I think back often to the day I got that phone call from Hank Thompson when I was working at KLPR. It was probably the most memorable day of my life. That was a real turning point for me, because it was Hank who set me on a path toward becoming a professional entertainer. Had it not been for Hank Thompson, the world might never have heard of Wanda Jackson.
Since I already sang with him at the Trianon Ballroom and at various other public appearances in and around Oklahoma City, Hank soon invited me to appear on his local television show. Soon after that, KLPR launched a UHF television channel, and I landed a thirty-minute TV show where I’d perform, as well as do my own commercials promoting furniture stores and different things. There was a local country duo named Wiley and Gene who were nationally popular, and they managed the KLPR TV studio. I worked with them quite a bit on television and on their live shows. There was a little group of us, including Anita Bryant and a kid named Doyle Madden, who were popular on local TV.
That exposure, combined with my radio work, was creating a good bit of local buzz for me as a teenage country singer. As I became better known around Oklahoma City, I’d start to get recognized when I’d go out. I was becoming a minor celebrity and didn’t have as much privacy as I once did. People would sometimes ask me for my autograph. I loved it! Entertainers are all just big kids and, no matter what some of them might tell you, we like attention. I enjoyed it then, and I guess I have to admit I still do. In later years, if I ever did complain about it, Daddy would remind me that I was a public figure and that it was part of my job to greet the public. Of course, I never quite got that concept. Visiting new places, meeting new people, and getting to make music never felt like much of a job to me. It felt like a party!
Thanks to Hank’s mentorship I was getting more polished and professional every day. Even though I was still a high school student, Hank thought it was time to push my career to the next level. In 1953 I went to his pink house on May Avenue to cut a demonstration recording with his band. Hank had professional recording equipment and a bar set up in his garage, which made for a neat little home studio arrangement. He and his wife, Dorothy, didn’t have a large house, but it was a nice place. Hank set up microphones for the band in the front room, but since he used quite a few musicians, it spilled over into the dining room, too. We recorded several songs that day, which Hank planned to use to help find me a record deal. One of them was “Heartbreak Ahead,” which had previously been recorded by a singer named Charline Arthur. I used to go to the Big D Jamboree fairly often, where Charline was a regular cast member. She wasn’t pretty by any stretch, but she was little, and you talk about feisty! She was quite a fireball. She played a big ol’ upright bass and wore pants, so she was really a ground breaker for me. I just loved that song of hers, so I learned it and started doing it. When Hank wanted me to record, I knew I wanted to do that one.
Hank was trying to get a recording contract for both me and Billy Gray, who was his band leader. There weren’t as many little oddball record companies back in 1953 as there would be after the rock-and-roll explosion, so if you wanted to record, you usually needed the help of a big label. Ken Nelson, who signed Tommy Collins to Capitol Records in Hollywood, was also Hank’s producer and A&R man at Capitol, so that seemed like the best place to start. Ken listened to the demos and decided they weren’t interested in Billy, but he liked my voice.
“She’s good,” he told Hank after hearing half of the first song. “How old is she?” Hank told him I was sixteen. “Oh, heavens no,” Ken shot back. “When she’s an adult I’ll be willing to have a talk with her. We’ve already got an underage girl on Capitol that’s giving me fits and causing all sorts of legal problems.”
I assume he was probably talking about Jean Shepard, who was not yet of age when she and Ferlin Husky had their hit duet with “A Dear John Letter” a few months earlier. From what I understand, they had to go to court to finalize her contract and then have Ferlin assigned as her legal guardian for the pair to travel out of state on tour. The label certainly wasn’t looking for any more of that drama.
“Besides,” Ken added, “girls don’t sell records!”
