Among the millions of souvenirs of memory that live within the caverns of our minds, each of us holds on to experiences that made a definitive impact in shaping our character, our psyche, our very being. Hopefully, for you, most of these are positive ones that generate blissful sentimentality each time a current event stirs those memories to the surface. Notes From The Listening Gallery is a collection of essays I’ve written about my musical memories that are both deeply personal for me and communally sentimental for all of us who share a love for 20th century American music. Today’s note is about the first significant breakup that I can recall. Fifty years ago, Dolly Parton publicly announced the end of her business relationship with Porter Wagoner. Rolling Stone Magazine fittingly describes this day in music history: “On February 19th, 1974, on the strength of her blockbuster single, “Jolene,” which had just topped the country chart, Parton took the first major step toward independence (and world domination) by announcing her split from Wagoner.”
Dolly Parton penned and performed “I Will Always Love You” as her gracious and boundary-defining farewell to Wagoner during her final episode on The Porter Wagoner Show. There were many tear-filled eyes in our living room that evening. For it was Dolly who had changed that program from just one of many in the music variety show weekly lineup in our household, to Grandma’s favorite TV show. I was too young to recall the years when Dolly was not the main attraction to this program, to me, it had always been “The Dolly and Porter Show.” What were we to do, now that Dolly’s lovely heartfelt storytelling and gentle giggle were gone from our television screen, watch Porter and the Wagonmasters, without her? At the time, this event felt like a tragic ending for me–a five-year-old country girl who idolized this “girl singer,” the label used at that time to denote country female vocalists performing alongside men. It would not be long until I would learn that a momentous ending can also be an epoch-making beginning.
Their 1969 album Always, Always is packed with tracks that pluck my heart strings to deliver a visceral musical message. I can see every detail of the house on Gracia Street, right down to the velvety-textured black and gold wallpaper. Nearly every lyric of “The House Where Love Lives” is emblematic of my own family during the earliest years of my life. Even though we didn’t actually have a dog, there’s a shaggy dog who lives out back, represented Freckles, “The Downtown Dog” who once made the cover of the local newspaper. He belonged to our neighbors who lived across the alley behind our home on Gracia Street. He often accompanied me on summertime walks to Drennen’s Soda Fountain where Doc Drennen would scoop out a Dusty Miller for me, and would place a bowl of water on the floor for Freckles. I believed he belonged to me just as much as I believed that lyric was meant for him.
In our kitchen on Gracia Street, Grandma taught me to roll biscuit dough into balls and to ever-so-gently drop them on top of her “famous” chicken pie before she placed it in the oven to bake. Grandpa taught me how to pull a record from its sleeve and to ever-so-gently drop a needle on it, inside of the big wooden console stereo they kept in that kitchen. Today, as I listen to the vinyl copy of the Always, Always album that once played on that turntable, I rejoice in the crackling between tracks, which elicit memories of the sound of Grandma’s hand-sewn can-cans rustling under her square dance dresses that she made from the same fabric as Grandpa’s cowboy shirts for dancing. I recall the heartfelt expressions of love and devotion in hard times, as told through the voices of Dolly and Porter (or George and Tammy or Johnny and June). It was there–in those songs, in that kitchen, where I determined exactly what romantic love would need to sound and feel like for me, when I grew up. By the age of four, I already knew that a future husband of mine would need to whirl me around the kitchen floor as a warm up before we would go out dancing on Saturday nights. That was true love. My grandparents understood my ardent admiration for music, and sometimes, they brought me along for a night of dancing and listening to the house band perform covers of classic country songs at Buck Cody’s Frontier Jamboree. I earnestly learned all of the calls, and soon, Buck’s young son Beau, just a year older than me, would become my first dance partner. Those nights at Buck Cody’s were pure and absolute magic for me. In 1976, Grandma even made a patriotic dancing dress for me that matched hers.
During the summer before Dolly and Porter’s breakup, Grandma and Grandpa experienced a magical Saturday night at our little hometown music hall. This iconic duo performed at Buck Cody’s Frontier Jamboree on a very hot August night in 1973. Witnessing live music at Buck Cody’s made an indelible impact on the career path I chose. I have spent most of my adult life working as a conduit between the people of my community and their musical heroes and heroines. I am deeply grateful for every single one of those artists, colleagues, and fans, who have filled multiple caverns in my mind with magical, musical memories. I have chosen to end that work at this point in my life because working in the live music industry takes a toll on the body, and it’s broken my heart a few too many times. But my spirit remains strong. I will continue to find creative ways to build community and to encourage creative collaboration.
