"Now you take that Charley Pride, there is one scared nigger if you ask me," the cabbie said on the ride in from the airport. "He's afraid to appear in public around here. Half the men in town want to shoot him."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Well shit, he's got white women all over throwin" themselves at his feet. But ole Charley, he's a good nigger, he's got a wife and he don't mess around."

Welcome to Nashville, and welcome to the Grand Ole Opry's 47th birthday party, a five day melange of free booze, aggressive promoters, fine music, southern hookers and thousands of freespending, drunk disc jockeys.

It's been a decade now since Walter Brennan sang about "That Mule, Ole Rivers, and Me", and country music has come a long way. It is programmed on over half the AM stations in the United States; bits and pieces are listed on the stock exchange; it supports the Cadillac, amphetamine and hair spray industries, and through all of this it is the only business in the country which still has an annual get-together of everyone from the manufacturer and distributor on through to the retail merchant and consumer. An irate ITT customer couldn't hope to confront Dita Beard, but any country music fan who can get to Nashville during DJ week has a good chance of running into Bill Monroe or Freddie Hart. If those two aren't available, hundreds more are, just aching for the Big Break, the one which will get them a contract with some Music Row publisher and finally achieve the ultimate — hit the top 100 with a bullet in Billboard.

Jim Flint plays country material. Daytimes he spends in Manhattan trying to peddle his songs, nights find him playing northern New Jersey bars. In part of his act he comes out on stage in a black cape while his back-up men play the Batman theme. The week before the Opry celebration a man at Epic told him he better try and sell his stuff in

Nashville because they couldn't judge his stuff by New York standards. With this vaguest of recommendations, Jim grabbed the next flight south. On the way down he kept telling his neighbor how he's been writing and playing country music for ten years now, and this time he's gonna make it. Finding out his flight companion occasionally writes about country music Jim Flint hit upon a magnanimous scheme.

"Listen," he confided, "I've got an idea for you. I'm lookin" for a writer to do a story on me and my group, you

An Alabama DJ gives his impressions of the effect of dope on country music: "Well I'll tell you, it's this way. Dope makes a good song like "The Tennessee Waltz" even better?1" Patti Page, eat your heart out.

know, about a guy who has the talent but never gets discovered? You know? I mean, playing all these little club dates in Jersey." He smiles, "you know what I mean?" There is a thirty second pause.

"And I'd be willing to pay, pay a lot, too."

"Ummm, that's not quite the sort of writing I do, I don't think I'm the person you're looking for: By the way, what magazine did you have in mind for this story about you?" -

"Oh, I don't know. Life?"

The drama of Jim Flint ends not there. Epic had no time for him, neither did two dozen more recording and publishing houses on Music Row. Dejected, he made it to a tiny low-budget operation down at the end of the street. The man told him he was looking for hit material only, and Jim said hell, he had a dozen hits with him. Within an hour Jim had signed a contract. It guarantees him absolutely nothing, except now he has an address in Nashville to send his songs to. Deliriously happy, Jim went to the Opry House that night and snuck in to the Country Music Association televised Awards Show. Surveying the electronic hook-ups, the cameras, the C&W celebrities arriving in their Cadillacs, he announced, "Next year I'm going to be up there getting my award for "Song of the Year.' Yessir and I'll bring you up there with me, put you on T with me." And then as an afterthought, he added with a big grin, "in color, to!"

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Country music is one profession where the cliche of success reinforces itself instead of slowly outliving itself. If the story of Jim Flint is a bit too familiar — like a "B" movie with a happy ending - it is just as valid now as it ever was. For that's the traditional way to break into the Field: hard knocks, try try again, keep on truckin", pay your dues. The textbook says you must go through famine, plague, pills, booze and then, then you have a chance. They are the orthodox rungs on the ladder to hillbilly heaven. The Opry celebration — better known as the DJ convention — and the CMA Awards are the annual highlights of this orthodoxy,the in-dustry's salute to itself. For the better part of a week the country music industry strains is arm patting itself on the back. Any performers, writers, musicians, company vice-presidents or producers who didn't get an award or acclaim for some obscure achievement, or at least nominated for one, should bow their heads in shame. It is said Chet Atkins once received an award for having received so many awards. The industry is downright incestuous if nothing else, and DJ week is simply a huge family party.

