George Harrison put it best.
He just didn't know, at the time, that he was talking about me.
Country music legend Mel Tillis died early Sunday morning, according to a statement from his publicist. He was 85.
Tillis died at the Munroe Regional Medical Center in Ocala, Florida, after battling intestinal issues since 2016, said spokesman Don Murry Grubbs. The suspected cause of death was respiratory failure.
Tillis was a prolific singer-songwriter who penned more than 1,000 songs and recorded more than 60 albums in a career that spanned six decades. Many of those songs were recorded by other country music stars such as Kenny Rogers, George Strait and Ricky Skaggs.
His commercial peak came in the 1970s when he had a string of top 10 hits, including "Good Woman Blues," "Heart Healer" and "Coca Cola Cowboy." In 2007, he was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame.
Frankly, it came as a bit of a surprise to me that Mel's passing got the kind of press that it received.
Not so much because there was any real legitimate claim to the idea that his career and his passing weren't worthy of note, but in a culture that is saturated and/or obsessed with Trump tweets and Kardashian navel gazings and "what have you done for me lately" now translates out to "what have you done for me in the last five...no, wait, make that three...no, wait, make that two seconds" , it was surprising, and gratifying, that Mel's farewell did make the box filled with the ALSO IN THE NEWS stuff online.
And that saves me the time needed to go into great detail about who he was and what he accomplished because you can now log on to dozens of places and check all that out.
While I spend a few minutes sharing what part he played in my own life.
1975. I was a former assistant gas station attendant/ grocery store manager/ ink pen salesman in New Orleans who wrote songs on the side, played in a respectable enough garage band and indulged in the fairly stereotypical dream of fame and fortune as a singer/songwriter. Said dream had brought me and my band mates to Nashville, wives and babies in tow, to work and play hard together to achieve that dream.
1979. I was a full time ink pen salesman who wrote songs on the side and whose band mates had long ago returned to New Orleans, wives and slightly older babies in tow, having myself remained behind, wife and oldest, then only, child in for a penny in for a pound, still pursuing the elusive butterfly of song writing success.
I had, by that time, achieved only a little of that dream. Actually, very little.
Actually, nothing at all.
An inroad or two had been discovered and was being traveled. I had spent enough time knocking around the Nashville streets known, then, as Music Row, the nerve center of the country music recording industry, to have met at least a few people, gotten to know even a few well enough that they acknowledged my hello when we crossed paths, even if they still didn't know who the hell I was or have any particular reason, to their way of thinking, to know.
And I had, through fate, providence, good luck, divine intervention or any one or all of the cosmic forces that move our fates around the game board, managed to meet, and begin writing with, an already established Nashville songwriter whose back story was not at all unlike mine.
Don Earl had been a homicide cop in St Louis, who wrote songs on the side, dreamed of songwriting success and visited Nashville periodically to meet and greet and pitch and hustle, getting to know even a few well enough that they acknowledged his hello when they crossed paths, even if they still didn't know who the hell he was.
In time, though, he converted a few of those who didn't know into those who did. And, in one of those moments screenwriters love to portray, he brought the right song to the right person at the right time and voila! he had written a hit country song for a then up and comer named Barbara Fairchild, said song climbed the Billboard Country Singles chart and found its way all the way to Number One.
Making Don sufficient bucks that he was able to move to Nashville, wife and four kids in two, and set up shop as a full time songwriter. Couple more hits and voila!, he was back to writing part time, working for a living (although it was his own polygraph business) and trying to get back in to where he once belonged on Music Row.
And then, along came me.
Don showed me the ropes, taught me the tricks, showed me some stuff and we wrote songs. Pretty good songs, the occasional fair to middlin songs and, truth be told, more than a couple of "wow, that's got a smell I've never smelled" songs.
And, because Don could get calls returned and appointments made, we pitched songs. Lots of songs. Lots of places. Accomplishing what 9 out of 10 aspiring songwriters generally accomplish with hard work, perseverance and belief in the dream.
Zip. Zero. Nada.
Having come perilously close to the "who needs this shit" phase so many aspiring writers, actors, dancers, singers, talk show hosts and/or athletes inevitably reach, I found myself, one summer evening, driving to my writing appointment with Don, mumbling to myself about the injustice of writing such great, intricate, clever songs only to be rejected time after time after time after....slowly bubbling up to yet another fever pitch of "fuck em, who needs this shit?"......and, in that moment, as I drove along, my frustration peaked in the form of "you know what? we write great? they say no...we write really good? they say no....then we listen to the radio and what do we hear?....crap...and pap....and ditties....and shit....and....you know what? that's what they want? well, then, fuck em that's what they get"......and by the time I got to Don's house, I walked in, visibly steamed, sat right down without benefit of hello or how are ya, pulled out the guitar and said to Don...."listen to this".....
and I played all I had come up with in my head between mile markers 14 and 29, I 65 Nashville, Tennessee.....
without your love/ I'm Louisiana Lonely
without you here/ I'm bayou blue
I'm make believing / you're comin on home to me
I'll be Cajun crazy / till the day you do
"...wow...", Don offered..."that's really some crap........let's write the rest of it...."
And so we did.
And we did a home demo
And we pitched it.
Zip Zero Nada
Del Bryant, then head of the iconic BMI and son of the iconic songwriters Felice and Boudleaux Bryant took a meeting (because Don still had at least that much clout in his clout account), listened politely and said to us.....
"..hmmm...sounds like you tried to write a clever Cajun thing.....and just missed...."
The next day, I was in full "don't need this shit" mode.
And in one last, only to satisfy myself, blaze of glory move, pulled out my copy of Songwriters Market (a who's who of industry addresses), made a list of ten publishers in Nashville who allowed outside submissions, made ten cassette copies, filled and sealed and mailed ten envelopes with cassette enclosed.
And prepared to get about a life with no song business in it to piss me off.
And I heard nothing.
From nine of the ten publishers.
Three weeks later, I got a phone message from the tenth.
"Scott....this is Jimmy Darrell....I run Mel Tillis' publishing company on West End Avenue and would like to talk to you about his tape you sent me. Could you give me a call back?"
Well, now. I don't know. Lot of heartache under the bridge,. Gonna have to think that over.
For 1.7 seconds.
Fast forward recap: Jimmy liked the song, we liked Jimmy, we signed the song to Mel's company, they did a full blown demo, they pitched the song around to varying degrees of "maybe" and "we'll let you know."
And then, one day, Jimmy called to let me know that Mel had taken a liking to the song.
And had recorded it himself for his upcoming album.
It was part of Mel's album entitled "Southern Rain" released in 1980.
It was never a single and the album was not a huge seller, so there were no Grammys or millions in royalties.....
But I was one officially professional song fucking writer now.
The song went on to be cut a few times by a variety of folks (never a big hit) but good album cuts, etc and we got some other things cut here and there. The whats and what happened with thems is the stuff of some other time sharing.
The tagline of this story is Mel Tillis made me an officially professional song fucking writer.
When I heard he passed today, I smiled and whispered a little "godspeed...and thanks..."
And suddenly thought about George Harrison.
And a witty line he had spoken in the movie "A Hard Day's Night" speaking to some stage hand who George was warning to stay away from Ringo's drum kit, because Ringo was very fussy about people touching his drum kit......
And I thought what George said about Ringo's drums was exactly what I thought about Mel Tillis and his gracious contribution to my life......give or take a little paraphrasing.
"He looms large in my legend...."
Thanks again, Mel.
Nice looming.
