Ain’t it funny how a melody can bring back the memory.
—CLINT BLACK, “State of Mind”
There was never a day of my childhood that music wasn’t blaring in the small house in the suburbs of Columbia, South Carolina, where I grew up. From grade school all the way through middle school, my late father and I listened to the radio through those gigantic Pioneer speakers that took up a third of the living room, hanging onto everything the songs and the DJ had to say between work, school, and dinner. Never a fan of the bass beats constantly hitting the walls and floors, Mom put up with the noise to a point, although occasionally it got to be too much and she’d shout from the kitchen, “Lord have mercy, would you please turn it down!” Five minutes later, we’d turn it back up again.
Few if any words were exchanged between father and son. Occasionally Dad might offer a quick comment of appreciation for a record being spun, but mostly we just cocked our heads in the direction of his old stereo, tuning out the rest of the world so we could take in all that was coming at us over the airwaves.
Dad had an impressive collection of thousands of 45s and albums. The walls of our 1,300-square-foot house were lined with cabinets where he stacked his precious ’50s and ’60s doo-wop albums, as well as everything from Jerry Lee Lewis to the Big Bopper, along with all the current hits he loved, from artists like Billy Joel, Linda Ronstadt, and Elton John. All day, every day, was like an episode of American Bandstand, full of upbeat music. My dad was truly like Dick Clark, knowing exactly what song to play to keep the dance floor full. Or, in this case, the kitchen floor! The look on his face when a particular chord was played, or chorus was sung, said it all. The sounds filled my father with a joy that was infectious, at least to the men in our little household.
“You’ve been listening to that music since you were the tiniest baby in my womb,” my mother would say, only slightly exasperated.
It might not seem like much. It was a lesson that came through gradually, its full significance not quite hitting me until later in life. But in those moments with my dad, I was learning something profound. By being still, silent, and open, I was experiencing the life-changing art of listening. Not only has it been the secret sauce in my career as a country music personality, but it has also been a gift that’s strengthened relationships in all areas of my life, from the easy and open dialogue I enjoy with artists and audience members, to my ever-deepening connection with loved ones, friends, colleagues, myself—even God.
Maybe that’s what drew me to radio. All those hours just sitting, listening, and developing an appreciation for the art and science of it from the other side. For years, I pretended to be on the radio. It got serious when my parents bought me a Mr. Microphone. Most ten-year-old kids would play with video games, Legos, or maybe GI Joe, but I used to broadcast with Mr. Microphone, tuning into the FM receiver at the low end of the band—around 87.7—and adding my voice to a collection of cassettes with music and shows. Mr. Microphone had a range of about twenty-five feet, so I’d run the wire through a small hole I poked through the screen of my bedroom window, talk from my room, play music, then go to Mom and Dad’s car to tune into, well, myself.
As far as I was concerned, this was serious business. If we were sitting at the dinner table past 6:00 p.m., I’d excuse myself to go read the evening news. I scripted whole reports on the weather or the day’s events at school and around our neighborhood. I even came up with on-air quizzes with raffles and prizes. First prize was a coupon for dinner at Quincy’s Steakhouse, a local restaurant where we went on special occasions. To this ten-year-old, it was like winning the lottery.
Mom and Dad were always a willing audience. Not once did I feel like they were laughing at me. After my broadcasts, they’d comment on my news of the day or say things like, “Oooh, Alan, how can we get one of those prizes?” (My real name is Alan Chavis.) They encouraged me to be me and let my imagination run wild.
My father, Randy Chavis, and my mother, Jean, could not have seemed more different from each other, though they loved each other fiercely for fifty years until my father passed, and when it came to creating a nurturing environment for me and my baby sister, Missy, they were of one mind. Mom, whose family was descended from Norwegian pirates, looked like the perfect southern belle with flame-red hair and skin as pale and creamy as buttermilk. Dad, who was part Cherokee, was the exact opposite, physically—a handsome teddy bear who liked his southern soul food a little too much for the good of his own health.
