They Came to Nashville

Rodney Crowell

38   Rodney Crowell In the fall and winter of 1972, Rodney Crowell and I both happened to work at T.G.I. Friday’s on Elliston Place in Nashville. We weren’t there for more than a few months, but I distinctly remember Rodney. He never said much. In fact, I don’t remember him saying a word the entire time he worked there. Whenever I tried talking to him, he’d sort of smile at me with those big blue eyes of his. He seemed friendly enough, but in a spaced-out kind of way. Rodney was a busboy and I was the seater-greeter. I don’t think either of us considered our jobs a career move. We were just trying to pay the rent, while waiting for some kind of break in the music business. Being seater-greeter required that I greet customers at the door and take them to their tables. There I would hand out menus and say, “Your waiter will be with you in a moment.” Friday’s was a popular place, and customers often had to wait to be seated. I remember one time during lunch rush, Irving Waugh, who was president of WSM, came in with some business associates. Only I didn’t know he was Irving Waugh. I just saw him as another hungry customer. “Name please?” I said, holding my pad and pen. “Waugh,” he replied, smiling. “How do you spell that?” A few of his friends chuckled. His smile faded, his jaw clenched. “W-A-U-G-H,” he said. (He seemed pissed.) “Okay, I’ll call you when your table’s ready. It shouldn’t be long.” A few minutes later, I walked over to where he was standing. “W-A-U-G-H? Your table is ready. This way, please.” A few days later, I got moved from seater-greeter to bartender. The manager wanted to try, as sort of a promotional gimmick, having female bartenders on Wednesday nights. So I was the first female bar-    Rodney Crowell   39 tender at T.G.I. Friday’s in Nashville, Tennessee. Another entry for my food and beverage resumé. As a bartender, I was enthusiastic and incompetent. Occasionally, when using the little bar gun that squirted out water, tonic, soda, Coke, or Seven-Up, I would press the wrong button and a Scotch and soda would end up Scotch and tonic. Most of my customers were men, and they seemed to take it all in stride. Often when presenting a drink, I would say, “Hope this isn’t too strong for you, sir.” I was known for my generosity when it came to mixing the alcohol portion of my drinks, perhaps as compensation for my bar gun deficiencies. Another one of my responsibilities as seater-greeter was making sure the busboys had properly set the tables. Most of them were fairly adept, if not teachable. But Rodney was hopeless. After bussing a table, he would casually toss down the new silverware like somebody playing pick-up sticks. I remember trying to explain to him about folding the napkin and placing it on the left where the fork goes, and so on. I’d be talking on and on, while Rodney just stared at me with those big, blue, spaced-out eyes, which, of course, made me nervous. I sensed there was a lot going on in that noggin of his, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Over the years, I have privately cheered Rodney on while watching him develop as a songwriter, producer, recording artist, and human being. In March 1988, I was at McCabe’s, a guitar store and performance hall in Santa Monica, the night he did a show with his then-wife, Rosanne Cash. It was just the two of them, accompanied by Steuart Smith on guitar. Rodney was flying in from somewhere, so the show was a reunion of sorts for the couple. Regardless, he was late, so Rosanne went ahead and started without him. I was sitting in the audience with my good friend Diana Haig, and we’re thinking, Oh my God, what’s gonna happen now? About halfway through the first song, Rodney finally walked out on the stage. I’ll never forget the expression on Rosanne’s face—a combination of love, relief, and Where the hell have you been? The cool thing was she never stopped playing. She just said, “Catch up!” and that was that. The rest of...