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Introduction by Jim Liddane
John D. Loudermilk is an American songwriter, lyricist, and singer whose work has left a significant imprint on country, pop, and rock music. Im a career spanning several decades, he is known for his distinctive songwriting style that combines clever wordplay, humour, and social commentary. His songs have been recorded by some of the biggest names in the music industry, justifiably earning him a reputation as one of the most prolific and influential songwriters of his time.
John's musical roots were deeply influenced by his family and surroundings. He was raised in a musical household where gospel and folk music were a central part of life. His father was a carpenter, and his mother played the piano and sang hymns, which shaped his early musical education. As a child, Loudermilk learned to play the guitar, and by the time he was a teenager, he was already writing his own songs.
He began his professional career in the early 1950s, initially recording under the name Johnny Dee and performing rockabilly music. His early recordings, though modestly successful, did not make a lasting impact on the charts. However, it was Loudermilk’s songwriting that soon became his true calling. His breakthrough as a songwriter came in 1956 when George Hamilton IV recorded his song "A Rose and a Baby Ruth," which became a hit on both the country and pop charts, while up-and-coming rocker Eddie Cochran covered John's own recording of "Sitting In The Balcony" turning it into an international hit. The success of these songs established Loudermilk as a talented songwriter, and he quickly became a sought-after figure in the Nashville music scene.
Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, Loudermilk wrote a string of hits for various artists across different genres. One of his most famous songs, "Tobacco Road," written in 1960, was originally recorded by Loudermilk himself but became a major hit when recorded by Britain's Nashville Teens in 1964. The song’s gritty portrayal of poverty and hardship resonated with audiences, and it has since been covered by numerous artists, including Jefferson Airplane, Edgar Winter, and David Lee Roth. "Tobacco Road" remains one of Loudermilk’s signature songs and a defining piece of American music from that era.
Loudermilk’s songwriting itself displays an impressive versatility, as he writes not only country songs but also pop, rock, and folk tunes while his ability to blend catchy melodies with thoughtful lyrics makes his work appealing to a wide audience. Among his notable compositions are "Indian Reservation (The Lament of the Cherokee Reservation Indian)," which became a major hit for Paul Revere & the Raiders in 1971, reaching number one on the Billboard Hot 100. The song’s powerful message about the plight of Native Americans struck a chord with listeners, and it has become one of Loudermilk’s most enduring works.
Another of his well-known songs, "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye," was a major hit for The Casinos in 1967 and later recorded by Eddy Arnold, Johnny Rivers, and others. John's ability to write tender, heartfelt ballads alongside socially conscious and satirical songs showcased his range as a songwriter.
In addition to his songwriting success, Loudermilk continues to release his own recordings, though his solo career has not reached the heights of his work as a songwriter. But his albums, often filled with quirky, witty songs, have earned him a cult following and critical acclaim. Loudermilk’s distinct voice and offbeat sense of humor shine through in his recordings, even if they haven't always achieved mainstream commercial success.
Throughout his career, John has rightly received numerous accolades for his contributions to music. He was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1976, solidifying his status as one of the greatest songwriters of his generation. His songs have been performed by a diverse range of artists, including Chet Atkins, Glen Campbell, Johnny Cash, The Everly Brothers, and Willie Nelson, further underscoring the widespread appeal of his music.
Despite his success, John remains somewhat enigmatic, known (and loved) for his eccentric personality and his tendency to weave elaborate, often humorous stories about the origins of his songs. He once told us for instance, that "Indian Reservation" was inspired by a conversation he had with a Cherokee Indian during a car breakdown, a story that added to the mystique of the song. We still do not know if the story is true or not! But though his storytelling was often embellished, it only enhanced his image as a creative and original artist.
John D. Loudermilk’s impact on American music has been profound, and his songs have continued to influence new generations of musicians. His work as a songwriter, lyricist, and singer remains a testament to his talent and creativity, and his songs continue to be celebrated for their unique blend of wit, emotion, and social insight.
Larry Wayne Clarke interviewed John for the International Songwriters Association's publication "Songwriter Magazine".
Prologue
"I don’t know why you want to interview me, ’cause I’m retired!" proclaims John D. LoudermiIk as I’m setting up to interview him on a sultry July afternoon at his Rutherford County, Tennessee home. Retired he may be but his music surely is not. Loudermilk’s wonderful eclectic catalogue, dating back to the late ’50s, remains one of the most active around. Indeed it’s hard for me to remember when I wasn’t hearing John D. Loudermilk songs, even though I knew nothing about their author.
One of my favorite early radio songs was Stonewall Jackson’s "Waterloo," a hit on pop radio that helped prepare me for the country fan I would later become. I loved its galloping rhythm, its chorus with those baying hound dog notes and its historical vignette verses.
I remember Loudermilk himself having a fair hit with the effervescent "Language Of Love," but had no idea he was the was the writer of the Everly Brothers’ corny-but-haunting "Ebony Eyes," one of the better teen tragedy ballads of the early ’60s. I owned a 45 single of The Casinos’ 1967 hit version of "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye" knowing nothing of the chart-topping Eddy Arnold country version till years later. And, like so many, I loved the thumping, bluesy grit of The Nashville Teens’ "Tobacco Road," one of the great pop hits of the era, also covered by Lou Rawls, Edgar Winter and many others.
Later, when learning guitar, I became aware of "Windy And Warm," a sly, minor key fingerpicker’s showpiece that was been recorded by Chet Atkins and Doc Watson. Johnny Ferguson’s "Angela Jones." Paul Revere & the Raiders’ "The Lament Of The Cherokee Nation (Indian Reservation)." Eddie Cochran’s "Sittin’ In The Balcony." Bobby Vee’s "Stayin’ In." Sue Thompson’s "Norman" and "Sad Movies." Johnny Cash’s "Bad News." Loudermilk’s range is extraordinary, running the gamut from bubble-gummy teen pop, rhapsodic love ballads and social commentary to hard-edged blues, novelty numbers and crafty instrumentals.