The elevator in the Sheraton Nashville from the seventh floor on down: "Hi, the name's Emmett, George Emmett, run a promotion outfit over near Louisville, we got Porter and Dolly cornin" in next week Sixth floor! then I've got Conway for our big winter show — got him cheap "cause of all the favors Pve done for "im Fifth floor! after that cornin" in is Jim Ed Brown and Tommy Overstreet, sometimes they get booked together Fourth floor! and I'm talkin' to McFadden about gettin' Susan Raye later on Third floor! yeah, I do most all the bookin" over my way, listen next time Mezzanine! you're out near Louisville, give a holler, ok? Lobby, everybody out! Here's my card."

Well, fuck cliches, orthodoxy and traditions. There's a whole new audience enveloping what's called "country music" and it has nothing to do with CMA, the Opry or awards. The major labels each get a three hour show to display their hardware, soft of like Moscow's annual Mayday parade of missiles or Washington^ quadrennial Inaugural parade. Each label had their token longhair group, there was the well received Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Commander Cody and gang and a few others. When Goose Creek Symphony's manager went to Capitol executive Wade Pepper to see if they could play the Capitol Show during DJ week, he was told that it wouldn't help Capitol's image any, and it wouldn't do much for Goose Creek's either. It seems this most traditional of audiences — da deejays what picks da hits — could either accept a Change in musical style or a difference in hair-length, but not both simultaneously. When the Earl Scruggs Review opened the Columbia Show with a straight blues number the audience reaction was long and loud, and mainly boos. Considering the strong link between authentic country music and the blues it was all the more ironic.

Authenticity had little room at DJ week though: it was a week to test the outer limits of commercialism in the field. To find the antithesis of DJ week, you have to go to the Bean Blossom Bluegrass Festival in Indiana, the Love Peace and Bluegrass Festival in Timberlake, Virginia or the Dripping Springs Reunion near the LBJ ranch in Texas. Experimentation takes place here which won t reach Nashville for years.

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The Country Cavaleers used to be under contract to Warner Bros, as Mercy. They play straight couhtry now and dress in perfectly phony aristocratic clothes complete with top-hat. With their lengthy flowing dark hair the two stood out wherever they went. Their job was to be Highly Visible, to provoke stares and curiosity. Throughout the week, DJ's wives would approach them and sheepishly inquire if they wouldn't mind posing for a picture, you know, something to show the folks at home? As Mrs. Deejay would slip one arm around each CaValeer, obliging husband would click away with the Instamatic. At one point, a half dozen deejay wives were waiting for the opportunity to be photographed with them. "We are an innovation in the country Held just like Charley Pride was... they say. The Country Cavaleers used to be Mercy on. Warner Brothers.

The current bluegrass phenomenon is as much noted for the blend of .cultural diversion in the audience as for the progressive sounds on stage. Most large outdoor country and bluegrass shows draw as many urban longhairs as the more traditional country fans. It's important not to make too much of this outpouring. "Yoifth phenomena" have a way of deflating after eighteen months, and the atmosphere of the events themselves precludes weighty generalizations. The tolerance between cultural groups at country festivals is not so much a result of common musical appreciation as a tribute to the power of Coors beer.

Two longhairs from Austin spent the better part of one afternoon at the Dripping Springs Reunion sipping beer and chatting with a couple of middleaged men from Ft. Worth. They got on well enough that the younger ones pulled out a joint to share with their temporary friends. "Son, " said, one of them slowly pulling out his sheriff's department I.D., "you can get two to life for that in this state. "

