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Vide Press

6200 Second Street

Washington D.C. 20011

www.VidePress.com

ISBN Print: 978-1-954618-33-6

ISBN eBook: 978-1-954618-34-3

Printed in the United States of America

For Yahweh Tsidkeynu,

Lori,

our family,

and their families.

His mercy extends to those who fear him,

from generation to generation.

(Luke 1:50)

Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

You Should Write a Book!

So, I Wrote This Book Like a Song

Songstory I. If Butterfly Kisses Is What I’m Remembered For When I’m Dead—I Can Live with That

Songstory II. Why’d You Waltz in Here Lookin’ Like That?

Songstory III. Shania Twain (You Had Me at Mutt Lange)

Songstory IV. I Picked a Fight with Gilbert Arias

Songstory V. There Must Be a God!

Songstory VI. Bad Day at Black Rock

Songstory VII. Ash Trays, Hell, and Wine

Songstory VIII. The Jesus Movement

Songstory IX. From Rathole to Charles Manson

Songstory X. Slim and None

Songstory XI. From the Baptism to the Babbling Brook

Songstory XII. Cricket with an Attitude

Songstory XIV. Never Bite a Gift Horse in the Face

Songstory XV. Of All the Places I’ve Ever Been and Not Know Where I Was (This Is the Place I’ve Been and Not Know Where I Was the Most)

Songstory XVI. You Ain’t from Around Here, Dontcha?

Songstory XVII. All Hail the Exploding Batman Pants

Songstory XVIII. The Volume of These People! (Touring Europe)

Songstory XIX. Jesus Christ: He’s Strong; Weak in No Way (PolyGram Daze)

Songstory XX. Sometimes the Magic Works; Sometimes It Doesn’t

Songstory XXI. Identical Strangers Meets NewSong

Songstory XXII. Writing Butterfly Kisses

Songstory XXIII. Did You Help Me Write This Song?

Songstory XXIV. The Goodbye Look (Won’t You Pour Me a Cuban Breeze, Gretchen?)

Songstory XXV. Getting the Band Back Together

Songstory XXVI. The Conversion Inside the Conversion

Songstory XXVII. Grace Fellowship and the Dead Cat

Songstory XXVIII. From Goose Creek to Blackbird Lane

Songstory XXIX. Nashville Music Garden

Songstory XXX. Jeremiah Is a Bullfrog!

Songstory XXXI. Tag: Ten Things You Can Glean from Songstory

Songstory XXXI.V (31.5). So, You Wanna Join the Christian Club?

CODA. If You Know How Many Guitars You Have, You Don’t Have Enough

End Note (Fermata)

Thanks for the Memories

You Should Write a Book!

For where two or more are gathered in my name, there am I among them.

(Matthew 18:20)

I prefer telling stories to at least two people at a time. Two people react and laugh more readily than one. Everyone loves a good story. When I recall some of my Sweet Comfort Band adventures, friends say, You should write a book! If I tell church friends some ALLIES anecdote, they say, You should write a book! The same happens with Shania stories, Dolly Parton stories, and Butterfly Kisses stories. I think even my beloved bride said I should write a book. (And she probably tells me that I never listen to her.)

So what did I do?

I spent ten years working on a fantasy fiction novel.

(I’ll give you a moment to finish shaking your head.)

The unreleased novel is called Rain Travelers. After it grew to over 100,000 words, I thought it was time to shop for a publisher. And do you know what the publishers said? You should write a book about songwriting! Harrumph. As a fiction writer, I’m an unknown quantity. But as a songwriter, I guess I’m less of an unknown quantity!

So I prayed. It was tough shelving my previous work. But I learned something: It’s a lot easier writing your life story than making up fiction. I was also reminded that God is writing the story of my life, and it ain’t over yet. There’s still change in the wind. I stopped harrumphing and began hunkering down to work.

I set up an imaginary movie projector in my brain and started splicing together the highlight reel. I faced a palpable dread that a memoir is an admission that your best days are behind you. That was overcome by the realization that God has blessed me far more than I deserve. (And I deserve nothing.)