Loudermilk resides with his wife Susan on a well-groomed 73-acre rural homestead situated peacefully some 50 miles south of Nashville. Almost more of a compound than a home, the property boasts two well-appointed guest houses which have played host to many celebrity songwriters and performers, even an intimate classical guitar class run by two French guitarists. A 69-year-old diabetic, Loudermilk navigates the expansive layout with the help of a couple of electric golf carts. He seems serenely happy, enjoying the bounties of nature, the company of his wife and friends, and the cooling comfort of a small but inviting swimming pool. He’s a man who - demonstrating that penchant for resourceful hard work and fearless self-promotion often seen in children of the Great Depression - found success young and held onto it for decades. Having achieved his early goals, he now claims to be bored with the music business (his relationship with Nashville has always contained a love-hate element) and has moved on to other interests. But if the industry holds no allure for him anymore, his success story marches onward. Norah Jones
recorded a Loudermilk song (the sensual, gospelly "Turn Me On") for her phenomenally popular 2002 CD, and rising Nashville star Buddy Jewell released a version of the timeless "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye" earlier this year.
I had been warned that a conversation with Loudermilk was a rare adventure. Part aging hippie, part country gentleman, part evangelist, with maybe a dash of mad scientist thrown in, his well-modulated, occasionally profane baritone rings with an enthusiasm a man half his age might envy, cutting a highly-opinionated, free-associative swath through a thicket of topics including Harlan Howard, religion, quantum mechanics, contract murder, assisted suicide, growing old with dignity, psychic Edgar Cayce, philosopher-historian Will Durant, extra-terrestrial encounters . . . and, oh yes, songwriting.
It’s a breathless journey guided by delightful iconoclast who has never been afraid to appear eccentric.
It occurred to me as I was preparing to do this that I’ve been surrounded by your songs most of my life. I can remember being a kid of nine or 10 in Montreal and hearing "Waterloo" on the radio, and loving it. I had no concept of "country" or "Nashville." It was just a cool song on pop radio.
Stonewall’s version, was it?
Yeah, Stonewall Jackson. And I still have it committed to memory today.
No kidding.
And then there were all the Sue Thompson hits; they were all on pop radio in Canada. "Norman," "James"… "Sad Movies." And Ernest Ashworth’s "Talk Back Trembling Lips," I remember that. All these country songs were on pop radio at that time.
Yeah, it was all starting to acculturate. We had been segregated for so long. In England, you know, it’s very non-segregated. In Canada it’s about like that too - you just get a hit record and they play it no matter where it’s from.
Well, in Canada now they have all-Country stations.
It’s going backwards then. ’Cause it was wonderful. We lived in England for a while and we have some dear friends. Phil Lewis who used to be the CEO of BBC2. They used to do specials on us every time we’d go to England. Every couple of years we’d go to England on tour. Your music was on BBC Radio if it was good. If it wasn’t, it wasn’t on regardless of what it did in the charts. Mind you, you don’t make a ton of money on airplay but, yeah, there is something healthy about that kind of radio format.
We had a lot of songs hit over there, songs where I was the artist. See, the first writers only in Nashville were Boudleaux and Felice [Bryant]. They were the first writers only. I came in
with two hits, "A Rose And A Baby Ruth" and "Sittin’ In The Balcony," that I had written. I had recorded "Sittin’ In The Balcony" and Eddie Cochran covered me on it. He covered me, I mean, totally to the note, down to the [sings]: da-da-da-da-da-dum [smooching sound]. In other words, he had it completely covered. But back then you didn’t have any copyright protection on arrangements. Now you can’t do that. But I came in with those two hits when I came to Nashville. I already had my foot in the door. So I got a recording contract through Chet and did four albums on RCA Victor. And I had two hits out of that.
"The Language Of Love" I remember from Canadian radio.
And "Blue Train" was another one. It hit in England and hit in South Africa. I went over there on a tour. But as soon as I got to Nashville and saw what artists had to go through I was reluctant to try to strive for that any more. When I saw how easy it was to write. That’s the easiest deal. May not be the easiest but it’s the simplest and you have more time for home, you know, with the family.
And you can be whatever you are - old, young, fat, skinny.
Exactly. And you can’t do that as an artist. Being an] artist is too much work. I mean, I’ll be frank with you, I was too damn lazy to be an artist. Artists have a rough life. When I was a kid coming up and the bluegrass guys would come through, I’d look at them - when they came through town with these big cars and I was growing up in the projects: that was a way out. Just like a sports kid now. That was a way out. So as soon as I started making some fuss as a writer and a singer, I got out here and I saw these guys crawling off of these buses, living on the back of these buses. And then I saw Boudleaux and Felice and how well they were living, and how happy they were, and what good kids they had. And so that changed my mind. I decided to just be a writer and to live on the royalties, whatever they were.
Stylistically, your work is all over the map.
My musical styles . . . I don’t know how in the world I wrote "Waterloo" and stuff like that. It just happened to be where I was at the time. Because now all I listen to is classical music, new age music, and rock ’n’ roll in foreign languages that I can’t understand. ’Cause I love the music but I don’t agree with the lyrics. The lyrics are out of my age group, out of my age of understanding. So I don’t agree with them and it pisses me off to listen to it. But I love it when
I can’t understand the lyrics.
Don’t you find that the lyrics keep revisiting the same old subjects generation after generation?
Yeah, but they do but they’re said in a different way. I wrote a thousand love songs before I ever knew what the hell I was saying. Before I met my second wife. And I have written very little after that. I was using that.
You just paid your wife a great compliment!
Well, I did and I’ll tell you why: I was using [marriage] to get out of town the first time. I was using it to psychologically escape from my situation. This second marriage I’m so happy with that I cannot write any kind of a . . . I can’t make up a scenario ’cause I’m afraid that it might spoil something. I’m reluctant to fool with that. It’s amazing.
I’ve told several people that and they all say the same thing as you did.
I could write when I was unhappy but I couldn’t write when I was happy. Harlan [Howard] could write when he was unhappy, not when he was happy.
He had so many great sayings about every divorce being worth so many songs.
