COVER STORY
Joe Diffie Pay Your Last Respects A Quarter At A Time BY HOLLY GLEASON Joe Diffie loved The Palm, the original one on Sunset near the curve. Loved the way GiGi, the maître d’, treated him “all classy, and stuff.” He and his managers Johnny Slate and Danny Morrison used to pour in there for a late lunch, laughing like pirates over treasure, and order up big steaks, Lyonnaise potatoes, creamed spinach. They used to take me and my best friend Emily, known to all as “Piglet,” there, tell us stories about how Music Row used to be, the crazy writing sessions, the pranks played – and the good guys who were no longer. Last time I saw Joe, he was at the Opry a few months ago. S=Sliding offstage and into the darkness, escaping the bedlam, I hiss/whispered at him, and he pulled up short. Looking around, he spotted me, grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the crowd. We both laughed about how sweet those days were, how vivid the characters. Emily died at 26, way too young. Today, at 61, Joe Diffie went to heaven – making me the last survivor of those bawdy, rowdy lunches. Hard to believe how memories melt in tears, lives slide down the drain and the survivors look around, blinking, knowing the difference in the ecosystem and marveling at how few people really understand what was lost. I first heard about Joe Diffie from Allen Brown, or Mike Martinovich, or maybe even Fletcher Foster. All hardcore Sony Nashville denizens, they trooped those hard traditional colors the way pageant queens flash their veneers: bright, blazing, without a pause. “George Jones, Holly,” came the play. “We’re talking George Jones, the songs, the tenor, the way he sings.” I’ll be the judge of that, I thought. Jones was lightning hitting liquor in a metal oil can. Good luck with that, Mr. Joe Diffie. And that first album cover with the blue tinted eyes! Oh, Lord. One more cowboy Casanova, with his mullet curling up. If only for the Cracker Barrel chic could I hold hope, and heavens, what hope there was. While everyone practiced some form of genuine country, most eschewed really leaning into the busted stuff, the honkers, the songs that wrenched your guts out, or sought to realign Friday night into a bad week exorcism. Whether the swing of “If The Devil Danced in Empty Pockets,” the bass-dropping Jones sweep of “New Way To Light Up An Old Flame” that dropped into a more Texas shuffle, the stumbling Buck Owens-isms of “Liquid Heartache” or the trenchant divorcing ground bruised tenderness of “There Goes the Neighborhood,” Diffie kept
his dignity t h roug hout t he emotional depths. Showcasing at Nashville’s low ceiling 328 Performance, he was an abashed, polyester-sporting hillbilly singer – and his voice had even more power and presence live. To say he fired me up was an understatement. Coming of age writing post-Urban Cowboy country and black music for The Miami Herald, I had a soft spot for the hard stuff. Jones, Gary Stewart, Waylon, Mel Tillis, Willie, Razzy Bailey, Mickey Gilley, Johnny Lee, John Conley, even Vern Gosdin set my career in motion – and the thick word play, vowels that stalled and started, notes that got bent like a wire hanger, as well as sneaky barroom piano, pooled pedal steel and thick layers of fiddle tickled me in ways that made no sense. Sure, I wrote for Rolling Stone, covering Cowboy Junkies, Edie Brickell, Michelle Shocked, the Bangles and Cameo, but I also was their go-togirl for Steve Earle, Lyle Lovett, kd lang, Dwight Yoakam. Reviewed that first Clint Black album; fought for Keith Whitley’s obit. So in the tumble of rock criticism, country music was my dirty little (not so) secret. The Los Angeles Times sent me down to the Orange County, two-three times a week to the Crazy Horse, the Coachhouse, the Celebrity Theater in the round, part of a double life that included dinners with, shopping guidance and whatever else for too many of the ‘80s A, B and C List country stars. How was I to know one day, I’d be working at a label where Waylon, Dolly, Ricky Skaggs and especially Tammy were part of my life. Sure, I had the last glimmer of Rosanne Cash with the brilliant Interiors, but my responsibilities came more to breaking the next wave. Joe Diffie, cigarette dangling from his mouth, stretching the seams and buttons was right at the front edge of the foam. Raised in Oklahoma, a hard bluegrasser before getting his deal, he wasn’t Smithsonian-ing his primary influences. He came by his Jones, his Haggard, his Willie, his Gosdin
honest, it wasn ‘t studied, but osmosis from the jump. And A Thousand Winding Roads, his debut with “Home,” his first single and No. 1, captured the essence of classic country. With a title track that professed, Now the miles I put behind me ain’t as hard as the miles that lay ahead And its much too late to listen to the words of wisdom that my daddy said The straight and narrow path he showed me turned into a thousand winding roads My footsteps carry me away, but in my mind I’m always going home, the idyllic nature was evident. Not cloying, reductive or manipulative, just a genuine tugging for a place where all was simple, well, values held and promises made sense. He understood, he pined, but he never threw life into a Vaseline focused glaze. His singing chops were ridiculous. Everybody knew that. But so was his edge. He had a way of being exactly what he was, that wasn’t obstinate, just
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wa sn’t budg i ng. Early in my time as the head of Media & Artist Development at Sony Nashville, they started giving the “Joe Diffie Weight Loss Report.” A trainer and a nutritionist were ensconced on the road, determined to Crisco him into romantic balladeer land – so the company could take this hard country singer to the next level. Tragically, the number was always plus instead of less. Every week. Every. Week. What nobody got was Fast Eddie, his tour manager, would get him cheeseburgers in the middle of the night to keep him happy. No amount of strength training, cardio and prepared meals can beat that. Nature versus nurture; reality versus someone else’s will. Pure folly. “You know what?” I said four or five weeks in. “That number’s never going down. Face it: Joe’s a pig. He likes to eat, and he’s a big farm boy. That’s what they do.” The silence was deafening. My boss had that swallowed a bug look on his face. The label head’s molars clenched. Since no one was talking, I kept going. “Does anyone else realize there are more country music fans out there who look like Joe Diffie than look like Ricky Van Shelton? Collin Raye? Even Doug Stone? Let him be.” “Can you two finish this in your office,” the label head said to my boss. “Of course,” was his answer. An hour later, his “WTF?” was followed by “okay, break it down,” which I did. The next words were, “Write it up.” Like a kid in detention, I was sent to my office to write what became the Regular Joe memo...