Ken’s line about girls not selling records has become a wellknown part of my story in interviews over the years. It’s usually interpreted as the gauntlet that was thrown down and the challenge I was determined to overcome. That’s partially true, but it’s also true that Ken wasn’t exactly wrong, either. There were only a small handful of exceptions. Other than Jean Shepard, the only recent success for a girl singer would have been Kitty Wells. She had a major smash with “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels” the previous year, which was Billboard’s first number one country hit by a female country solo artist. Before that, you have to go all the way back to 1935 when Patsy Montana became the first female country artist to sell more than a million copies of a single with “I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart.” That was one of the first songs I ever learned, and I was thrilled to death when I got to meet Patsy in Nashville one time. I recognize that Ken wasn’t being sexist, so much as he was thinking about business. But it still gave me a little nudge to prove him wrong! It would just take a little time before I’d get that chance.
When things didn’t pan out with Capitol, Hank approached Paul Cohen, who was the head A&R man at Decca Records. Hank was thrilled that Decca was interested in signing both me and Billy Gray, and called the house to tell me the good news. I still remember when the Decca contract arrived in the mail one day. I was sitting on the couch playing my guitar when Daddy pulled it from the envelope and held it out for me to see. I flipped that guitar over on my lap, turned it into an impromptu table, and signed that contract on the dotted line. The next day at school they announced over the loudspeaker, “Congratulations to our own Wanda Jackson, who has signed a recording contract with Decca Records.” Beverly said you could hear the applause and cheering all down the hallways.
Everybody at school supported me except for one teacher. I can’t even remember his name now, but he was my history instructor. When it came time to record my first songs for Decca in March of 1954, Mother and Daddy and I took the week off school and work to drive out to Hollywood for the session. When I came back everybody was thrilled, but this man didn’t think that was right for me to take a week off school to make a record. He made it pretty hard on me after that. I passed his class, but he gave me a D, which I couldn’t believe. We were assigned a project that I completed beautifully. I wrote a detailed report and recruited a friend, who was a great artist, to illustrate each of my points with a unique drawing. We took everything, placed it in a folder, and bound it perfectly. After all that hard work, that guy still gave me a D. I hate to say it, but he was a horse’s heinie!
Any disappointment I might have felt about my history grade, however, was more than offset by the thrill of having the opportunity to record in a professional studio for the first time. After two and a half days of recording sessions at Capitol’s studio, Hank brought his whole band over to the Decca facilities on Melrose Avenue for back-to-back sessions with Billy Gray and me. I was scared to death on that first session, but Mother and Daddy were there, and I knew the guys from the band, so it was a little more comfortable. I’d do what they call positive self-talk to get the courage up to give it my all. It seemed like everyone was on my side and they were pulling for me, so it was a real mix of fear and excitement.
When it came to choosing songs, I had full reign. Neither Hank nor Decca really intervened, which I now realize was pretty unusual for a new artist at the time—especially one who was a junior in high school! Of course, there wasn’t too much to do for the backing band in those days. Arrangements were a lot simpler then, and it was easy to breeze through several songs in a single session. There wasn’t that much to do! I recorded four songs that day, including “If You Knew What I Know,” which was one I’d written myself, as well as “The Right to Love,” which was written by my old boyfriend, Tommy Collins. Tommy was just having his first hit with “You Better Not Do That” at the same time, but I had learned “The Right to Love” from him back when we were spending a lot of time together, and I always thought it was a cute song.
I assumed I would just be recording my four selections, but when I finished there was still time remaining. Hank said, “I’ll tell you what, guys, let’s lay down that ‘You Can’t Have My Love’ song.”
My heart sank. Hank had received the song—a duet—at his publishing company, and had already mentioned wanting me and Billy Gray to record it together. It was as cute as can be, but I didn’t like it at the time. I didn’t want to launch my career as part of a duo. I wanted to do things on my own. Hank knew I didn’t want to record it, but he tried to smooth it over by treating it very casually.
“It’ll be all right, Wanda,” he said. “We’ll just do it real quick and then we’ll have it recorded.”
“Oh no, Hank, I’m tired. Let’s call it a day.”
He just smiled. “No, we’re gonna give it a try.”
I don’t know why, but when I get mad I cry. I said, “I don’t want to do this. I’m NOT going to do it!” Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I was prepared to dig my heels in. I kind of kicked at the pricks on that one. Daddy had to take me aside and talk to me. He reminded me that it was Hank who made it possible for me to get a record deal in the first place, and that if Hank wanted me to do the song, then I should respect his request.