Well, I know, but I’ve seen guys live that life and that sucks, man, I’m telling you. I don’t want any part of that. That’s insanity. He had to be insane to live the life he lived. He was out here all the time; he was one of my best friends. Old sonofabitch. He was a fine old man. We used to go to Florida in the winter together. But he got to talking about the music business; he smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey. I do neither one of those and I do not like to talk about the
music business. I don’t know anybody in it. I’m retired. All I know is what I’m reading and what I listen to on the radio. And when I go to Florida I do not go down there to see a guy kill himself with tobacco and alcohol and talk about something that I’m not interested in. So that’s where we had our little split. But he was so old there at the last he couldn’t go to Florida.
He was older than his years, it seems to me.
Oh yeah. He had been old for a long time. Matter of fact, the first time I ever saw him he was old. He just looked old, you know. His mother looked the same way and his brothers looked the same. They got that aged-type look, you know. But he was a fine man and one of the best writers I’ve ever listened to. He was tops at everything he did. Sweetest guy you ever saw. But he married Melanie, and when he married Melanie he married into another age group. She’s 30 years behind me. How in the hell can I sit around and have a talk with her? With him? With my wife who’s 20 years behind me. Age groups do matter.
Tell me a little bit about how it all began for you. I’ve done a bit of research and I have this image of you as a kid playing in a Salvation Army band. What was that all about?
Well, my folks came out of the Depression. My dad was a carpenter and my mom was a seamstress. I was born in ’34 and I was on the streets in the ’40s, around the Second World War. Back then the streets didn’t mean what they mean now. You could ride your bicycle out.
So Mother had been a missionary to the Cherokee Indians up in Murphy, North Carolina. She was from Murphy. Daddy was from Murphy. And they got married and moved to Durham because Duke University was being built and the cigarette factories were being built, and he followed the building trade. And there they lived without kin people around; we were the only ones. And I was the only child. They had two daughters a long time before; they were grown and gone by that time. Dad was 50 when I was born and Mother was 40. So I was kinda like an only child. I don’t know how my mother and daddy got in with the Salvation Army, unless they had to go there for help for something, but it was the most wonderful place to grow up. The place where they had used clothes, they’d dry clean and wash all the clothes first when they came in, and then put ’em in these bins. And us kids would play in the bins. And they had toys that the department stores couldn’t sell and they’d bring ’em in, and we would get first turndown for them.
We worked with the Salvation Army as Salvationists, they called ’em. I played trumpet - cornet, rather - trombone, bass drum, and Mother played guitar. She taught me to play ukulele during the War and we used to sing at church
together. "Life’s Railway To Heaven" was the first thing we ever sang together. And Daddy was always quiet and I don’t know why; I think he was depressed. He had failed miserably. They had lost their house during the Depression and he just was kinda beaten and kinda quiet. He never drank anything. He smoked cigarettes, and it killed him. I never heard him say a cuss word, tell a dirty joke, talk badly about anybody or anything, my whole life. He was a wonderful, wonderful man.
But a lot of internalized frustration.
Kinda quiet. Mother was outgoing, and she delivered the "War Crys" with her bonnet on and her blue uniform around the bars, and I would go around with her. And when Mother would go in the man would unplug the jukebox on Saturday mornings. And she’d pass the tambourine around and give ’em a "War Cry", one of their papers. And then when we left they’d plug the jukebox back in. I had a marvelous childhood. So, therefore, I started listening what they were listening to, which was Grand Ole Opry on Saturday night.
So they weren’t strictly listening to religious music?
Oh no, no. They weren’t into gospel music or anything like that. They were just into whatever the Salvation Army sang on Sunday. And I’d listen to the soap operas in the afternoons when I’d come in from school. I was close with my mother. It was just a wonderful childhood. And then I picked up the fiddle . . . no, I started playing bass. And bass was so damn heavy to carry around, man, so I said, "Well, I’ll just learn to play the fiddle." So I picked up the fiddle and started playing it. Had me a radio show when I was about 11 years old - Little Johnny Dee, every Saturday morning for an hour. So then, when I got to be around 13, 14, I was playing the fiddle and the bass and I formed my own little band, and we would go out and do gigs of any kind. They’d say, "Can you play jazz?" "Hell, yes." I didn’t even know what jazz was! We’d just go out there and play something a little bit off tune, you know - kinda kooky, kinda nutty - and they seemed to accept it. So in playing around for the local Lions Club and, you know, local groups that would hire musicians, I would run into this guy that did that and that guy that did this, and that’s where I started social climbing. Didn’t know what it was at the time, but it’s what kids that live in the ghetto do to get out. Whatever it’s called I don’t give a damn. It’s called networking now, I think.
So one of those guys was a contractor and one day he called me. He said, "Johnny" - I was painting signs at the time; I’ve done a lot of folk art - so he said, "Johnny, are you an artist?" I said, "Hell, yes!" If they’da asked me if I was a doctor I’d say, "Hell, yes." Because you could fool ’em, you know. So I said yes and he said, "Well, bring me some of your art and come out to the television station - the old TB sanatorium, we’re making it into the first television station
in North Carolina, and they need an art director." Well, my God! I was just in high school. Mr. Tidd was my boss and he was a fine sign painter, and he did art too. Did oil paintings. I asked him if I could see some of his stuff. He said, "Yeah." I said, "Can I borrow it?" And so I borrowed the ones that he didn’t sign. So I took those out and I laid them in front of the guys [at the TV station] and they said, "You’re hired, man!" So I said, "Well it’ll be a month now before I can start." They said, "That’s okay." I said, "I’ll have to work on my own time." I got fifty dollars a week and I worked on my own time, any time during the night or day. Had an art department. So I called a comic book company. They’d just come out with Mad comics. I called the comic book company and said, "I want to speak to one of your cartoonists," and he gave me Jack Davis’s number. I called him in California and he said, "Look, right now, start collecting comic books and get what you call a morgue. Under H have Hands - hands pointing, hands holding a card, hands balled up, hands doing everything - and fill you up a filing cabinet (which is
called a morgue) of stuff, and then make you a projector. He told me how to make a projector. So I did that and they would ask me for stuff, man, and I’d go through my morgue and I’d pull it up and project it up to the right size and trace it. And hell, I did good.
