I’d believe in ghosts.” Today, Route 2A is even more lonely and secluded than 50 years ago. Interstate 95 now stretches from Maine’s southernmost point to Houlton, about 25 miles northeast of Haynesville. Truckers bypass the dangerous and reportedly haunted Route 2A in favor of faster, safer interstate travel that ends at the Canadian border. Still, the legacy of “Tombstone Every Mile” lives on. Notable accidents have and continue to occur along Route 2A. In fact, just two years after Curless became a mainstay of trucking music with his recording, two young girls were killed on Route 2A. Both girls died on August 22, 1967. And both were hit by tractor-trailers. Until next time, keep the rhythm, and watch out for those blind twists in the road ahead.

The line separating “trucker” and “road” songs is thin. Roger Miller’s signature song, “King of the Road,” makes no mention of trucks but is about life on the road. Dave Dudley’s “Six Days on the Road” is written from a truck driver’s perspective. Although both songs include “road” in their titles, Miller’s is about the “hobo” lifestyle while Dudley’s is about a hard-working truck driver excited to get home. One interesting aspect of country music is its ability to connect people from seemingly different worlds. In the instance of Miller and Dudley, when they do meet, the difference between the trucker and road songs blurs. Hank Snow was born in Brooklyn, Nova Scotia in 1914. Separated from his father, authorities deemed his mother unfit to care for him. Instead, he lived with his paternal grandmother, reportedly a despicable human being who made sure Hank grew up in a household filled not with love but physical and verbal abuse. Eventually, Hank reunited with his mother. And when she purchased a guitar and allowed him to play, word spread of his talents. At just 12-years-old, Hank set to sea, not uncommon among youth growing up in Canada’s maritime provinces. A cabin boy on a fishing schooner, the job paid nothing except experience. Four years later, after his schooner barely survived a storm, Hank decided he had all the experience he needed. In the meantime, Hank’s musical talents developed, and he eventually found his way to Nashville. By chance, he got his shot to play the Grand Ole Opry, Nashville’s most coveted welcome gift. His second single, “I’m Movin’ On,” placed him on the road to stardom as it hit the No. 1 slot on country charts and remained there for 21 weeks. In 1962, “I’ve Been Everywhere,” became another of  Hank’s signature songs, a version of Australia songwriter Geoff Mack’s tour of his home country rewritten by Lucky Starr. Hank’s version, with apologies to Johnny Cash’s outstanding cover, is arguably the most recognized among fans of classic country music, with bonus points added to the original singer. “I’ve Been Everywhere” begins with Hank (singing as a hitchhiker) along “the dusty Winnemucca road,” a reference to U.S. Route 50, a cross-country highway passing through north-central Nevada. The chosen road, known as “The Loneliest Road in America,” tells listeners a lot about the hitchhiker and his secluded, slow-paced life. When “a semi with a high and canvas-covered load” stops, the driver asks if the hitchhiker needs a lift to Winnemucca, the passenger climbs aboard. The conversation in the cab turns to the U.S. 50 when the driver asks if his passenger has “seen a road with so much dust and sand.” The response reminds one of the pauses in Beethoven’s “Surprise Symphony,” a halting answer showing little appreciation for the ride the trucker is providing – “Listen, Bud. I’ve traveled every road in this here land.” And with that, “I’ve Been Everywhere” abruptly shifts from a trucker song to a tune about the road. The remainder of “I’ve Been Everywhere” begins with a chorus that will be repeated five times and four stanzas of lyrics listing what Hank means by “everywhere.” But the song is far more than impressive memorization of many obscure locations in the western hemisphere. The style Hank employs is indicative of the “road” experience and how it can change depending on perspective. Hank sings the remaining lyrics at a fast pace, so fast that the names of cities, towns, states, and areas of the U.S., Canada, Mexico, and South America almost blend into a very long multi-syllable-to-the-extreme word. In fact, the slow, lonely introduction having passed, the change in tempo is likely intentional, as Hank contrasts of a life walking the roads with the trucker’s high-speed, deadline-driven lifestyle. Hank references 91 locations he has visited. He could easily list 500 more, and the song would never get old. If we mapped the 91 locations Hank mentions, we’d realize that he has “been everywhere.” The various locations are spread across the country and a few outside the U.S. Hank tells us he has visited eight countries in North America, Central America, and South America. In the U.S., he rattles off 64 cities loosely broken down as: Southwest, 10; Northwest, 10; Midwest, 15; Southeast, 17; and Northeast, 12. He mentions nine states by name, four locations in Canada, and eight south of the U.S.