With fiddler Tommy Jackson and Daddy at my first recording session in Nashville.
By early 1955 I was traveling with Hank Thompson to a handful of dates in Indiana, New Jersey, Maryland, and Texas, but I wasn’t able to go on the road as much as I would have liked. Daddy, of course, was very rigid about me attending school and would only rarely let me miss classes to perform. I was making twenty dollars per night on Hank’s show, but it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to me if I was making two dollars or two thousand. I was just happy to be on a stage. Sometimes getting to that stage was a challenge. They didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for us country stars in those days. I remember one gig where the dressing room situation was so pathetic that I had to go to a gas station to change before the show. I went in to discover that the lady’s room had flooded. Beverly was with me, and she had to help me get up on the toilet seat just to get my hose on without touching the floor. I’m sure we were quite a sight!
In March, Daddy and I headed down to Nashville for another Decca recording session. It was my first time to ever travel to the budding country music capital, and I was pretty excited. Even though I was building a career in country music, we didn’t consider moving to Tennessee. Mother had lived out of state when we were in California, and it just would not have gone over for her to leave her mother and siblings again. Plus, she had a good government job, so it’s not something we even discussed. As a result, there was something about Nashville that always remained mysterious to me. I was part of the industry that built the city, but I was never really part of the music community there.
When Daddy and I checked into the hotel on that first Nashville trip, the phone kept ringing in our room. I would answer and Daddy would hear me say, “No thank you, but I appreciate you calling.” Finally, after this happened three or four times, Daddy said, “Who keeps calling so much?” I said, “They’re all black songwriters who want me to record their material, but I sing country, not blues. I don’t know why in the world they’re calling me!” As it turned out, the word had gotten out among the songwriting community that I was in town to record. The folks who were calling were actually white country writers, but the white Tennessee accent sounded like a black Oklahoma accent to me. There’s no telling what A-list country songwriters I turned down when they called my room. I could have used a hit, so I should have paid more attention!
My first Nashville session was held at Owen Bradley’s recording studio on 16th Avenue, where more timeless country songs have been recorded than anyone could possibly list. I remember that Chet Atkins played guitar. The steel guitar duties were handled by Jerry Byrd, who played on many classic recordings, including Hank Williams’s “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and “Lovesick Blues.” Of all the musicians there that day, however, Daddy was most excited about Tommy Jackson. Tommy’s fiddle appeared on so many wonderful recordings by Red Foley, Webb Pierce, Ray Price, and others, but he was also pretty well known for his square dance albums that he recorded in the 1950s. He was an idol to country fiddle players, and Daddy loved his style.
The session was produced by Paul Cohen, the man who signed me to Decca Records. It’s funny, but since the contracts were sent in the mail, I hadn’t actually met Mr. Cohen in person until that day. My connection with Decca was really through Hank. I didn’t actually know anyone there. Mr. Cohen was very friendly and welcomed us warmly when we arrived at the studio. I always sang with my guitar onstage, so I brought it with me to the studio thinking I would play along with the band. We kicked off the proceedings with a waltz called “It’s the Same Old World (Wherever You Go).” We got about halfway through the first take before Paul stopped everybody and came out of the control room. “Wanda,” he smiled, “we’re getting an awful lot of your guitar on your vocal mic. Why don’t we try having you play with a felt pick so it’s not so loud?”
We started again, but we didn’t get very far into it before he stopped us a second time. “Wanda, honey, I’m still hearing a good bit of that guitar. Why don’t we try one without you playing along?”
It’s funny that, even with that felt pick, they couldn’t get me to play soft enough. I guess I was just banging away, which would serve me much better in the years to come after I discovered rock and roll. At that moment, though, it just wasn’t working. I agreed to stop playing, but I was pretty nervous about the next take. I had never sung without that guitar in my hand. It was my crutch and my security blanket all rolled into one. “Could I just hold it if I promise not to strum?” I asked.
“Of course, sweetie, that’ll be fine,” Mr. Cohen answered.