And they had a show every day called The Noon Show, and it was me and a guitarist and a drummer. I played the string bass. They did jazz and standards and stuff like that. So every once in a while I’d take the guitar and play a song. So I’d just written this "Rose And A Baby Ruth" thing and everybody I played it for, it just knocked ’em out. So I played "A Rose And A Baby Ruth" [on the air] and the telephones just lit up, man, and one of the calls was from a newspaperman in Chapel Hill. He said, "I’ve just found Andy Griffith and I’ve recorded him and would like to record this song." So I said fine; I went and put it on tape for him. Then I had to go off for two weeks to National Guard down in Fayetteville, to summer camp. When I came back he said, "Johnny, I hope you don’t mind but we’ve recorded this with a guy in the freshman class here named George Hamilton IV." So I [thought]: "Well, that’s my song, I should be the star," but I was wise enough to swallow it and said,
"That’s all right, that’s fine. If it’ll make money that’s fine. All I need’s ten thousand dollars to buy my mother and daddy a house; that’s all I need." Well, back then that’s all you made on a hit song, and then you made ten thousand on the performance. Ten thousand on the writing and ten thousand on the performance. Soon as I got my money I bought my mother and daddy a little nine thousand dollar house: two bedrooms, concrete block on the inside, brick on the outside, on an acre of land.
So this was like your first published song?
First song I’d ever written!
And it went number one and made you quite a lot of money for those days.
Yeah, exactly. And so that started it. And then "Sittin’ In The Balcony," I recorded that for Columbia Records, same record company that George was on. Which was Orville Campbell’s record company. And then the boy [Eddie Cochran] covered me and suddenly I had two songs in the Top Ten.
And so I came out to Nashville two or three times before I moved out here. And during that time I got married.
So how old a man were you at this time?
‘Bout 21, 22.
Amazing. That’s pretty precocious. You were pretty fearless, it sounds like.
Yeah, I’d try anything. I’d try anything. And I saw that when you got out here in the music business the more you tried . . . back then we were crawling out from this absurd "straw bale" shit into early rock ’n’ roll. And so, they were accepting things from the South more, the world was. So I was right on the cutting edge of that and I had all kinds of new things. My dubs - my demos - were just marvelous.
This would be, what, about fifty-eight or -nine?
Yeah, about fifty-eight or -nine. ’56 was "A Rose And A Baby Ruth."
And you signed with Cedarwood Publishing?
Yeah. Well, first of all I went to college. And I got into a lot of stuff there. And I’ll tell you this ’cause it’s important to my career and I’d like for it to be known somewhere. In working my way through high school I went to school half a day and worked half a day. I was in a thing called Diversified Occupations, or the DO class, and that’s where all the poor kids worked half a day and went to school half a day. So you got a chance to make up your curriculum. Now a lot of universities are doing that; they’re letting kids make up their curriculum. If they’re wanting to study strange things and they don’t have anybody in the departments for it, they let the kid make it up. And you really do learn a lot when you do that. Of course, I was a window-dresser then - I had window-dressed, I had painted signs, I had done all of these folk art things. [But] I had not studied any foreign language. And so when I finally got my money and bought the house for
Mother and Daddy, I said, "Well, I want to go to college." People said, "What in the hell for, man? You got the piss, you got the balls. Why do you need to go to college?" And I said, "I need to find out what the kids are thinking; hang around some kids." I’d always hung around older people. So I hung around them for a couple of years.
And during that time, the first day I went into my Spanish class [I saw ] a little woman - short, chunky-looking woman with various colored hair - and all we did that day was sign a piece of paper that was passed around. She said, "Would Mr. Loudermilk stop by my desk on the way out?" And she said, "How badly do you need this course?" and I said, "Pretty bad." (Or I wouldn’t have been taking it.) And she said, "Well, if you
do what I tell you to do I’ll give you the questions to the tests beforehand." I said, "All right! Hell yes, I’ll do that." And so she told me the second day, she said, "I can tell from your handwriting that you’re gifted psychically." I didn’t know what that meant. Mother’d prayed for me a lot, that’s all I knew. And I got saved when I was ten years old, and I knew that there was a damnsure difference there. There sure was a difference after that emotional purging that I did in front of the whole congregation.
At that age? What would you have to purge?
Oh well, you played with yourself, you stole stuff from the dime store. You were a damn sinner, man. I mean, you
know how those fundamentalist churches are; you come in with original sin, with all that guilt crap put on you. Well, I
didn’t believe all that shit from the very beginning. But anyhow, she said, "I want you to come to my room tonight; I’m
the dorm mother at the women’s dorm." So I went to her room. And she sat in the chair over there and I sat in a chair,
with our hands on our knees, and she said, "I want you to" - I had the record "Sittin’ In The Balcony" then, it’d just
come out - and she said, "Now I want you to close your eyes and envision a disc jockey putting a needle on this record
and say, ‘Here is the Number One song of the day.’ Now forget it," she says. "Now go on to this other view of a kid
handing a dollar bill across the counter at the cash register and buying the record. And they hand the record to the kid
[who] gives ’em the dollar. Now go on to the next one . . ." And we stacked up some things to meditate on.
I didn’t know it but she was a spiritualist at a Baptist College, doing "undercover"-type stuff, see. Here I was at
Campbell College, a Baptist College, and she was a spiritualist! And she got me into Edgar Cayce - do you know who
that is? - she got me into Edgar Cayce, There Is A River, and I read that. And then she started handing me other stuff to
read, and I read it. And she opened my eyes to the real spiritualness of our lifetimes. It’s not in the churches. Those poor
guys, man, are so behind the scenes. It’s out in the people’s hearts. It’s moved into the real church [chuckles].
Marvelous woman. She was a big guide in my life.
And a man named Ernest Moon was a big guide. He was a white,
50ish house painter and I was 16 delivering telegrams in the mill section of Durham. The cotton mill section. I rode
down this dark street one night and I heard this classical guitar [playing], and I’d never heard anything as pretty as that.