-Mexico border. By the time the song wraps up with a fading chorus, listeners can imagine the truck driver’s exhaustion; in fact, they are exhausted as well, proof that the song filled its intended purpose. Still, firing the tune-up is almost an addiction, if only to see how much of the song listeners can memorize. Somewhere out there in the sea of truck drivers, at least one has visited every location Hank rambles through in “I’ve Been Everywhere.” There are likely more, if we consider just those in the U.S. I challenge you to pull up the lyrics on the internet and check off how many you’ve been to or passed. My count is 32, or 35%, not bad for someone who hasn’t visited the Pacific Coast, the Northwest, or South America. Take a few minutes to count how well you’ve followed Hanks’s trail, and email me with the number of checkmarks you make along with a photo of you and the truck that made it all happen. I’ll run a list of the most widely traveled drivers in a future column. Until next time, keep in rhythm with the road. I just remembered I have an appointment in Ombabika.

When it comes to trucking songs of the 1960s and 1970s, listeners recognize few voices as easily as that of Woodrow Wilson “Red” Sovine, a West Virginia native born in 1917. His distinctive songs in which he recited rather than sang the lyrics set a precedent for many country music “storytellers” who followed. And during his heyday, Sovine left his mark on the trucking song sub-genre that rivals any other performer. Unfortunately, as time passes so do the expectations of radio listeners. Politically acceptable verbiage and society’s fears have changed since the ‘70s, and “Teddy Bear,” the song bringing Sovine his greatest fame, would not make a blip on country charts in the 21st century. Red Sovine began his music career at an early age. His mother taught him to play guitar, and during his teenage years, he performed live on a hometown radio station. Sovine eventually formed a group, The Echo Valley Boys, and continued with his audience of a few listeners in West Virginia. After high school, he worked in a hosiery manufacturing plant, a job he gave up for a move to Shreveport and a shot to play the Louisiana Hayride, the second-most popular country music radio show short of the Grand Ole Opry. Prompted by Hank Williams, Sr., Sovine planned a move to a station offering a better time slot in Williams’ hometown of Montgomery, Alabama. Fellow Louisiana Hayride performer Webb Pierce had other ideas. He convinced Sovine to lead his band, and during the ‘50s, the two recorded a duet, “Why Baby Why?” a song topping the country music charts. With a little success in his pocket, Sovine broke ties with Pierce and set out to find success as a solo artist. It’s often said country singers need a niche — something separating them from other artists in Nashville. While Red Sovine didn’t invent trucking songs, in 1965 he recorded the first of many to come with “Giddy Up, Go,” introducing his voice in narrator style with backup instrumentals. In short order, this form of music became his niche. Sovine continued recording, adding the “almost based on a true story ’Phantom 309’” to his discography a couple of years later. Still, it would be 1975 before Sovine reached No. 1 on the charts with the sentimental song, “Teddy Bear.” I’d like to say listeners either love or hate “Teddy Bear,” but as it did occupy the No. 1 slot on U.S. Country charts, most obviously loved it. It’s “sappy-sentimental” lyrics turned some off, but the song offered a fresh image of truck drivers to the general public. Many trucking songs had portrayed truck drivers as outlaws, pill-poppers, and womanizers, but “Teddy Bear” offered an alternate image – one of truckers as heroes with huge hearts, if only on a small scale. What makes “Teddy Bear” so interesting is that today, 45 years after its release, Sovine’s best known recording and one of the most recognized trucking songs on radio would unlikely even make it to the demo recording