It never once occurred to me growing up that my dad, with his dark hair, tan skin, and almond-shaped eyes, would have been slightly outside the bounds of who was deemed acceptable at the time for my mother to date. But Mom couldn’t resist him in his military uniform. Dad was on his way to Vietnam until he met her, and just narrowly avoided deployment. Around town they must have attracted some attention, not all of it good, when they first stepped out together at the ages of nineteen and twenty, but they didn’t care what other people thought. To hear them tell it, it was a boy meets girl romance worthy of any great country song.
Mom was soft and feminine, never overbearing, but there was an undercurrent of strength. You could tell my mother was the boss and that my father, deferential and loyal, was just fine with the status quo. Both were incredibly loving with each other and us kids. Dad was not one of those men who felt awkward showing affection. It was as if he’d invented the bear hug. That love and reverence was the blueprint for how I would raise my own family one day.
I was blessed to have parents who encouraged and supported me in every hobby, every whim, academic or otherwise. We didn’t have much. Mom was the only one with a steady job. She kept the books at a local auto dealership while Dad, who’d suffered complications from diabetes my whole life, cycled in and out of various blue-collar gigs. But I never heard the words, “No, it’s too expensive,” or “We can’t afford it,” when it came to anything related to my interests or education.
With all the material challenges they faced, it can’t have been easy raising a family, but together they managed to create a world for me that felt rich. Both sets of grandparents lived nearby. Every weekend and holiday there were potluck dinners for extended family members or friends, often near the old tobacco farm where my mother’s parents lived. Everyone would bring a covered dish with sweet potato pie, butter beans, or mac and cheese. Sometimes we’d have fried chicken with all the trimmings: okra, potato salad, steamed squash, and every casserole imaginable. Other times it was a seafood feast. Many of my uncles were fisherman so, when they hauled a big catch, we’d have fish fries with coleslaw and hush puppies. My nana would also make chicken bog, a traditional dish of Carolina rice slow cooked in a big cast-iron pot, with pieces of chicken stewed for so long the meat fell off the bone. My favorite was my mom’s beef pot roast with brown rice, potatoes, and carrots. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.
My parents were godly folks, particularly my mother, so we went to church almost every Sunday. Outside of that, and regular visits to my father’s parents, Grandaddy and Gaga’s, house in town, and Mom’s folks out in the country, my experiences outside the home revolved around school. We didn’t have the money for exotic family trips other than the occasional road trip to Charleston or Charlotte, North Carolina, or more accurately Carowinds amusement park, which was my idea of heaven. Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and Silver Dollar City in Tennessee (before it became Dollywood) were two other glowing childhood memories of family fun.
My parents and grandparents were determined to give me whatever enriching experiences and exposure to the world they could with what little means they had. They were all about giving me the opportunities they never had. One standout memory was a trip to the 1982 World’s Fair in Knoxville, Tennessee, when I was ten. It was a boys’ trip that consisted of me, Dad, and my maternal grandfather, Grandpa. Each country was represented with its own tent. I met a Saudi Arabian dressed head to floor in a white robe or dishdasha and had my picture taken with him. Seeing all those nationalities ignited an intense curiosity about the world. It helped me to imagine myself traveling beyond South Carolina’s borders.
School had the same effect on me. In fourth grade, Eastern Airlines had a program that allowed schoolchildren to experience air travel, so my entire class got to take a field trip from Columbia to Charlotte, a twenty-minute trip. It was my first time on a plane, and more material to feed my imagination. The airline crew gave us each a pair of wings and from that moment on I became an avid collector. I never doubted that travel would be in my future, despite my humble, small-town beginnings.
My parents must have wondered how they ever produced such a driven, ambitious kid. They thought I could do no wrong, which can’t have been easy for my baby sister, Missy, who I always felt lived under my shadow.
“You’re not like a typical boy, always getting into mischief,” Mom told me. “You’re my perfect little angel, my gift from God.”
I did my chores and kept my room neat as can be, with the bed always made and my toys and clothes put in their proper place. The posters on my bedroom wall could never be dogeared at the corners. I took measurements and stuck them on straight with double-sided tape. My comic books were stacked neatly in ascending order of the date of issue (I was much more a fan of Batman, in his muscular, formfitting suit, than of Wonder Woman). My Matchbox car collection was ordered according to make and model, each car in its original box.