And I stopped. It was just like a hook in your mouth. I couldn’t do anything but go to that guitar. Man, this guy was
sitting out there with his white coveralls on and no shirt, and he had paint under his fingernails, just taken a shower, and
he was playing classical music. And that so affected me. So he taught me for a while. And I was so on fire for
commercial music that I didn’t have the patience to sit and rot while [I] learned to read, so I had to get out and play. And
so, when I came to Nashville he sent a piece of music, Alhambra, the tremolo study that’s so famous. He sent a copy of
that to Chet. And it gave me an entrée in with Chet, and Chet became my best friend.
That’s the way I got started.
Do you always play classical? Nylon strings?
Oh yeah. I cannot play steel strings. I cut my finger right there - you can see the little scar - when I was a kid doing
models. You know, airplane models? And the steel string gets right on it. But that’s fate, man. You don’t know why
these things happen.
But I’ve studied. I’ve been a big student of psychic things. I have two good libraries of the subject. And I’m reading a
great book now called The Field - it’s a British book - that a friend of mine who just came over and spent some time with
us bought before they came over. [The Field: The Quest For The Secret Force Of The Universe by Lynne McTaggart]
Wonderful book. It’s quantum mechanics. That’s what’s happening. Quantum mechanics and parapsychology and
psychic stuff, spook stuff, it’s all blended together now. Now we know where it comes from.
I’ve often wondered, and have always studied about, songs and where they come from. And they come out of this
thing called zero point energy. I mean, they used to think that anything that was colder than minus zero Celsius - nothing
existed. If you had a shoebox and it was that cold, nothing would be in there. Now, with quantum mechanics, as they get
down into smaller things they’re finding that there’s sub-atomic particles that come into creation and go out of creation
in that [environment]. And they’re saying now that a shoebox full of that energy is enough to evaporate the world’s
oceans. Now that’s a hell of a thing to think about ’Cause there’s another shoebox over here and another shoebox there
and another shoebox there. They’re being really careful with it now. A guy named Puthoff in Austin, Texas is the big
guy who’s doing research on it. All the new physics is centered around quantum mechanics. And it’s wonderful to think
about.
Did you ever get a degree?
No [almost scornfully]. Hell no. I didn’t have time [for] that shit. Unless you want to be a doctor or a physicist or a
teacher or something, you can educate yourself better than somebody else can educate you that would be doing that if
they could. They say those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. Ever heard that?
Oh yeah. And you already had a career.
Sure. Already had a career. So what I needed was to do was to know the pop mind. So I studied the pop mind and
that’s what I study now. I love to read about things like that.
What do you do to expose yourself to the vernacular? Do you watch television?
Oh, yeah, well, you’ve gotta watch television. But I’m pretty up on the vernacular. Not up on the kids’ vernacular.
[With] lyrics, you have classical vernacular and you have the "great unwashed" vernacular, and I like that term because
I’m one of ’em! That’s why I always try to write my songs in the classical vernacular. I had some [trendy] stuff that I
would try and put in every once in a while but, if it lasts, fine. If it doesn’t then you’ve lost that tune. Norah Jones has a
song of mine on her new album that she won all the Grammys with, sold 20 million albums so far [Note: Billboard
reports 7 million copies sold at time of writing]. And it was written in the vernacular of the day. It’s called "Turn Me
On." My publisher thought it was about drugs. He said, "Hell, I’m not gonna have any damn drug stuff!" Wesley Rose.
So Nina Simone cut it. And this girl [Jones] was listening to Nina Simone when she was young, and I got through to her.
The song got through to her and she put it on her album. And she sings it, and feels it, and people write me letters all the
time about how it’s a great love song, and it’s the best lyric they’ve ever heard, and all that kinda stuff. I didn’t know
what the hell I was talking about! I’d never met Susan.
My first wife, I had to get married so I just did my duty - my dyooty, as the British call it. But this one . . .
How long have you been married to your second wife?
Thirty-three years.
I guess it took.
It did. It took, buddy! [chuckling]
But if you’re a believer in a sort of ocean of spirituality that we all share, it seems perfectly feasible that you’d
write a love song at any point in your life even if you weren’t experiencing it.
Exactly. Because what you are is a channel, same as a guy painting graphic art or doing etchings, or something. If he
touches a nerve, he’s talking the language. And that’s what you have to do is talk the language.
That’s why I live in the country. I lived in Nashville for 14 years before we moved away. We moved away in 1970 to
raise our children in Louisiana. I didn’t want them to grow up among privilege ’cause kids’ll take advantage of that. We
knew the governor, we knew the mayor, and we were going to parties and stuff like that all the time. And my kids, they
would have just used that.
Well, we got away. I needed to get away, anyhow. So we got away and lived among the plain people. And I love the
plain people. I’m a Republican but I love the plain people. I’m a Socialist but I’m a Republican. You know what I
mean? You can be everything.
If you’re an intelligent person who answers to your own heart, you can pick something from every shelf.
You’ve gotta be a Socialist in order to take care of people who can’t make it. There’s a great saying . . . Will Durant,
did you ever know him? He was a Canadian, did you know that? He was a philosopher. He and Ariel, his wife, were philosophers and
historians.
I didn’t know he was a Canadian. [Note: Durant’s mother was French- Canadian. He however was born in
Massachusetts.]
Yeah. I studied him in college. And one day - I was going to a psychiatrist to get over my first marriage - and my
second wife, we were going together then, she said, "Let me go with you to today’s session." I’d been going to him for
months. And so she went in there and she said [to the doctor], "Give the man something! Heck, all he’s doing is coming
in and talking to you. You don’t give him any answers. Give him something to read." And he gave me a little, thin book
called "The Lessons of History" by Will and Ariel Durant. His publisher - their publisher - had gone to him after he wrote
10 volumes of the history of the world, taught in all colleges [Note: "The Story of Civilization", actually 11 volumes], and
the publisher said, "Now write me a thin book called "The Lessons of History"; what you learned from studying history."
And so, my wife [to be] and I, we got down and we read that book, a paragraph at a time. If we didn’t know what The
Battle of the Roses was, we looked [it] up. And we just let that be our reading guide. And we finally finished that book
and I sent him an album. And he started writing letters to me, and we wrote back and forth. I’d send him tapes - I can’t
write letters too well - and he’d send me back letters, until he died. She died a month after he died. They were tight. And
Susan and I are tight. And I wanted to know somebody older than me who was tight [with a mate], and how it worked.