Songstory took shape quickly. It took a mere six months to write. That’s like forty-two months in dog years. Writing the rough draft was enjoyable. But editing? Yuck. I miss the old tape machines. Editing was more real-world then. I’d wield a razor blade to carve out the unwanted passage and leave it spooled on the floor.

Once I finish this magnum opus, what then? I’ll spend the rest of my life promoting it. And I hate promoting. On the plus side, it might be like having a new record out. I pray that Songstory is embraced by those it chooses. (Lord, please make it so.) May it resonate among Christians, music fans, songwriters, and folded-arm atheists. (Even an atheist would agree that I’m a highly fortunate fool.)

Typing words on a computer screen involves a frightening amount of guesswork. There’s no audience. You write stuff and say, I guess that’ll work. Since I didn’t have your input, I wrote it to make God happy. As the runner said in the movie Chariots of Fire, When I run, I feel His pleasure. When I write, I too feel His pleasure. He gives gifts for a reason. May He use Songstory for whatever purposes He will. While it’s the story of my life, it was all His idea.

I hope you read parts of Songstory aloud to a spouse or a friend. I hope that some who read it will sense the presence of Christ with them. It reads better wherever two or more are gathered. It’s written from the heart with an audience of two in mind:

Jesus and you.

So, I Wrote This Book Like a Song

Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend.

Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

(Groucho Marx)

So, I wrote this book like a song. I started with a title: Songstory. This is my introduction, where I need to set the mood and establish a groove.

If you ask a songwriter, How do you write a song?, he may give you a blank stare. But if you ask a songwriter how he wrote a particular song, he’ll tell you a story! Hey, if I had a dime for every time someone asked me how I wrote a song…well, I’d have a bunch of dimes.

Songstory is the writer’s room narrative of Butterfly Kisses, Why’d You Come In Here Lookin’ Like That? and others. Music of the Jesus Movement, Sweet Comfort Band, and ALLIES come alive again in these pages. Songstory is a backstage pass to see how Shania Twain was transformed from nightclub singer to an international star. The songs are the musical signposts along the way.

Beneath the music lies a much deeper story; the unfolding of God’s grace. And grace is like a tidal wave; you can’t stop it.

Songstory begins in the 1960s and continues today. Back in the day of vinyl records, we used to splice the master mix tapes to create our record sequence. In the same way, the opening salvos of the Songstory book are placed out of chronological order in order to draw the reader in before providing context. It’s like one of those movies that begins with stuff blowing up before you get to know the characters. (And boy, I’ve met some characters in my life. If there was a dull moment, I must have missed it.) So let the time-travel-text take you to those departed decades of real bands, big hair, and loud music.

For those inquisitive songwriters who are hoping to gather gleanings, I have included a Songstory Writer Tip at the end of each chapter. I stole this idea from Alice Cooper’s book, Golf Monster, where he ended the chapters with golfing tips. There are more people writing bad songs than playing bad golf. Probably because golf is expensive.

Music is a universal language. What is its origin? The biblical view is this: A loving Creator has bestowed talents upon His creatures to glorify their maker. We are made in His image and called to be little creators. Creative people, if they are honest, marvel at how lyrics and melodies come to them. I think that’s God’s grace at work. He loves to see us imitating Him.

Artists want to create something majestic—something beautiful. I believe God often cloaks Himself with beauty. Look at a sunset. It reflects glory. The Invisible God is behind that.

There is a healthy dose of irony and laughter woven into the threads of Songstory. Jesus possesses a divine sense of humor! So, while you are reading, remember you are not just laughing with me—you’re laughing at me.

I pray that God is honored through this effort. Soli Gloria Deo. He is truly the song and the story behind Songstory.

Songstory I

If Butterfly Kisses Is What I’m Remembered For When I’m Dead—I Can Live with That

I don’t deserve this award, but I have arthritis and I don’t deserve that either.