I finally agreed to record “You Can’t Have My Love” with Billy, but only to please Hank. I can still kind of hear the anger in my voice on that record. That probably actually helped my performance, because the girl in the song is telling the guy off. It gave me a little attitude on the recording. That’s not because I was great at adopting the character so much as it is because the whole time I was seething and thinking, Okay, I’ll sing that damn song, but it won’t be very good! Looking back, Hank bringing up that song at the last minute was probably the plan all along. He knew he would get resistance from me, but he also thought the song could be a hit. Maybe he figured that would be the easiest way to get me to go along with it.
I was disappointed when Decca released the duet of “You Can’t Have My Love” as my first single, but it turned out Hank was right about the song after all. By late July of 1954, it was making its way up the Billboard country chart. Decca thought it would be a good idea to record another duet with Billy as soon as possible to capitalize on the success of the first single. Hank wasn’t scheduled to record in Hollywood, so we hastily assembled a session at his home studio there in Oklahoma City.
Billy and I recorded a song called “If You Don’t Somebody Else Will,” which had just been released on the Chess label by a country duo called Jimmy & Johnny. Comprised of Jimmy Lee and Johnny Mathis (not to be confused with the pop singer of the same name), the duo were regulars on the Louisiana Hayride. Even though “You Can’t Have My Love” was doing well, I still didn’t think I needed a duet partner. I wanted to be recognized for my own talents, and I thought the boys might not like me as much if I was always singing with the same guy. They might think Billy and I were together and lose interest in me!
As it turned out, this was the song that actually got me out of having to be a duet act. The hit version went to Jimmy & Johnny, who already had the jump on us. Theirs had come out first and, even though Decca was a bigger label than Chess, radio audiences made the original version a Top 5 hit, while ours didn’t gain much traction. I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. If Billy and I had kept having hits together, I might have been stuck recording duets forever. Billy was a great guy and I had a lot or respect for him, but that’s just not what I wanted for my career.
Hank, perhaps recognizing that I wasn’t enthused about recording duets, suggested that I record a solo number that day at his home studio. I decided to record an original called “You’d Be the First One to Know.” It was actually the first song I’d ever written, and came to me one day when I was in the ninth grade. I never did care much for school. I was so restless and always felt like my spirit just wanted to fly away. My mind was focused on my career, or maybe sketching out a design in my notebook for a new dress to wear on stage. I was constantly going to sharpen my pencil just to get out of my desk and look through the window at the world beyond the prison of the classroom. I was standing at that pencil sharpener one day when I thought to myself, I wonder what it would be like to write a song of my own? I went back to my desk and came up with that idea in my head.
The thought behind the lyric was, “If I ever break up with somebody, I want him to be the first to know. I don’t want him to hear that it’s going to happen from someone else. I’ll be the one to tell him.” It was actually a bit of autobiography. As I mentioned, my second boyfriend named Leonard had given me his ring. I wanted to break up with him, and I was going to have to give it back to him. I was glad I went to him first because I would have hated for him to find out via other means. I knew I was doing it right, but I don’t like confrontation, and it was probably the hardest thing I’d ever had to do up to that point in my life. After school I raced home to the piano to see what it was going to sound like.
I was pretty excited to have come up with something like that by myself. Looking back, it’s not a very good song, but in terms of structure I accidentally got it right. Hank later told me that the first verse of a song is where you tell what the story is. The chorus is where you go in depth, and the verses after the chorus tell the present and the future. He helped me understand song structure and the various rhyming patterns, such as ABAB or AABB. Fortunately, I stumbled upon it even before I understood the rules.
That second Decca session at Hank’s house was in August of 1954. By September, I was starting my senior year of high school with a Top 10 hit, thanks to “You Can’t Have My Love” climbing all the way up to number eight on Billboard’s national country chart. Take that, Mr. History Teacher!