He was marvelous.
And he sent me one thing one time. It was a letter, but all it said was, "In every culture, in every religion, in every
social order, in every country of the world there is one thing that is true and one thing that’s quoted endlessly. And it is:
The weak always want to be equal, and the strong always want to be free." He said, "Now you can say the poor always
want to be equal and the rich always want to be free. It is the balance of those two that is successful governing." And he
said, "When everybody’s equal, nobody’s free. When everybody’s free, nobody’s equal." ’Cause you’re free to eat the
unequal, see? He said, "When you’re balanced, that’s proper and successful government." And I’ve always thought
about that and I’ve ended a lot of political discussions with that. Boy, I’m telling you! [laughs]
So are you still writing songs? You say you’re retired; is that from writing or from the business?
I’m writing songs. You never quit writing songs but my run is over. In other words, writers either have a hilltop or
they have a plateau, or they have a bunch of hilltops or a bunch of plateaus, if they’re lucky. I had a plateau that lasted
15 years, 20 years, and I was very fortunate. But whenever I started going off of that plateau I was wise enough to not sit
by the phone, but get the hell out of town! And that’s what you have to do. Don’t keep trying - that’s what Harlan did.
He tried to keep turning around and running back uphill. And it doesn’t look good, and it’s not healthy for you. And his
health did suffer because of it. He worked himself to death, there’s no question about that.
But songwriting was all he wanted to do. Sounds like you have a much broader outlook on life.
I tried to get him into things but that’s all he wanted to do, songwriting. And hang around with songwriters. I don’t
wanna hang around with the bastards! Susie and I started the Songwriters Guild in Nashville. Did you know that? We started the Songwriters Guild. We put a [phone] line into our condo when we were living at The
Versailles, and she was the first executive director and I was the first vice president for Nashville. And now there’s 1800
writers in Nashville.
Do you still have ties with it?
Oh yeah, I’m the - what is it? - president emeritus or whatever they call it, the old man that started it, and they’re
always asking me to do things. But songwriters . . . there’s two types of people in the world: those who create and those
who make money off of those who create. And songwriters are the ones who create, and publishers are the ones who
make money off of them. So that situation has to be balanced just like I was telling you with what we was talking about
before, the Will Durant saying. In many cases it’s not balanced.
But we got to be the Dutch uncle and the Dutch aunt, you know, for the songwriters. And they’d get pregnant - "What
shall I do about it?" - or they were broke - "What shall I do?" And it just got to be too much on us and then we moved
out here, 15 years ago, built this place. And have just lived in Heaven ever since.
It’s lovely.
It’s just a dream. It’s just exactly what we want to do. But see, when you start learning about this zero point energy and
about all the stuff you can’t see - which includes all the religions; I’ve studied comparative religion, it’s a wonderful
hobby - you start seeing why your mother prays for you, and what that does when prayers go out. They’re real
dangerous things. They’re like a wild- ass bullet, man. You shoot a bullet up in the sky, it’s gotta fall somewhere , and
that’s the way prayers are. And I’m not a fundamentalist. I can’t stand these bastards on television. I went to all the Billy
Graham things when I was a little bitty fella, with my mother. He was a good guy, but the ones that have come along
now are questionable, you know? Not all of them are bad, but they’re just questionable.
So I have read enough to know that the temple of the heart is where I reside. That’s where I go to church. And it’s all
inside, and it’s nobody’s business but mine. I have a stone circle out here; I have two stone circles. One is a medicine
wheel - a Red Indian medicine wheel - and the other one is a stone circle like the thousands that you see in the British
Isles. And I’ve overlapped ’em; I’ve put ’em one within the other.
The Indians, they just gave me their first medal of honor three years ago - the Cherokees out in Tahlequah
[Oklahoma]. There’s two nations, the Western nation and the Eastern nation. And I went out; I said, "What for?" They
said, "For writing ‘Indian Reservation.’" And they sang it as a choir. They sing it for formal occasions.
So then I got to saying, "Why didn’t Daddy and Mother tell me . . ." - my wife got into genealogy on the computer -
and I said, "I wonder why they didn’t tell who my grandparents were, and my great- grandparents on each side?" I never
knew. She found out they were full Cherokee Indians. Back then if you had Indians in your family it was something to
be ashamed of. So that’s led me into a lot of reading on the Cherokee Indian history. Now we’re finding out about the giants of North
America, way before Columbus. Races of giants, where the women were seven and eight feet tall as well. It’s interesting.
All that old shit’s interesting. And why should I read the newspaper about what’s happening in Nashville, Tennessee
when I can read that stuff, you know?
[laughing] Well, I have to say, talking to you is definitely not like reading Brad Schmitt’s column!
I don’t even know who Brad Schmitt is! I guess he covers music?
He has a thing in The Tennessean every day called "Brad About You." It’s a gossip column. What soap opera
stars are in town eating at the Sunset Grill, and whatnot.
Local happenings. Well, you gotta have those.
Talk a little about your golden period of writing, when you first arrived and signed with publishers and stayed
pretty busy for a number of years.
Yeah. When I came to town I came on the advice of the vice president of Philip Morris, who called me - I don’t know
where he got my name from, how he heard me - but he called me while I was in college and he said, "When you go to
Nashville look up a guy named Jim Denny." I came to Nashville on one of my trips and I looked up Jim Denny. He was
running the Grand Ole Opry, managing it, and had a publishing company on the side, which was Cedarwood Publishing.
So I told him, I said, "I have two hits in the pipeline; I need $2,000 to buy a house for my family"- for my wife at the
time; I was just married then. And he said, "Okay, you’ll have to sign an exclusive songwriter’s contract. I’ll have to
take an insurance policy on your life, and" - what was the third thing? - "and a second mortgage." On a $14,000 house.
And so I said, "Okay. Whenever I get my money I’ll pay you off and then the contract will be null and void." He
agreed to that.