(Jack Benny)

My acceptance speech was folded neatly inside my tuxedo jacket. We were all having an exceptionally good hair day. A palpable hue of anticipation hung above the buzzing ballroom full of famous faces. My lovely wife Lori and I were seated serenely in the front row. Like we owned the place. Next to us was my songwriting partner Bob Carlisle and his wife Jacque.

Just a few feet beyond us, Dolly Parton glid onto the platform. The spotlight followed her. She waved at Bob and me and giggled. Jerry Seinfeld sauntered behind her. They paused together at the mic. Dolly said brightly, Well, everybody knows why we’re here! It’s time to award the Grammy for Country Song of the Year! A polite and nervous applause followed.

Jerry smiled sarcastically and said, Yes! And without any further ado…, he opened the golden envelope. His eyes got wide, as if he had been stuck with the check for dinner. The, uh, winner tonight...

Dolly read over his shoulder and squealed with delight, BUTTERFLY KISSES!

Thunderous applause erupted! The camera zoomed in on nominee Tim McGraw, who smirked a bit before he remembered to smile. Bob gave me a rehearsed look of surprise. We hugged. We kissed our brides. The band played the familiar introduction to our song while spotlights twirled around the room. As we ascended the steps, Bob whispered to me, You do the talking. I…I just can’t.

The speech didn’t need to be read. There was so much love in the room, I decided to wing it. My voice rang clear: Esteemed guests, members of the Academy…, I began. Then I blessed the God of Creation for giving the gift of music; I thanked each and every person we had ever met. I gushed about Ray Ware having managed our careers during the lean years. Reba McIntyre kept smiling up at us, crying. Even Alan Jackson deftly wiped away a joyful tear. As I continued speaking, Cher escorted my mother, brother, and sister onto the platform behind us. Madonna came arm in arm with Bob’s mom. I ended with, "…and that’s why ‘Butterfly Kisses’ was a gift from God … for all of us!" The orchestra played our chorus.

Garth Brooks led a standing ovation. As we all posed for photos, I caught a glimpse of a luminous apparition standing behind me. Another stood behind Bob. Were we dreaming? It was our beloved fathers’ ghosts! They were so proud, they were glowing!

At home, our perfectly behaved children were watching the worldwide telecast in their pajamas. They knew the days of their poverty were over. Butterfly Kisses had done what no other song could do! From now on, fathers would dance with their daughters, all the unwanted kittens would have a home, and everyone in the world would love each other.

Okay.

So that is not how it happened.

Bob, Jacque, Lori, and I had grown up in southern California. Our smog-filled valley was known as the Inland Empire. It was surrounded by mountains. At least, that’s what we were told. When the smog subsided, you could see their majestic outline in the distance. It appeared as if a giant had torn faded crepe paper off the bottom of the horizon in inverted V shapes.

If you drove up into those misty mountains, you would find beautiful Arrowhead Springs. Or you could head east to visit Palm Springs. Out west were Hollywood, Disneyland, and the beaches of Santa Monica. We grew up with Sting Ray bicycles, skateboards, surf music, and transistor radios. It was pretty great.

Bob and Jacque settled into a house that straddled the line between bustling San Bernardino and sleepy Rialto, my hometown. Lori and I had purchased a house in the former orange groves of Redlands, to the southeast. By 1986, we were recording ALLIES records at my home, and we had a number-one country song with Dolly Parton. Our Long Way from Paradise record did so well, we felt like our band had hit its stride.

In 1990, we made a bold move: We relocated to historic Franklin, Tennessee. Now we lived in a rural setting where the name Bob was pronounced Bawb. The name Randy benefitted from an additional syllable (Rayandee), Lori’s name was unpronounceable (Lah-ruh), and Jacque’s name inexplicably remained intact. The studio was now the rustic Radio Ranch, and the Carlisle and Thomas songwriting desk was a booth at Dotson’s restaurant.

There had been twelve years of song-crafting partnership leading up to Butterfly Kisses. Our motto had been, We want to write someone’s favorite song. We wrote it in 1996. It hit in 1997. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the backstory that brought us to 1998, to New York City, to the Grammys.