It is CMA banquet time, and MC Tex Ritter is standing before a sold-out house at the Municipal Auditorium. There is an overflow in the upper deck as this most formal of events unfolds. The opening number resembles the Shindig dancers backed up by the Boston Pops, but slowly the show unwinds to traces of top-forty country, and finally back to the roots themselves. Roy Acuff is on stage, facing 2,000 of the C&W establishment ruling class in formal wear as they consume lukewarm roast beef at sixteen bucks a ticket. He is reading a tear-jerking historical tribute to C&W. In the background are muted brass and strings, along with two quartets singing hushed ooos and aaahs in minor pitches. As Acuff nears the end of his monologue, he intones the names of present and future residents of hillbilly heaven, slowly reading names as if it was the Saturday afternoon obituary hour on the local 500 watter. Contrived reverence is reverberating throughout the Nashville Municipal Auditorium. Acuff reads off another name, and heads are turning as a voice from the Mercury Records coterie in the southwest corner of the auditorium shouts out alcoholic! Acuff does not hear him, and reads another name. Alcoholic! the voice yells out again. It is Jerry Lee Lewis shouting his opinion of the just named music great. The five second melodramatic pause between names ends, and Acuff reads off another country great. Alcoholic! yells Jerry Lee, his voice cutting through the silent pomp and formality. A woman at a neighboring table leans over and hisses, Tell Jerry Lee we can hear him on records, we didn't come here to listen to his drunken raving."

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"Hey, how come you AM jocks always talk through the last 45 seconds of a record?" the Mississippi DJ was asked. "You're covering up a lot of good music. Hell, by the time the song's over, you've done the time, weather, news and two ads."

"Hell, the only people who complain are the ones who want to tape the songs, you know? Those are the only ones complaining. Those fuckers are cuttin" in on song profits, royalties and publishing fees. They're the only ones complainin". Hell, we're performin" a public service protecting the artist."

Mercury officials are getting fidgety. Acuff reads another name. Doper! yells Jerry Lee. A Mercury man at the next table tries to divert his attention by drawing him into conversation. "Hey Killah," he says in a stage whisper. "Hey Killah/" Jerry Lee doesn't respond. He downs a final glass of Mateus and slams the glass on the table as he rises, proclaiming loudly, "They're all a bunch of boozers and dopers. I may be an alcoholic but at least I admit it." With that, Jerry Lee stalks out of the Municipal Auditorium into the crisp Nashville night.

Hucksters and hustlers, promoters and PR hacks, free-loaders and DJ's are all milling about the front lobby of the auditorium. There are a half dozen tables filled with free 45s, magazines, publicity gimmicks and various selfpromoting pamphlets. At the far end of the back table is a pile of mimeographed sheets. It reads as follows:

Personal Note:

To: All D.J."s and Program Directors I have spent most of my young life picking my favorite D. J. but now Platter pal the tide has turned — "How about picking me:" I am single, twenty-one, good measurements and I sing too; but singing isn't enough. I need you to spin me pal. Having a hit record is like a trip into outer space. You gotta first break the sound barrier, and then overcome the G-force, which is all you D.J. "s. If you like my sound, you can spin me on my merry way to the moon, I hope to make a personal appearance in your area by you or through your station. So you may handle my promotions.

I will be ever grateful for your thoughtfulness and consideration in this my debut to the music world. Hoping to thank you personally, I am

In Your hands,

Julie Young

Julie's new single is "Greatest Show on Earth" b/w "Villa of the Nude."

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Bartenders at the record company hospitality suites are furiously mixing drinks as everyone in the industry mingles briefly here and there, only to hop over to the next freebie room so as •not to miss anything. RCA starts the week off with a small party for a few hundred friends in their large studio "A". A white leather suit shows up with

Waylon Jennings inside. His hair is slicked back and a growing mustache and small beard complete the image of a mature greaser. Clusters of RCA employees and guests make small talk, renew old acquaintances and babble incoherently. From the studio control room behind a thick glass panel, the party resembles the side view of a fishbowl, corporate vice-presidents swimming about in a sea of functionaries.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 37.