I was also that nerdy kid who always had my homework done. Think Alex P. Keaton on Family Ties. My social life consisted of study buddies, mostly girls, none of them actual girlfriends, although one or two of them may have thought so. In high school I joined the Decca Club and took classes in media and marketing at a nearby vocational school and loved every second of the experience, especially when my teacher convinced me to run for national office. They flew me to Denver where I canvassed for votes, but it worked like the electoral college: the state with the most votes usually wins so a girl from Texas kicked my ass. At least I got to go to Denver, although I didn’t see much beyond the airport terminal and the hotel convention center.
That experience must have whet my appetite for politics, because in my junior year of high school, I decided to run for vice president of the student council. The previous year I’d gotten in tight with this crowd, because they were the ones making the decisions about who was going to DJ the school dances, like the Spring Fling or Fall Jam. I’m lucky they chose me most of the time. Yet I was never one of the cool kids. I wasn’t an athlete, but I was generally well liked so I figured I had a shot at winning VP. I went all in for my election campaign, making banners with neat, carefully matched lettering. I was all into branding and slogans from my Decca training, and in my teenage brain I believed I’d come up with the perfect one: “Alan Chavis: An Obvious Choice for the Masses.” (In retrospect, how obnoxious does that slogan sound?) But I had planned a carefully coordinated guerilla promotional attack on my peers, so they’d get the same message each time they saw my name.
Dressed in my favorite blue blazer and red polka dot tie, which I still have, I delivered a killer speech. Then, timed perfectly with my closing remarks, my banner was the only one among dozens that came unstuck from the wall behind me and fell to the floor. People thought I must have planned it, that I’d arranged for someone below the stage to pull it down with a string. I was mortified. On election day I tried to make up for the signage disaster by asking six of the hottest cheerleaders to turn up half an hour before school started to hold up my banner as the other kids were driving into the school parking lot. They must have liked me enough because they did it. Later that day, in sixth period, during my English class, the school principal announced the winners on the loudspeaker.
I had no idea if I was going to win. I figured that the poster nosedive fiasco the day before must have ruined my chances. Then again, people were whooping and cheering when they saw the girls dance around with my banner in the parking lot. I was sitting at my desk in a state of nervous anticipation, trying not to let my anguish show. It must be how actors and music artists feel when they’re nominees at an awards show. The moment they announced my name, “Alan Chavis, Vice President,” was the highlight peak of my high school career.
Looking back, I realize I had the popularity edge because I was the kid whose voice was on the airwaves. By the summer before my sophomore year, as soon as I turned fifteen, I got bold, called a local radio station—Yes, 97—whose slogan was “It’s hard to say No to a station called Yes!” At the time I thought that was brilliant branding. When I called Yes 97, I asked to speak to Leo Windham, the Top 40 morning zoo DJ who I’d been listening to since I could remember. Amazingly, I got through on the first try, and told him I wanted to learn what I could about working in radio. He must have been in a magnanimous mood that day because he said, “Sure, come on by!” From there followed many humble days of hard work. I learned that there are no elevators to success. I knew then, and always assume now, that I’ll need to take the stairs. Yet my Mr. Microphone obsession had finally paid off.
All through my childhood, Dad encouraged me in this pursuit because it was also always his dream to be a radio DJ. He never realized his ambition, although he did get to express some of his passion for the music and the mic deejaying an occasional wedding or Christmas party. I watched him as he presented the music, reading the room and knowing exactly what song to play to get people up and dancing or singing along. He never made it about himself when he bantered with the crowd and announced the next record. It was always about the music, but the joy he took in giving his listeners a good time was inspiring.