After that, I knocked out three more songs in that two-hour session without any trouble at all. Later on, some of the guys started calling me “One Take Wanda” because I was able to record a song correctly the first time. I could do it again for them if they wanted, but it wouldn’t be any different. Quite a few of the songs I’ve recorded over the years were done in one take if the band got it right. And, of course, when we were recording with some of the best musicians in Nashville—or the world, for that matter—it was an easy process. Those guys were amazing, so everything moved very fast. Today artists might hole up for months to record a new album, but we used to go in and get at least four songs in the can during a three-hour session. There was nothing painstaking about it. It was quick; it was easy; and it was fun!
One of the things that surprised me about recording in Nashville, however, was the difference in the sound from what we were doing out West. I was used to Hank Thompson’s band. Even Merl Lindsay’s band had horns, so I was accustomed to a pretty full sound. There just weren’t many instruments used on Nashville recordings at the time. It was the sound of commercial country music of the day, so I didn’t ask for drums and all the extra stuff I was used to. I probably could have requested it, but I didn’t know to ask.
One of the songs I recorded at that first Nashville session was called “Tears at the Grand Ole Opry.” It was written by a guy named Cowboy Howard Vokes, who was known as Pennsylvania’s King of Country Music at one time. He got into writing songs during a lengthy hospital stay following a hunting accident. Apparently, he was shot in the ankle with a high-powered rifle and nearly lost his right foot. Howard booked a lot of country music shows in his home state, and I think “Tears at the Grand Ole Opry” was a song he passed along to Hank Thompson somewhere along the way. It found its way to me and I agreed to record it.
I got my name on the writer credits for the song somehow, but I wasn’t really a writer on it. Even though I wrote plenty of my own material, in those days it was pretty common for artists to tell up-and-coming songwriters they would record one of their tunes in exchange for half the writer credit. In later years, Webb Pierce used to joke around onstage, saying “This next song is one Mel Tillis wrote for me, and I liked it so much I let him keep half the writer credit.” It’s kind of funny now, but that was the norm in those days.
Daddy was actually the one who encouraged me to record “Tears at the Grand Ole Opry,” but I never did really like it all that much. He thought it was commercial. The idea was kind of cute, but I’ve wished for years I hadn’t pulled that stunt of putting my name on something I didn’t really write. I believe we reap what we sow, so maybe it was no coincidence that two days later I would be crying actual tears when I made my debut as a guest on the real Grand Ole Opry.
The Opry began as a radio show in 1925 and was broadcast from several different venues in the early days. When I appeared there on March 26, 1955, it had been based at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium for well over a decade. The hallowed space, known today as the Mother Church of Country Music, held a powerful mystique—even back then. Anyone who was anyone in country music played the Opry, and being invited to sing from the same stage that hosted Hank Williams, Roy Acuff, and Ernest Tubb was the greatest thrill of my life up to that point. In fact, Ernest Tubb was the host of the segment on which I would appear, and I couldn’t believe I would be introduced by my fellow Decca recording artist, who was already a legend by then.
Everyone in country music in those days—especially the Grand Ole Opry stars—had their stage clothes made by Nudie Cohn, the famous “rodeo tailor” I’d first visited in Hollywood with my folks and Tommy Collins in tow. Those Nudie suits were decked out with all the rhinestones and were beautifully embroidered. I got my first one when I was about sixteen. It was a Western-style shirt with matching pants that had fringe down the side. It wasn’t made especially for me, but was created for a girl who never returned to pick it up. Nudie put it up for sale, and it happened to fit me, so we bought it for $100. He made me a custom outfit not long after, but when Mother found out we paid $150 for it, she put a stop to that! She said, “Why are you paying him all that money? I can do that!” She was a very talented seamstress, and began making my stage outfits. The first one we designed was pretty country. It had rhinestones around the neck, and Mother bought a big piece of suede leather that she cut into fringes with a rhinestone at the end of each one. There’s a picture of me and Billy Gray together where I’m wearing that outfit, and it’s pretty impressive! Mother did all the intricate piping and everything. Everyone assumed they were professionally done, so I guess she was giving the famous Nudie a run for his money!
For my Opry debut, Mother and I carefully designed a new dress that she sewed. It was white and tight-fitting, but still had a “cowgirl” look. There was red fringe at the bottom with a sweetheart neck at the top and rhinestone-studded spaghetti straps that were like a halter. I paired it with some red-and-white boots that Nudie made for me, and I was looking good, if I do say so myself. I’ve always preferred to get dressed in my hotel room rather than changing at the venue where I’m performing, so I put my dress on just before Daddy and I made the drive from the hotel over to the Ryman. The schedule was taped to the wall backstage when we got there, so I was paying careful attention to the show to make sure I was ready for my cue.