studio – at least not without some serious changes to the story’s plot and lyrics. In “Teddy Bear,” Sovine introduces himself as an OTR driver spending much of his life on the road. While he doesn’t come out and say it, his voice suggests a lonely life, and he uses the CB radio as an alternative to true friendships. By chance, he contacts a “little boy” over the CB who is known by his handle, “Teddy Bear.” Now, Teddy Bear’s age is never said, but the phrase “little boy” is used multiple times in the song and based the album’s cover art suggests Teddy Bear to be quite young, maybe just nine years old. The simple question of age sets the stage for three fatal flaws that haunt the song’s legacy. Teddy Bear tells the narrator (Sovine) that his father was a truck driver who, a month earlier, was killed in an accident. His mother is not home much as she tries to support what remains of her family. And as Teddy Bear laments, he isn’t much help with his “two crippled feet.” Now, the ‘70s were a different time and people used different words, but consider how often you hear the word “crippled” in describing a person today. Somewhere along the way, “crippled” became offensive and is now all but eradicated from regular conversation. Likewise, consider the last time you saw a 10-year-old using a wheelchair. Did the wheelchair have a sign, “Warning: Crippled Child Aboard”? Hardly. Instead the sign likely read something like “Speed Demon” or “Did you say “disabled”? Who’s disabled?” Over the past 30 or so years, the perception of disabilities has changed in society, and I challenge you to find a little boy lamenting his “two crippled feet.” Based on what we learn in the early part of Teddy Bear’s story, the young boy is generally immobilized by an inability to walk. Yet, his mother, Mama Teddy Bear, leaves him alone all day while she works. Of course, in the situation described, it’s obvious Mama Teddy Bear is in a tight spot. In 1975, ordinary day care had yet to become the multi-billion-dollar industry it would a few years later, and short of institutionalization, parents of “crippled” kids had few options. Still, it’s hard to believe any state child services agency would look kindly on a child like Teddy Bear being left alone all day. In fact, looking back, it’s downright unbelievable, even for the ‘70s. As far as different places and different times are concerned, the 1970s were far more innocent than 2020. When Red Sovine recorded “Teddy Bear,” photos of missing children had yet to appear on milk cartons. Aside from high-profile cases like Patty Hearst, missing children were not high on the list of public concerns; it was almost as if they didn’t exist. Of course, kids did go missing, and years later the issue would be considered just short of a national epidemic. Today, we try to protect our kids against “stranger danger,” but with social media in play, we are caught in a never-ending fight to protect their identities and personal details. So, when Red Sovine asks, “Before you go 10-10, what’s your home ‘20,’ little CB friend?” and Teddy Bear responds with “Jackson Street, 229,” Generation X and young millennial parents’ jaws drop to the floor. The result as described in the song’s conclusion is three city blocks of trucks backed up in front of Teddy Bear’s house and drivers taking the little boy for rides. Mama Teddy Bear is nowhere to be found. In 1975, Teddy Bear returns safely from each ride, and the trucks are gone before Mama gets home. One must question if the 21st century story would have such a happy ending. There you have it. Although I know many of you love “Teddy Bear” (and probably have a few coarse words for me), in today’s society, “Teddy Bear” would still be noticed – as a source of controversy. The sentiment of Red Sovine’s “Teddy Bear” and the reasons for its chart-topping performance in 1975 are hard to argue. The song simply doesn’t transition well in the 21st century. A sequel of little note to the song was recorded years later, and we learn that Teddy Bear does have a daytime caretaker. Other than Teddy Bear’s death at the end of the song, there is little new the sequel offers. In fact, one must question if it was recorded for any other reason than to rectify at least one noticeable flaw in the original song. Love it or hate it, “Teddy Bear” would need a makeover to get airplay today. Society changes, and sometimes it’s even for the better. If Red Sovine was alive, he’d probably recognize it as well. Until next time, keep with the rhythm (and “may God ride with you, 10-4, and good-bye”).