My father passed that love for music onto me. It was one of the greatest gifts, along with his sense of humor. He was a master of “dad jokes” back before “dad jokes” were cool. If you’ve ever heard or seen me on air, you know I carry on that legacy as well. Dad also instructed me on the art of the radio patter, naturally and casually making that transition between record spins with interesting factoids about the music or artist. The simple act of sitting and listening to various broadcasts with my father was another early lesson for my radio career. When whatever radio show we were listening to was over, we critiqued the song selections and interviews as if we were program directors. I learned by observing in the safety and comfort of our living room with Dad.
So when I made that call to the local station, I had every confidence I could do this. By then I was just old enough to get my driver’s learner’s permit in South Carolina. My parents let me borrow their car and off I went. Turns out, the guys at the station were happy to have some free labor, and I fetched coffee for the DJs, organized 4-track carts and CDs, and soaked up everything like a sponge. I stayed humble, keeping out of their way while sticking close by, like an eager little shadow. You don’t have to insert yourself into every conversation. In fact, you can often pick up a whole lot more when you just shut up and listen. My big break came when one of the DJs got sick and couldn’t work his graveyard shift. Everyone knew I was desperate to get on the airwaves, so the station program director called me and asked if I’d fill in from midnight until 6:00 a.m.
Back then you had to have an FCC license to be on the air, but I had only picked up on that by listening. In anticipation of this moment, I’d already applied. Like a great church Boy Scout, I was prepared! Nowadays, I’m pretty sure that FCC license also means I am fully capable of running a fast-food drive-thru system.
At my age I wasn’t allowed to drive after dark, so my mom or dad would selflessly chauffeur me to work in the family car for those late-night shifts. That car was a Toyota Corolla, and she was not cute. A non-sexy, two-door, rust-colored compact with the cloth ceiling hanging down over our heads because all the staples had given up. The Corolla was the kind of car made for practicality and best described as “dependable.” But I didn’t care. At fifteen, all you want is freedom and some wheels! I soon covered up most of its backside with flair bumper stickers from the station.
I didn’t care about the crappy transportation because it got me to my happy place. I loved the feel of that on-air adrenaline radio rush! When I finally went live one summer night in 1988, it was as easy as if I were broadcasting from my bedroom. Except I was taking calls from real people, in real time. I knew more or less what to do when the guys at the station gave me my first shot because, again, I kept my mouth shut and my ears open. These folks didn’t even know they were giving me a crash course in broadcasting, because I was there in the background, sweeping the floors and eavesdropping!
All those years of practice and listening to the radio made me a natural. Well, at least no one complained. From that point on they let me fill in whenever I could: weekends, the night shift, anything the other DJs didn’t want to do. That’s how humbly my illustrious career on the radio began. I still have a trunk full of cassette tapes from all of my broadcasts, collecting dust in my garage. On more than one occasion, I’ve played an old show of mine on my 1988 Sony boom box and reminisced, remembering why I got into broadcasting in the first place.
My mother still wonders where I got my ambition.
“It was as if you came into this world perfectly formed,” she once told me. “All that you do and the way that you are is for a reason.”
This thought became a guiding force behind many of the decisions I’ve made in my life, remembering with every move that I am here for a reason. My mom had a crocheted saying on the wall of our house that read, “You’re perfect just the way you are because God don’t make no junk!” That one has also always stuck with me.
My parents’ way with each other and the rest of the world had plenty to do with how I learned to show compassion. They cared deeply about other people, and it showed in how they listened, paying attention to others in a way that went far beyond polite interest, never making it about them, never really judgy. I was the direct beneficiary of that kind attention. They never imposed their will or ambitions on me. Instead, they showed curiosity about what made me tick, then fed me with constant positive reinforcement, ensuring there were no limits on the life I could see for myself.
I also happened to be a weird kid. Instinctively, I understood the importance of visualizing the life I wanted to lead, then absorbing all I could by listening and paying attention to make it happen. Staying humble enough to hear what others had to say allowed me to take in all the valuable lessons I needed to break into radio, for example, from how to take calls from listeners to how to be prepared when that first on-air opportunity came. Even knowing about the opening at my local station was a result of keeping my ears wide open.
