introduced around to some veterans as the new writer for the company. Someone mentioned that I had been playing on the road with Guy Clark, and had played with Delbert in Texas. That was the extent of my “cred” at he time. I had a song on the soundtrack of the Urban Cowboy movie, but I didn’t mention it.  I got the vibe that the old school writers were not impressed with the new pop country trend. We talked a while and someone told me I should go over and introduce myself to Buddy Killen, the owner of Tree Publishing. He was the one who had built the company from the ground up into one of the most successful publishing companies of all time. I lurked around waiting for an opportunity when he wasn’t engaged in conversation with someone and approached him with my hand extended. As I told him my name, he said, “Bring me some hits son, bring me some hits,” while looking over my shoulder to greet someone else. I didn’t take it as a slight; I could see that he had a lot of people to talk to, and there was no reason for him to spend any time with me. I didn’t miss the grins on the faces of the guys I’d been talking to; they knew Buddy could care less about the new kid in town. 

    When I was introduced to Harlan, I was overwhelmed. He was the most iconic songwriter I had ever met. I had all his great songs crowding my mind: “Busted”, “Heartaches By The Number”, “Tiger By The Tail”, “I Fall to Pieces”, and “Streets of Baltimore”. There was no songwriter in Nashville more revered than Harlan, and for good reason. He would often hang out on the second floor of the Tree building where the song-plugger’s offices were and offer up some stories and wisdom. He would say, “Son, if you want a Cadillac, write yourself a Cadillac. If you want a swimming pool, write yourself a swimming pool.” He affectionately called all of us younger songwriters “juveniles”. He was generous with compliments if he liked a song that got played around the office, but you dreaded being the one whose second verse had him needing to visit the restroom. 

Not long after I started writing at Tree and was doing a lot of demos, I started playing some clubs around town with the musicians who were playing on the demo sessions. It was all for fun, and the players were some of the greatest recording musicians ever. The “Cheaptones” were Eddie Bayers, Michael Rhodes, John Jarvis, Paul Worley, and myself. We charged four dollars and ninety-nine cents at the door of the Sutler Saloon, instead of five dollars, thus the band name. Harlan would come to the bar and hold court, and sometimes he would write a song idea on a  bar napkin and leave it on the base of my mic stand. I would try to get a start on some music for the idea, and we would get together and write lyrics. It was always my goal when writing with Harlan to strive for the simple, timeless approach of all his classic songs. His love of direct conversational simplicity kept us on track, and we always had a great time, even if the songs didn’t get recorded. 

    One of the songs we wrote was Harlan’s idea: “My Mind Is In Montana”, about a traveling salesman trapped in his job who longs for wide open spaces and freedom. We wrote it and made a proper demo and felt like it would be good for George Strait. I had recently had a song recorded by George, and I had an appointment to pitch songs to his producer Tony Brown for the next album. I assured Harlan I would pitch it, and I did. Tony passed on everything I played him that day, about eight songs. When I got back to the Tree office that afternoon, Harlan was there: “Hey, juvenile! Did Tony take our song for George?” I had to give him the sad news that it was a pass. 

    Tony told me the story later of hearing Harlan’s walker creaking into his office unannounced the next day. “Tony, I believe you missed one,” he said as he handed him another copy. Tony said he listened attentively and told Harlan he would send it on to George, which he did. When I had played the song for Tony, he stopped listening halfway through the first chorus. Our song didn’t get cut, but the enthusiasm and excitement from Harlan liking our song so much was a thrill. He was into celebrating the fact that Tony would play it for Strait, and I met him at the Sunset Grill bar, where he often held court. 

For a dozen years between 1983 and 1995, Harlan’s Birthday Bash in the BMI parking lot was a big fundraiser for Nashville Songwriter’s Association International. There were performances by top country acts and songwriters who had written hits that year. The house band was made up of some of the best session musicians, and it was one of the most popular gatherings of the music community every year. I was invited to perform on the show in 1984 because my song “That’s The Thing About Love” had been a number one record for Don Williams. Richard Leigh is the co-writer, a Hall of Fame songwriter who has written numerous hits including the standard “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue”. After my performance, I saw Harlan backstage, and he introduced me to Buck Owens, who I had been a fan of since childhood, and he invited me to a private party after the show at the Spence Manor hotel, a short walk from the event. 