My classmates seemed to like me, even if they weren’t big country music fans. Country wasn’t that popular yet. It was just a small group of people who listened to it. Mother or Daddy used to talk about how you’d go up to a house and hear country music playing on a record or over the radio. If you knocked or rang the doorbell, they’d turn it off or change the station before answering. Given that country music wasn’t the coolest thing at the time, I attribute much of my popularity at school to my one true blue friend, Beverly Wright. She was so genuine, and such the life of the party, that people just loved her. She was my greatest cheerleader, and the fact that she was always championing me and promoting me contributed to my popularity.
I would often sing in school assemblies, and the kids really liked the Hank Williams songs, like “Jambalaya” and “Kaw-liga” that were already staples of my performances. The one they loved the most was “Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad.” I was always looking for songs to add to my repertoire and often found good material through movie musicals. I was a film buff and would go to the theater every chance I got. In fact, I’d take a little note pad and jot down song lyrics or, as color movies became more common, I’d make notes about color combinations and plans for dresses based on what I’d seen. I always wanted to meet Elizabeth Taylor. Marilyn, too, of course. I loved Esther Williams, Betty Grable, and all those starlets of the silver screen. I don’t remember the name of the movie, but I heard “Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad” at a matinee one Saturday and was knocked out by it. The singer was Betty Hutton, who was a pop artist on Capitol, but she also sang and danced in the movies. When I heard it I thought, Man, I’d sure like to sing that. I called Mother and asked if I could stay to watch the movie again just so I could hear the song once more. She agreed, and soon after, I hunted down the single and learned how to play it.
The girls at school just loved “Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad” because there weren’t many songs out about getting back at a guy. It got to where anytime I played for a school assembly, I had to do that song. One day I was called into the principal’s office.
“Wanda, I’m sorry, but you can’t sing that ‘Hot Dog’ song anymore,” the principal said. “It’s entirely too suggestive.” But it actually wasn’t! I never got that.
“All right, Mr. Higgins,” I said. “I won’t sing it anymore.” The next time I was asked to perform at an assembly, Mr. Higgins introduced me. The minute I started walking across the stage the kids started chanting, “Hot Dog! Hot Dog! Hot Dog!” They wouldn’t stop. I figured, “Hot dog, it might make ’em mad, but to heck with school. They can throw me out if they want, but my audience wants this song.” I found out later that the chanting was a lot of Beverly’s doing. I had told her what the principal said to me, so she spread the word and orchestrated everything with the students. Even Mr. Higgins couldn’t say much after that. He had to let me do my thing.
Even though I was in no danger of becoming the valedictorian, I did find a few ways to make high school more bearable. I had been a twirler with the band in middle school, and became the Capitol Hill band queen in high school. It sounds more glamorous than it is. The job of the band queen was to pass out the music, call roll, and march next to the leader. It was a lot of fun, and at least I was around music.
Another highlight of senior year was when I had my one and only chance in life to do some acting. I got the lead role of Reno Sweeny in Cole Porter’s Anything Goes, which was our high school musical that year. I always wondered how I got that role when I was so country, but Ms. Munday, our speech teacher and the director of our play, said, “Wanda, you should try out for this.” I found a boy I knew who could play piano by ear, and I worked with him to prepare for the tryouts. I auditioned with Marilyn Monroe’s “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” and I think that was the song that let them see I could do something besides pure country. As we got into rehearsals, Ms. Munday would always say, “Stop everything! Stop it! Wanda, you can’t tap your foot! Please stop tapping your foot to the music!” I didn’t even realize I was doing it. When I heard music I just felt it, and that’s what happened. When we performed the play, it was done at the Municipal Auditorium in downtown Oklahoma City. It was quite an affair, and I really enjoyed the chance to stretch my musical boundaries.
Though I enjoyed my school friends, and I have fond memories of my various activities, the only thing I really wanted to do was sing. I was still working with Hank, but he hardly paid me anything. I don’t blame him. He was the one who was doing most of the work, but I craved it like you wouldn’t believe. Daddy would drive me to wherever we were performing. We didn’t do many out-of-town gigs, but we were playing at plenty of contests and other little shows locally. I begged him to let me quit school, but Daddy was a stickler. “No,” he told me. “No matter what, you have to get your diploma.”