To say I had a vivid imagination would be a huge understatement. I was always living in my head, creating scenes like some kind of mental movie director, writing the dialogue, painting the sets, and, of course, casting myself in the starring role. Listening carefully and absorbing every little detail of information fed those narratives. I could conjure up a whole plot, with a beginning, middle, and an end, visualizing my ideal circumstances, the pithy dialogue, the cast of characters (all my loved ones, friends, and a favorite celebrity, or three).
Stoking the fires of my imagination were the many celebrity gossip and talk shows I never missed. I watched, listened, and soaked up everything I could about the world of entertainment, especially music. This was long before social media and YouTube, where you can get your fill of popular culture on tap. I used to rush home from school just in time to watch Oprah. I loved Oprah, the consummate interviewer, who seemed to make every interview not just informative but entertaining. I picked up on the fact that Oprah interviews were more like conversations, and to pull off that kind of show every weekday was a sign of real talent and meticulous preparation.
Then, after dinner, I’d settle on the family sofa to watch Entertainment Tonight and, if I didn’t have school the next day, The Tonight Show. Johnny Carson’s way of making his guests the star of his show pulled me in and has been a reference point for my interviewing style ever since. There was a real art to the way he made others shine. I was similarly inspired by the late Larry King, who once said, “I never learned anything when I was talking.” Years later, I was blessed to have the opportunity to interview him for CMT.
On weekends I also listened faithfully to Rick Dees’s Weekly Top 40 countdown, not just to hear the hottest music but also to hear the smile in Rick’s voice. His voice captivated me, plus the show was tight, with snappy jingles (“Rick Dees and the Weekly Top Forteeeeeeeeee!”), and Rick himself always sounded like he was having the time of his life. I imagined myself as Rick and studied his every move. I was beyond thrilled when he launched a late-night TV talk show in 1990. It didn’t last long on the air, but I didn’t care. He was my hero, and the guy I wanted to be.
In 1989, the year after I landed my first radio job, Dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor, from which he never fully recovered. It caused him to have multiple strokes, and his health declined to the point that he was mostly bedridden in the decade before he passed, in 2017. He was always cheerful, and never one to complain about his condition. Neither did Mom, who dedicated herself to his care until his final days.
Before he left this earth, the highlight of Dad’s day was listening to my syndicated shows on the radio. And he counted the days to my weekly appearances on Country Music Television (CMT). Whatever was going on with him healthwise, however much pain he was in, hearing his only son’s voice over the airwaves was guaranteed to put a smile on his face. It was the one time of day Mom would let him crank up the volume.
Today, Mom’s house is quiet enough to hear the birds chirping outside.
“For fifty years I had to endure your father’s music whether I wanted to or not,” she told me recently. “But now I really miss it.”
This next song’s for you, Dad.
by Jean, Cody’s mom
CODY IS MY GOLDEN SON. Well, I know I’m his mother, and mothers are allowed to say these things, but he really was a remarkable child. I called him my little angel, the apple of my eye, and my big bit of sunshine. He was such a good, gentle-hearted child, as good as could be and not mischievous like typical boys. He never got into fights or came home with black eyes. No, he was different, special, like an old soul. That little boy was God’s gift to me, and that’s the truth.
He took after his father and me, but mostly me if I’m being honest. The one sure thing he did get from his father was a love of music. Even as the tiniest child he’d have a big pair of earphones on his head whenever he could. But the memory of Cody as he was growing up that stands out most for me was not the way he listened to music. It was the kind way he listened and paid attention to others.
My good friend Phyllis owned a beauty salon near our house. While I was at the salon one day, Cody came by to see me for some reason and he was introduced to Phyllis’s mother, who happened to be there. As he was introduced to this little old lady, he shook her hand, covering it with his other hand, then knelt down in front of her chair to chat for a good thirty minutes. They were in their own little world. I’m not sure exactly what they chatted about. Probably some small talk about the weather, how she was feeling that day, and how pretty her new hairdo looked. But he made her feel so special. From then on, Mrs. Carter would ask me about him every time I saw her. Cody was seventeen and she was eighty-five. How often do you see a teenage boy give the time of day to a little old lady?