    I walked over and when the elevator opened, I was greeted by Roger Miller, who was also headed to Harlan’s party. Starstruck again, I introduced myself by telling him I was a writer at Tree, where many of his hits were published, and had listened to some of his old guitar/vocal demos in the tape copy room. He was wide open and in a party mood, and by the time we got off the elevator, I felt like I’d made a friend. When we stepped into the room, Harlan handed me a guitar and said, “Hey, juvenile! Play these fellas that jukebox song of yours.” He was referring to “Jukebox Argument”, my novelty song that had been my ticket to Nashville when it was included in the “Urban Cowboy” movie. It was a story song about an arguing couple who refused to speak to each other but would play songs back and forth on the jukebox to fight. “These guys wrote some of those songs,” Harlan said. I looked around the room and was shaken. I had just walked in with Roger Miller, now I’m facing Buck Owens, Ray Price, Willie Nelson, Hank Cochran, Red Lane, and more...a roomful of giants! It was too early in the night for them to be passing the guitar around. I was the first one to play, and I had never been more nervous. I played the song and got some laughs and thumbs up, but I couldn’t wait to put that thing down and get a drink. 

    One day Harlan showed up at Tree with a gift for me: a hat just like the one he wore. It was a black, wide-brim with a flat-top and silver conches on the headband. I took it out of the box and tried it on, and it fit just right. “I saw your cowboy hat was a seven-and-a-quarter.” Now I was really amazed: Harlan Howard had checked my hat size and gifted me a hat just like his! I thanked him and tried to express how much I loved it. He said, “You know in show business you always need to look your best.”

    I started losing my hair in my late twenties, and by my mid thirties I was headed to serious baldness. This was long before the buzz cut or shaved head look that a few bald country stars would later adopt. If you had thin hair, you wore a hat onstage or went with a toupee, which was never an option. I had been a cowboy hat-wearing Texas kind of guy for awhile, but now I was shifting into some blues caps and “stingy brims” for stage-wear. I’m sure Harlan’s best intention was to help me out with my “look”, ‘cause that hat was super cool on him. But when I got home and checked myself in the mirror, it shook me. I looked like a little kid playing Zorro! To hold and admire it was wonderful, but on my head it was just not right and never would be. I puzzled and fretted for a few days over whether to return the gift, which never seems right, or keep it and never be seen wearing it anywhere, especially onstage where Harlan would be expecting to see me showing it off. 

    I imagined a plan, a setup situation that I could execute with my country singer frontman friend from Texas (whom I will name Darrell Young). When I knew Harlan was at Tree I would wear the hat into the room followed by my friend, who was completely bald. Darrell wore the same size hat as me, and had just recorded Harlan’s song “Watermelon Time in Georgia”. I introduced him to Harlan, and we played his tape, and everybody smiled and complimented his vocal. As we were clowning around, I swapped hats with him, placing the Harlan gift hat on his shiny head. He had already tried it on at my place, and it looked great on him, like he should get a promo picture taken with it. The black cowboy hat he was wearing was my hat also. When we swapped, we stayed that way and listened to two more of the songs on his session. One was a western swing that made Harlan think of another song of his to pitch, which Darrell said he wanted to cut. To celebrate Harlan suggested we meet up at the Sunset Grill for some drinks on him.

    As we all started out the door, I said, “Hey, Darrell? You still got on my hat that Harlan gave me.” He replied, “Oh, man, I’m sorry. Here you go.” As we started to switch back, I said, “Go ahead and wear it to the bar in honor of you meeting Harlan and playing him your cut of his song.” Harlan looked at us both, and we all agreed that it was a fine idea. 