New York City. The ambiance swallows you up while it stands aloof, like a steel forest. You feel like an ant in the bottom of a canyon. There’s a perpetual sound of a siren in the distance, echoing through man-made monoliths. The smell of pretzels is carried along with diesel fumes. Your breath becomes a little cloud. New York snowflakes tumble from the grey heavens, traversing buildings that scrape the sky, flitting happily toward earth to be crushed under a dirty Yellow Cab tire.

This was it. The Grammys are THE stellar annual event when the entire music industry gathers to pay homage to itself. The February breeze was brisk and insistent. Our hotel was a mere four blocks away from Radio City Music Hall. Four blocks.

So we took a limo.

A limo? In Grammy traffic? Four blocks took forty-five minutes! There were four of us in tuxes and gowns, smelling fragrant: Wisecracking Bob, no-nonsense Jacque, the angelic Lori, and my feckless self.

We arrived late. What a zoo! Once all the designer perfumes converge, the awards crowd smells like a fruit salad. Still, it felt like being on top of the world. Here we saw people who were so much shorter and older than they looked on television. Talk about nervous and excited. Butterfly Kisses had been nominated by industry insiders! We had always felt lesser than other artists when it came to Christian awards shows. Now we were in the big league.

Rock stars, preening producers, cutthroat managers, famed engineers, savvy songwriters, and record company weasels circled like sharks. It was party week. They had learned the art of shaking an acquaintance’s hand and pretending to listen while scoping the crowd for someone more famous to schmooze.

Producer-of-the-year Don Was was standing nearby me looking dreadlock casual and funky. I said hi. He grinned. Hi, man. Good to see you! I think he was assuming he should have known my name. I let the tension ride. Bill Cosby walked by, looking supremely unhappy. Bill had a full entourage, so he was getting used to being escorted by guards.

Gwen Stephani looked bored. (Don’t you hate these things?) My wife Lori sweetly asked her to sign an autograph for our daughter Crystal. Gwen rolled her eyes and huffed like a twelve-year-old. She reluctantly scrawled something on a Grammy program. (Later, having heard the story, Crystal threw it away.)

Most of the ladies had spent next year’s residuals on their gowns. There were plenty of gold, diamonds, and pearls on parade. Some young girls ran up and asked Lori, Are you Sharon Stone?

I looked at Lori and thought, "Sharon Stone wishes."

We chatted with an unusually normal-looking lady named Shelly. Maybe she sensed that we might be regular folks with a mortgage, three kids, two cats, and a dog named Elvis. Shelly asked, Are you nominees?

Lori said, Well, my husband and his songwriting partner were nominated.

Oh! What’s your song?

Butterfly Kisses.

Wonderful. I love that.

And what’s yours?

Silence. Shelly blushed. Um … the uh, the Meredith Brooks song… We waited. She leaned forward and whispered, "B*tch…"

Oh.

I think she laughed as hard as we did!

Did you know they have seat fillers at the Grammys? Yep. Our seats were occupied by hired seat warmers who had held our places to keep the appearance that there are no empty seats at the gala! Just as we got settled in (and the seat fillers were settled out), someone announced our category. What? We just got here!

And the Grammy for country music Song of the Year goes to ... (envelope shuffling) ... BUTTERFLY KISSES!

Our wives screamed. Bob and I locked eyeballs. We looked like a calculator right after you press CLEAR. We had come here to watch someone else win! The two of us must have walked to the podium, because I remember being there. What are we going to say? Fortunately, we had both been on stages for decades; we said something, although I can’t remember what!

Then we were quickly escorted by people with clipboards to a back room full of press people. Again, we must have said something, because after we said it, we were whisked away by clipboard people again. They pushed us into a room with photographers. They grabbed our hands and placed gramophones into them. A thousand photographers took photos.

And then, I guess they were done with us. NEXT! A clipboard man came up and tugged at the award in my hand. Strengthening my grip on the trophy, I offered him the continued use of his