I was standing backstage with my guitar on when Ernest Tubb himself came from around the curtain and began walking toward me with a big smile on his face. “Are you Wanda Jackson?” he asked.
“Yessir,” I nodded.
“Okay, honey, you’re next on the show. I’ll introduce you, so go ahead and get ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tubb. I’m ready,” I said. He looked kind of startled, and his big smile melted away.
“Oh no. My goodness, honey,” he stammered. “You can’t go out on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry like that!”
I could feel my ears getting hot. “Like what?” I asked. He took a step back.
“You can’t go out there with your shoulders showing like that.”
I could not believe it. Here I was in the dress that Mother and I had spent so much time designing. I had on those boots, and I looked so cute with my big guitar on. I said, “Well, this is the only thing I brought. I wore it to the show.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “You’re gonna have to cover up or you can’t go on.”
Since it was still March, and the Nashville air was cool in the evenings, I’d worn a white imitation leather jacket with fringe on it in case it got chilly. I ran back to the dressing room, grabbed that jacket, and put it on over my dress. I strapped my guitar back on just as Ernest Tubb introduced me to the audience. I walked onto that Grand Ole Opry stage, but instead of feeling like a queen, I felt like a kid who’d just been reprimanded. It just broke my heart to have to cover that cute dress. I had a bad taste in my mouth, to say the least.
As the audience clapped, however, I made a decision that I wasn’t going to let Ernest Tubb, Opry rules, poor communication, or whatever had caused the misunderstanding about the dress to ruin this moment. I stepped up to the microphone and launched into my first song, which was an Autry Inman tune called “I Cried Again.” I don’t think we rehearsed, so it surprised me to hear the sound of the Opry band. I had gotten used to singing with Hank’s Brazos Valley Boys, which was the nation’s number one Western swing band. We had drums, horns, twin fiddles, electric guitar, piano, upright bass, and sometimes twin steel guitars. It was a very full sound. I got out there on the Ryman stage, and it was just the bare lineup of bass, guitar, fiddle, and maybe a piano. But that was okay. Things might have gotten off to a rocky start, but this was the Grand Ole Opry, and I was going to savor the moment!
In those days most of the regular cast members stayed out on the stage during all the performances. They would sit on hay bales and other props during the entire show. It seemed like the audience was having a great time, but halfway through my song, I realized they were craning their necks to see around me. During an instrumental section I turned around and saw that two of the show’s comedians, Minnie Pearl and Stringbean, were cutting up, laughing, and doing all kinds of silly stuff behind me. They were kind of egging on the other cast members by kidding around during my song. I’m sure it was all intended as good fun, but I couldn’t keep the attention of the audience. How could I with those two carrying on behind me? I mean, they were funny, so that made it pretty hard to compete.
Maybe I wasn’t in the best of moods because I didn’t get to show off my beautiful dress, but I sure didn’t like feeling like I’d been upstaged. As soon as I was through performing, I walked offstage and found Daddy. I said, “Help me get my stuff rounded up. I’ll never come back here again.” And I didn’t. At least not for a very long time.
Since then I’ve heard that Elvis had the same experience. I don’t mean that Elvis tried to perform on the Grand Ole Opry in a dress that showed off his shoulders, but he wasn’t exactly embraced when he performed there. They weren’t ready for Elvis and they weren’t ready for Wanda Jackson, even though I was singing pure country. They didn’t boo me, but the whole experience was off-putting. It was really just a lack of communication, but I decided that night that the Grand Ole Opry scene was not for me.
I tell that story often and, over the years, I’ve come to realize that, in some ways, it’s a story about how important my stage outfits were in defining my persona as an artist. I always loved beautiful dresses. Even my senior prom dress was a hot pink form-fitting design with lace over satin. The other girls all wore the big full skirts, but I was pretty daring in my younger days. I stole the design from a movie featuring Betty Grable in something similar. Let’s just say it would not have passed the Ernest Tubb test!