The breakup of Dolly and Porter was the beginning of her astounding solo career. Dolly delivered many of her biggest hits in 1974, and went on to release records that Grandma and I would love even more than those she had released as half of the Dolly and Porter duo. Grandma’s favorite was “Love is Like a Butterfly.” This lovely, lilting tune is perhaps the most genuine expression of Dolly’s gifts of voice, warmth, and grace. When I see a butterfly I think of Grandma. And on those rare occasions when I cross paths with a man that I find to be exceptionally intriguing, I hear this song in my head as the butterflies take flight in my chest.
Grandma has been on my mind a lot this week. I thought of her last night as her granddaughters gathered–just the three of us, for the first time as adults–to talk about raising our kids to adulthood, finding fulfillment in our work in our fifties, and reminiscing about sleepovers at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, following afternoons of swimming or roller skating, eating Funyons and drinking Coke from ice cold glass bottles. I thought of her this morning as I sat in church next to my first Sunday school teacher. I remembered how proud Grandma was in the years when “our” pew was filled from end to end every Sunday with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, mom, my little brother, and me. Grandma held my hand to help me climb and descend the steps of that church during the first years of my life, and in the final years of her life, I helped her to do the same. The last time I held Grandma’s hand was in that church, after her funeral, just before her nephews carried her to the hearse. Her hand was hard and cold. I cried, wishing that I had told her just how much I appreciated the soft warmth of her comforting hands that I thought would be there for me, always, always.
A few years after Dolly’s departure from the Porter Wagoner Show, she had her own tv show. Several times during that program, she invited one of my mom’s favorite singers, Linda Ronstadt (who eventually became my favorite), as well as the achingly emotive Emmylou Harris, to perform with her. The emotion stirred in me by the sound of these three voices intertwined, still makes the hairs on my arms stand on end when I watch clips or listen to the two albums they recorded together as Trio. Heartache and heartbreak delivered in equal parts with recovery and resilience, flow effortlessly through every note. Trio crafted some of the most beautiful renditions of multiple folk, country, and standard ballads of 20th century classics that I have ever experienced. The long term impact of Trio on me…well, as they say…is history. In 2019, my business partner and I formed the only female-owned independent concert production company in the US. We named our company, Trio, to honor the magical collaboration between her favorite musician, Dolly Parton, and mine, Linda Ronstadt. Last fall, after a crushing four years of attempting to recover from the unprecedented financial fall-out of our entire industry that had immediately followed the creation of our dream company, we dissolved our company and I gave up my home to pay off the bank loan I’d taken out to try to save our Trio.
As one of the most generous philanthropists of the 21st century, the immensity of Dolly’s creative talent is equal to the scale of her genuine humanitarianism. Her career continues to flourish and she has now shared her virtuosity with every generation from the greatest, to the alphas. Her Imagination Library has changed lives for 2,886,480 kids and counting, in a remarkable way far beyond any efforts by any pop star of any generation.
Fifty years ago, she made a thoughtful decision to move her life forward by choosing to end a business relationship with a man who attributed himself as being the one who gave her a launch pad from which to build her esteemed career. But those of us who know Dolly also know that no one gave Dolly anything. She worked to earn her place in history and in our hearts. We have only Dolly Parton to thank for the gifts she has given to all of us.
Nearly six years ago, I made a new friend, a rare occurrence at this point on one’s life path. Gloria Steinem wrote about this kind of friendship perfectly in The Truth Will Set You Free, But First it Will Piss You Off! her 2019 collection of quotes, “I just had to wai for some of my friends to be born.” My young friend introduced me to her favorite Dolly Parton song, “Light of a Clear Blue Morning,” released many years before she was born, and it is now my second favorite Dolly song, right after “Butterfly”. Somehow, in the midst of all the disco and Broadway albums I was listening to in 1977, I had completely missed this stunning gem. Every word evokes a genuine sense of hope, while also acknowledging the resilience sometimes necessary to hold on to hope. I’ve always told my daughter that as long as she has hope, she has everything she needs. Today marks my first full week since 1987, of living in the town where I lived when I watched “the Dolly and Porter show” as a little girl. This morning, as I listened to my recently acquired beloved Dolly Parton song, I embarked upon the writing of my first note from a new listening gallery, from which I can see the light of a clear blue morning.
Click here to enjoy my accompanying playlist. If you enjoyed this note, consider joining my subscriber email list. March’s Note From The Listening Gallery will celebrate the 40th anniversary of The Cars’ Heartbeat City album, released on March 13,1984.
The Listening Gallery 