Well, when that happened he would not agree to it. I was just at a party the other night with Earl Scruggs
and he said, yeah, Jim Denny used to do him the same way. He said Denny had booked him and he was gonna make
$300. Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs. So they went to pick up their check and the girl gave them a check for $475. And
Jim caught ’em on the way out and said, "Oh no, no, that’s the wrong check." In other words, that was Jim’s part. Jim
had made $475 and they had made $300, and it was supposed to be ten percent or something!
So Jim Denny, he had been raised by the prostitutes there in back of the Capitol Building, and he’d come up really,
really hard. He was a wild man. He was a real crooked guy. But I had my first little [run] in Nashville with him, had
"Waterloo" and "Tobacco Road" with him.
After I got through with him I went over to Wesley Rose. He had the Everly Brothers at the time and Don Gibson and
Roy Orbison; he was the hot publisher. So I went over there, we made friends, and I signed in 1960. Then I got all my
songs back from Cedarwood because they weren’t cut, and I gave ’em to Wesley. I had to take him to court, Jim Denny.
He held a shotgun under my throat one time and the shell was sticking out of the barrel - sawed- off shotgun. He was
drunk. One rainy night down on the Alley down here, Printers Alley. He says, "You know, I could kill you, don’t you?"
I said, "Yes sir, I know you could." And I broke and ran from him and got away.
Good lord!
And another thing Jim did . . . In the music business in Nashville you can be suing each other and still serve on a board
together. And so he and I were serving on the same board; we were on the first board of the Country Music Association
when it started. And the deejay convention was on that week, and so I went up to the RCA Victor suite on the seventh
floor of the James Robertson Hotel, which is now gone, about two o’clock in the morning. And this little fella got on
with me, and I talked to him. And between the lobby and the seventh floor, we were the only ones on the elevator, he
said, "You’re in a little confrontation with a fella named Jim Denny. For $300 and first class round trip fare from
Chicago, I’ll be glad to take care of it for you." And I was so dumb, I said, " Well, how you gonna take care of it?"
[chuckles] And he said, "Well, we have ways of doing that." And then it struck me what he was talking about. And I
said, "You mean to tell me you would do that shit?" He said, "If you want me to, I will, Yeah." I said, "No, no. No, I
would never think of doing that."
So I got off, and this little fella got off and he disappeared in the suite somewhere. And I saw Jim Denny and we spoke.
And so he got on the elevator later on and left, and this guy got on with him. And on the way down he said, "I
understand you’re in a confrontation with a songwriter named Loudermilk. For $300 and round trip . . ." - Jim said it
always knocked him out that it was first class accommodations! - "I’ll be glad to take care of it." He says, "No, no."
So the next day we met at the board meeting and he said, "You know, Loudermilk, I coulda had your ass killed last
night." I said, "I know, man, I met him on the way up!" [laughs uproariously]
That’s almost a movie!
Yeah. But that happened. So I went on over to Acuff Rose and there I had the most wonderful success. Don Gant - I
don’t know if you ever knew Don Gant? - and Norro [Wilson], they learned their [producers’] craft off of my dub
sessions. I had, I think it was 200 and some- odd demo sessions, and they’d get six songs a session. Six to seven songs
a session. They were basically just three pieces with two voices. And we tried all kinda little gimmicky stuff. A lot of
stuff was happening then in the pop field and we tried little gimmicky stuff and we had all kinda good records, man. We
had a buncha hits. And Norro, he would try anything. And he told me the other day, he said, "You know John, I sure did
enjoy those times. We were free." He says, "Now I can’t do a damn thing unless I call New York and ask some goddamn
lawyer, or some accountant, if I can do something creative. But we were free then!" And we were.
I learned something very early with writing: If you can make ’em laugh they’ll pay you for it. Oh, they’ll pay you to
cry too. But if you make ’em laugh, that’s a super deal. People love to laugh, and if they hear something that’s so
creative they go, "[gasps] Look at that! Do you believe that?" - that’s a laugh.
What’s the actual process of writing like for you, especially in light of your very spiritual view of things? You
spoke a moment ago about being a channel. What was it like writing "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye" or one of these big songs?
Well, I wrote my three best copyrights....
Mostly on your own?
Oh, yeah. Yeah, I never wrote with anybody. Except Marijohn and I wrote "Waterloo" together.
I wrote the three best copyrights that I’ve written so far within 24 hours of each other. So the stars must’ve been right.
There must be something valid about that, I don’t know. I’ve studied astrology, but I don’t know if that’s right or not.
But they were written within 24 hours of each other.
Matter of fact, Wesley had me go back through my notes and pull out other songs that I’d written that month, trying to
see if there was anything else. But there was those three songs, and they all hit in England first.
So which were these?
"Tobacco Road," "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye" and "Indian Reservation." And they all hit in England first. It’s
interesting. Now how could you not believe there’s something beyond coincidence in career moves that you see
happening like that?
So yeah, when it comes through you don’t know where it comes from and you don’t know why, but you should just
be able to catch it when it comes through. And that’s all we are [doing]; we’re just catching it.
Couldn’t you just about drive yourself nuts trying to make it happen again?
Well, you do. That’s why people like Harlan go nuts, because they do try to figure out a way to manipulate the
quantum mechanics of "the shoebox." They try to manipulate that.
You have to write something every day. I usually write a letter, or I write a poem, or I write something every day. I try
to. But when it’s right it’s right, and when it’s wrong it’s wrong, and you have very little to do with it. But the point is,
when the heat goes down in the kitchen get the hell out of the kitchen. Get away from it! Don’t wait by the phone. That’s
what so many people try to do, hoping that it’s gonna come back. And it comes back sometimes. Sometimes it comes
back bigger than last time, sometimes not as big. Sometimes it doesn’t come back.
I think prayer has a lot to do with it. I pray every night. I pray myself to sleep. Have been doing that since I was a little
kid this high.
Do you literally get down on your knees and pray?
Oh no, no. That’s too much sweat. I don’t believe in original sin so I didn’t come in that guilty! I lay on my fat ass with
the lights off in bed and pray myself to sleep. And sometimes I wake up and I haven’t finished, and I go back and finish
and go to sleep.