A love for beautiful clothes is something that drew Mother and me close together. Mother was always what I call “put together.” She wasn’t necessarily fancy, but she always matched and had nice shoes with a matching handbag. She was pretty, and had a good eye for style. I think she learned to sew out of necessity, but along the way, she discovered that she really enjoyed it. She made most of my stage clothes, as well as my streetwear. We really enjoyed designing and working on dresses together. Once my body developed and I got a waistline and bustline, I looked good in my clothes. Of course, that just made Daddy nervous. There was a couple who lived next door to us over near South Lindsay named Mr. and Mrs. Cox. Sometimes I’d forget to pull the blinds, and I’d go walking through the house almost naked. Daddy would get so put out with me. He’d roll his eyes and say with a sarcastic tone, “Wanda! Open up those blinds a little more; I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Cox have gotten enough of a look yet!”
Daddy didn’t love it when I started lying out in the front yard to sunbathe. We had a little boy named Donny who lived in the shotgun house across the street and, once I started doing that, he started hanging out around our house more often. I remember one time he was over there talking Daddy’s ear off, when he suddenly jumped up and ran outside. Daddy just kind of shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, I guess ol’ Donny had to go home.” In a minute, he sauntered back into the house as if nothing had happened. Daddy said, “What are you doing?” Donny just grinned. He said, “I had to fart, so I ran outside.” I laughed so hard at that. I guess he was learning that he liked to look at pretty girls, but he hadn’t yet mastered the art of how to talk around them!
It’s no surprise that Daddy kept a pretty close check on what I wore. If Mother and I were working on something, he’d want to see how short it was or how low cut it was before it was finished. He could be pretty strict and wanted to make sure that my outfits weren’t too revealing. Many times Mother would be fitting me for a dress, and Daddy would come in and ask how it was going.
“Oh, we’re coming along real good,” Mother would say.
He’d try to act real casual about it and would say something like, “Good … That neckline there. Let’s bring that up some.”
I’d get so mad. “Daddy! Stop it!” I’d say. We’d get into a little spat about that and he would get more firm.
“Take it up!” he repeated.
Mother would be the peacemaker in these situations. She’d say, “Okay, Tom. That’s okay. We’ll take it up about an inch.” When he’d leave the room, she’d say, “All right, Wanda, now where do you want it?”
“I want it back down where we had it,” I’d say. She would just kind of smile.
“We’ll keep it how you want it.”
Daddy and I were very close, but Mother and I had a special bond with each other when it came to fashion.
It came in handy when I played Reno Sweeny in the high school play. She was a very flamboyant character, so the director, Ms. Munday, took me downtown to find some clothes. We went to all these stores, and I tried on and tried on and tried on. Nothing seemed to be exactly right. We got one real pretty blue suit, but Ms. Munday couldn’t find anything that she thought was just perfect for the role. Finally, I said, “Well, I’ve got some clothes at home we could try.” She came over to the house and loved what she saw. We wound up using my own clothes for the character, because the stores just didn’t sell anything as flashy as what Mother and I were making!
Maybe the reason I got crazy about looking good was because I was crazy about boys. And the only other thing I was crazier about than boys (and looking good) was my music. As these interests converged, my visual image on stage took on a different tone. My experience at the Opry didn’t prompt me to change my ways. In fact, after that, I doubled down. It occurred to me that if I could wear glamorous dresses and high heels to a formal dance, I could wear them onstage, too. I didn’t need those heavy boots and a cowboy hat with Western pantsuits covered in fringe weighing me down. I’d put on all that garb and feel like
I was about to fall over backward! Mother and I started putting together my new style with long earrings and spaghetti straps. My look was increasingly influenced by Marilyn Monroe. I didn’t want to look like a cowgirl anymore. I wanted to be glamorous and sexy. I loved to give a little shock to an audience. Whether they liked it or not, I just wanted to get their attention.
I was the first female artist in country music to wear sexy clothes and adopt a glamorous image. Before that, the girls would wear those old dull and dowdy farm girl dresses that were just as boring as could be. My friend Colin Escott likes to say that I broke the “gingham barrier.” Of course, I didn’t know I was blazing a trail at the time. I was just trying to be me. I haven’t gotten much credit for it, but I hope that I made it a little easier for gals like Dolly Parton, Tanya Tucker, Lorrie Morgan, Faith Hill, and Shania Twain to embrace their femininity and recognize that it’s okay to be sexy and be a good country girl at the same time.