When we got to the Sunset there was already a party fired up for some reason, and we fell on in. Some generous fellow respectfully cleared Harlan’s favorite booth for him, and we all got situated to carry on. Darrell couldn’t help himself. When the drinks took effect, he would holler out “Well, the bills are all due, and the baby needs shoes, and I’m busted,” or a bit of “Heartaches By The Number”. Harlan ate it up, and Darrell kept ‘em coming: “I got a tiger by the tail it’s plain to see,” and “pick me up on your way down”. 

    A guitar appeared, and Darrell went into performance mode. Everybody was hollering for more, and Darrell said, “I’ll bet this guitar I’m playing that I know more Harlan Howard songs than anyone in this bar, except of course, the man himself.” There was no one to challenge him, but I did play “The Streets of Baltimore”, looking at Harlan and grinning. 

All this time Darrell had been wearing the hat Harlan gave me, and he looked like a star in it. Picture a Travis Tritt/Waylon mix. With Harlan wearing the hat that mine was a copy of, and Darrell sitting next to him in my gift hat, a Polaroid camera magically appeared. I could not have planned it better. The picture of the admiring fresh-faced country singer with the “Dean of All Country Songwriters” in their matching hats was  perfect. I proposed a toast. “I hereby award the hat Harlan gave me to Darrell Young, the grand winner of the Sing All Harlan’s Songs Contest.” It was done, I was free of the hat, and Harlan thought I was generous like him.

    The following week sometime, I ran into Harlan at Tree, and we talked about that night. At one point he said, “That hat really did look right on your buddy from Texas, it’s good you passed it on to him. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I didn’t think it suited you the way I thought it would.” 

    I hope I absorbed some of Harlan’s songwriting wisdom. I heard him joking one time, “If the words are right, I can always use the melody I used that last time.” He loved good solid rhymes. “You can sing it that way all day long juvenile, and it still won’t rhyme.” He had a love of simplicity and going for the heart, and is credited with the saying: “Country music is three chords and the truth.” He had multiple marriages, and said, “Next time I think I’m just gonna find a woman I don’t like and buy her a house.” When someone was playing some hot licks at a guitar pull at his house, he said, “That’s fine fingering son, but the money’s down on this end of the neck”. My friend and talented songwriter Chick Rains gifted Harlan a guitar with only the first three frets, with all the others removed. 

    When country music radio shifted to more of a pop mode, Harlan wasn’t getting as many songs recorded compared to his amazing past activity. I was producing T Graham Brown, and I went to Harlan looking for a hit. After we listened for awhile, I asked for copies of several songs I knew were not gonna work for the record, but I had to leave there with a few, just to be respectful. On the television in his office was a CMT video of Shania Twain dancing around doing her latest hit. Harlan looked at me and said, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been building houses my whole life, and now the hammer don’t work.” I’ve come to know that feeling myself, regarding what is marketed currently as country music.  

    Favorite memories of Harlan holding court at the Sunset Grill having the waitress bring him his drinks half as strong. He wanted to stretch his time for fellowship with all us juveniles. He had a pretty good grasp of his limits with booze, although once I had to insist on driving him home. He always paid full price for his half drinks, and was a very generous tipper —waitresses loved him. His drinking style inspired a song, and I reached out to my co-writer pal Delbert McClinton to finish it with me and sing it the way only he can. 

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Drinks Half As Strong (by Gary/Delbert) 

When the bartender took his order He took a little longer
I overheard every word of his plan He had figured out a way
To have another round and stay A desperate move of a lonely man.

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 He said 

Make my drinks half as strong from now on

So I can stay and drink twice as long
I need a room full of smiling faces
I’ve got nobody waitin
Make my drinks half as strong from now on 

I watched him party on and on
Till closin’ time had come and gone
He paid his tab and raised his glass to say 

Here’s to all my old friends
May the good times never end
He smiled and tipped his hat and walked away 

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Make my drinks half as strong from now on

So I can stay and drink twice as long
I need a room full of smiling faces
I’ve got nobody waitin
Make my drinks half as strong from now on

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