Over at the Roger Miller King of the Road Hotel, Columbia is lying low, hosting free-loaders in a two-room suite on the fifth floor. But on the final night, after their Talent Show, Columbia rolls out the carpet with a mammouth closing night party, putting the others to shame. Conservative estimates are that the evening cost them well over ten thousand dollars for this promotional blitz. It was country music's answer to Mick Jagger's birthday party. All the right people are here from Lynn Anderson on down through ace session man, Charlie McCoy. Hey, isn't that Sonny James over there, next to clothing outfitter Nudie? And who's that with all that make-up over near the shrimp table dressed up in a low-cut red sequin dress? Looks like Billie Jean, widow of both Hank Williams and Johnny Horton, and say, what's Waylon doing over in the corner in a private conversation with Columbia's peapickin" president, Clive Davis? Where's that music coming from, the speciallyinstalled Columbia/Epic-only jukebox? Why no, it's Charlie Rich at the keyboard pounding out twenty minutes of "Big Boss Man." It sure is nice of Jody Miller to drop in. Tammy too! Why there goes Randy and Gary Scruggs, and didn't Tanya Tucker come for a few minutes? Oh my, dis mus" be da place.

Country music is a very carnivorous culture. There are no veggie restaurants in Nashville, but Tex Ritter Chuck Wagons are springing up all over. Dozens more C&W entertainers have franchise fast-food chains with their names streaming across the top. Roger Miller lent his name to the King of the Road Hotel, and it's much more successful than he'll ever be. You can pull up to a drive-in in some parts of the country and get a Twitty-Burger named for Loretta Lynn's partner. Glen Campbell hasn't put his name on anything except his records and even that's still too much.

Back at the Dripping Springs Reunion, Kris Kristoffersori was getting pissed at the audience, so he took a break during his set and brought out Billy Joe Shaver and introduced him point blank as one of the best songwriters in the United States. Billy Joe had never performed publicly and found himself confronted with 10,000 C&W fans confused by the slight change in program. It was, after all, the final set on the final night, the climax to three days of top pickin", loose orowds and good times. Billy Joe mumbled as how he didn't know what he was doing there, but he went ahead with his composition "Black Rose" about making love to a black woman and then did "Christian Soldier," a song he wrote with Bobby Bare for Kris. Moments after he left the stage, dazed by an enthusiastic audience, a young woman who'd been hanging out backstage propositioned him. A very obnoxious photographer threw his arms around him exclaiming, "You were beautiful, just beautiful." A local reporter asked him how to spell his last name. The Kristofferson mold of new-young-writerturns-performer was beginning to shape up around Billy Joe. A cliche unfolding, nearer completion.

It is midnight seven months later and Billy Joe is playing demo tapes in his office for Judy Collins" A&R woman Nancy Carlin. He has taken to performing a bit more, and both Tom T. Hall and Willie Nelson, among others, have recorded an entire album of his material. Backed by Kristofferson's enthusiasm and money he has recorded an entire album of his stuff. Things are looking up.

"Boy am I glad you're here," he tells Nancy. "You can't pitch many protest songs in Nashville, you know?" Nancy tells him how much she liked "Christian Soldier," and it sold in Nashville and it*s a protest song, isn't it? "Aw hell." he responds, "I don't know nothing "bout politics, but I do know about killin" and

things. Billy Joe plays a few songs for Nancy, and she decides to take some back to play for Judy. She also asked Merle Haggard to submit material.

For as long as anyone can remember the main east-west street in Georgetown, Texas was called Rabbit Hill Road until Westinghouse built a big plant there. It's now called' Westinghouse Road. There are serious debates as to whether Astro-Turf is superior to natural turf. They used to call us hillbillies but we're Mountain Williams now, the saying goes. Few things from peyote to donuts are marketed today unless they've been processed and homogenized, artificially prolonged or synthetically improved upon. For people who relate to country music through their nearby shitkicker bar or local station, the DJ convention might as well be a science fiction writers" colloquium.

The country music balloon will burst in a year or two, and soon the field will be left to grow on its own without second rate TV productions, without relying on the same standardized Nashville formula for a successful back-up sound. Is Tom T. Hall's impending Carnegie Hall concert widening cultural horizons or merely cashing in on a good fad? How long will it be before Broadway theater-goers are titillated by a countrified Rice-Weber production called Mondo RednecM

Will success breed the eggplant that ate Nashville?