But I don’t know where it comes from and I don’t know how it comes. But if it’s all happening at the same time -
now, you know, there’s a theory in physics that it’s all boom! just happening now, all of it. The past and the future and
everything is happening right now. Well, if that be the case, then I don’t know where it’s coming from, but it does not
come from me. Some of the things are shaded with experiences that I’ve had, but the stroke of genius, it’s either given
as a gift like [breathes] that is, or [feels pulse] that is. Or it’s given for a reason. I don’t know why.
In your days as a staff writer, did you subscribe to the workaday process of ?
I never was a staff writer. I didn’t get any advances or anything.
But were you a "workaday" writer?
Yeah. Let me tell you how I did it - or one way I did it. I had a little office that used to be a laundromat just off of 12th
avenue across from Corner Music. You know where that’s at? And that was my office in the ’60s and part of the ’70s.
And that’s [the building] where all the drugs were smoked and sold and that’s where all the chicks came to get laid. It
was a hell of a den of iniquity when I was there. It was a lot of fun.
But I had two peepholes, one in the front door and one in the back door, and I would go in when I needed some songs
and I’d close the door and I’d go to sleep. And just before [going] to sleep, you pass through what they call the alpha
state. That’s where you get your stuff, through alpha. So I’d come down into alpha, I’d wake up and write and then go
on to sleep. And then I came back up; I’d wake up in alpha and write. And then I’d stay awake for a couple of hours and
then I’d go back to sleep. I did that, and I wrote as many as seven songs a day, when I was pushing it. And it made me
nervous and I’d have to quit it after three or four days.
There was a little restaurant next door, and I’d call them and they’d bring food over. I wrote a ton of music there in
that little building.
So you weren’t playing guitar; it was all mental?
No, I was making records, mental records. In other words, every song that I’ve written, I wrote a record. I didn’t write
a song, I wrote a record. I knew what the band would sound like and the harmonies and everything.
What’s you favorite cover of one of your songs?
I think "Indian Reservation." And "Tobacco Road" - that was done out of England. I never could get Nashville to
understand who I was; I never could get a good introduction to Nashville. I was either going to New York or California.
I was an Ivy League guy; I was writing folk songs. I was like James Taylor before James Taylor. And I should have gone
somewhere where James Taylor would’ve gone to. Had he come to Nashville, he’d have been forced down intellectually
and socially into what we know as the "country crowd," and he would have suffered from that. I’ve suffered some from
it.
When I came to Nashville, the good ol’ boys were in control and it was horrible. And I’d have to get away every two
or three months and go someplace where I could hear string quartets or small orchestras or poetry read, or good movies
[were] playing.
Are you in charge of your own catalogue now? Do you have it back?
No, I do not have it back yet; I’ll be recapturing it in another few years.
It doesn’t sound to me like you’re particularly interested in being a publisher.
Oh no, no, I’m not. Hell, no! I’m gonna make a deal and let somebody else do it.
I’m too interested in birds and flowers and people coming over and just staying in the pool all day long. And sunsets
and stuff. I am a 69-year-old guy, I’m not 29, and I’m enjoying thinking about passing over into the next life. I’m getting
close to that period. I don’t wear golden chains around my neck and open my shirt down to my fat navel, man, like music
business guys. Hell, no.
See, with the Guild, we were introduced to Irving Berlin and Hank Mancini, all these people we got to be friends with.
You met Irving Berlin?
Oh yeah. We met the most wonderful songwriters. Sammy Fain, I think, was the one that impressed me so much. He
wrote, "[sings] "I’ll Be Seeing You . . ." And so many others; big hits. And we became buddies and I saw how real,
elderly writers are supposed to act. And they’re not supposed to act like Harlan. Harlan was acting like he was 40 years
younger than he was.
[Harlan and I] talked about it many, many times. He tried to stay young; it was just his personality. He came up so
poor, and he wanted to be a star. And he was a star at his funeral. He had all the singers there and they all performed
well, and everything. It was nice. I’m so glad.
He called me before he died and said, "I’ve had 12 major operations in the last three years, that’s why I haven’t gotten
back to you." So, about two days before he died, I got the worst feeling about him and I called over there. Melanie
answered, "Hello?" I said, "How’s he doing?" She said, "Oh, he’s not getting any better" and she broke into tears.
We don’t go into Nashville any more than we have to. Hell, we’ve done Nashville. [But] we got dressed and went in
and he was in his bed rolling around with patches on each shoulder and each hip. Morphine patches. He said, "Do you
know Dr. Kevorkian?" I said, "No, I think he’s in jail, but I can tell you how to commit suicide, if you want to." He said,
"All right. How?" I said, "You sure you wanna know?" He said, "Yeah. I can’t take this any longer." See, arthritis was
just killing him.
So I told him what to do. I had read in the book by the Hemlock Society on how to do it.
So why were you so interested in that?
Oh, I’m interested . . . I have a collection of books that’s been banned in America. I love books that’s been banned.,
and this one was banned. Matter of fact, I got one a while ago called The Messiahs. Every religion has a messiah. Did
you know that? Every religion has a guy that’s going to come back and save the world. That’s why I’m a Unitarian,
’cause they say there’s many roads to the top of the mountain.
And so, you find that thread that goes through all the religions and that’s the thing you believe.So I told [Harlan’s]
wife, I said, "Look, get him a hospital bed." He said, "I’m not gonna go in the hospital!" I said, "Shut your mouth and
get a hospital bed." She was trying to plump him up with pillows and stuff. "And get a nurse." She was trying to do it all
herself. "And get him a wheelchair."
"I’m not gonna ride in no wheelchair!" [I said,] "You sonofabitch, ride in a wheelchair. It’s that or not riding at all;
you can’t walk. Hell, when I go [grocery shopping at] Kroger’s, I get those battery- operated deals.
I said. "We’ll go there and watch the pretty girls". You know, I’m trying to cheer him up.
Eventually we left and a couple of days later they called and said he had died. Now I don’t know if he did it or not. He
was desperate, man, he was really feeling bad.
Copyright Songwriter Magazine, International Songwriters Association & Larry Wayne Clark: All Rights Reserved
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