At a recent show both of them played in Jackson, Miss., Collin Raye got to meet his foremost country idol, Waylon Jennings.
On Jennings’ bus, Raye listened to his hero reminisce about the old days, about getting together privately to play and sing for the fun of it with such peers as Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson. Raye remembers asking if Jennings had ever felt he “was in competition with those guys. He said, `Lord, no. I love music. I loved what they did and vice versa. We were all on the same team.’
“That’s what I had hoped,” Raye adds with obvious envy. “When I was growing up, I used to hope it would be like that. But it’s not that way anymore.”
Now, Raye says, it’s not just that most of his contemporaries don’t get to know or see each other. It’s that “nobody really wants to.”
“Not everybody-there are a few that I don’t believe are that way-but for the most part . . .” His voice trails off. “And it’s not their fault,” he rushes on. “It’s just that management, publicists, everybody’s telling ’em, `You need to concentrate on pulling the rug out from under that guy instead of wanting to hang out with him.’
“That’s sad. I mean, it’s music. We’re musicians, not politicians. And I hate it that that’s a side to it. `Which award are we gonna go after? OK, we’re gonna have to go jockey around over in this area and try to dwell on that and do a big ad campaign. . . .’ There’s such a method to the madness that it’s really disheartening.
“A lot of times I find myself just thinking, `Let me sing and go home. I don’t even want to mess with this.’ “
In the striking song “Little Rock,” which presents an alcoholic finding a new job in a different town to try to regain sobriety and his family, Raye currently has a heavy-message hit, but he’s no morose ponderer. A fast talker and frequent laugher, he radiates zest for life and confidence.
He is like Jennings, however, in that he’s a different breed of Nashville cat. Having put together an enviable string of hits from three albums-and acquiring a stage reputation as a high-energy “hunk”-he remains less high-profile and instantly identifiable than most of his peers. A few weeks ago at Nashville’s annual Fan Fair, he recalls, he walked in unrecognized by a long line of people waiting to get his autograph; they didn’t know him until he got behind the counter at the booth advertising his name.
That, he says, is because he doesn’t care to be uniformed in the Wrangler shirt, pressed jeans, and 10-gallon headgear of the Typical Nashville Hat Act, opting instead for a more contemporary look. “I don’t feel comfortable doing that,” he says. “I’m just going to let what we offer speak for itself.”
The music he offers isn’t immediately identifiable, either.
“I love it when people come up and say, `I’d been listening to “Little Rock” for three weeks and didn’t realize it was you. You don’t even sound like yourself.’ Before that we did `That’s My Story,’ and they said, `I thought that was some new guy, and then the radio said it was Collin Raye.’
“I like that. I’m offering something different every time instead of just, `OK, here’s the new one by Collin Raye, which sounds like the last one by Collin Raye, which sounded like the one before that.’ “
This refreshing strategy has its dangers, though.
“A lot of experts will tell you, `Find your niche, then stick with it, and they’ll always know who you are-you’ll have an image.’ I don’t have an image. My image is that I have no image. And so far-so far-you haven’t noticed me picking up any awards at the awards shows. I think a lot of that’s because I don’t have that all-powerful image to command their attention every time.
“It’s a risk.”
Raye’s approach could be a ticket to that rarest of all ’90s fates, longevity. So many different looks and sounds should make him harder for fans to tire of.
The Country Music Foundation’s picky record guide, “Country Music on Compact Disc,” adjudges Raye’s first two albums to be only in the “fair” category, collaring him with a marked taste for the “mawkish” in such ballads as “Love, Me,” his first big hit, and “In This Life,” the second collection’s title song.
The guide, however, was published before the appearance of Raye’s third album, the recently released “Extremes,” which is easily his best so far. It is balanced between soaring sentiment and gritty drive, and he brings to it a heightened sense of drama in his vocals.
“I think an artist grows,” he says.
Obviously. There is real art and craft in the sudden, involuntary-sounding stutter of a man trying to lie in the witty “That’s My Story.” The moving catch in the voice in “Little Rock,” when the alcoholic says he hasn’t “had a drink in 19 days,” bespeaks both the character’s shame in talking about his problem and the enormous difficulty of his attempt to change.
Raye’s artistry on “Little Rock” seems underscored by his admission that he himself isn’t an alcoholic-though he does drink. That, however, shouldn’t be taken to mean he’s oblivious of the problem.
“I’ve been playing music for money since I was 15 years old,” he says. “So I’ve known many, many alcoholics, cocaine addicts and speed addicts. (In show business) I’ve always been surrounded by that, and I’ve just tried to learn from ’em.
“Booze is a kind of Jekyll and Hyde thing. I hear it said that people’s true feelings come out when they drink, but I don’t believe that. When you’re that drunk-and yes, I’ve been there-your head is like radar, and you look around and see some woman who’s beautiful and strikes your fancy, and it doesn’t matter if it’s your best friend’s wife, you just want to go over there and slobber all over her.
“So it’s an ugly thing. I’ve never believed it’s a sin in itself to have a drink or two or three; it’s a sin to overindulge in something to where you’re affecting other people, and there are some people who are very addictive personalities. We all do this stuff, but I think (non-addictive) people grow up with more self-esteem, maybe, to where they feel like `I can conquer anything; I’m going to win in the end.’ I guess I’ve always had that.”
He looks increasingly triumphant in the sales charts. The heat generated by “That’s My Story” and “Little Rock” has made “Extremes” the fastest-selling album of the 33-year-old’s still-young career.
The tally passed the 500,000 “gold” plateau before “Little Rock” peaked, he says, adding that the hope is that by the end of the radio life of the third single, “Man of My Word”-“another heavy, serious ballad, except that it’s more country”-the count will have passed the “platinum” million mark. The first two albums, he adds, each are “around 950,000” and are cinches to go platinum.
How much further upward Raye’s path will lead seems to depend on the correctness of his strategy. He appears to believe that not having an image is preferable to having one that differs from his private identity.
Garth Brooks, he points out, has acknowledged that the real Brooks isn’t the one in the cowboy hat and jeans; Raye, who appears to admire Brooks considerably, says the real Garth is the one in a baseball cap and baggy shorts. And then there are the ultra-macho guys.
“They’re all about 4-foot-9 and weigh about 100 pounds-and they’re considered real macho men?” Raye says. “It’s like, `Are you kidding me? Have you seen this guy up close?’ But if you package it in a pretty package, people will buy what you sell ’em for a while.
“I believe, though, that if you’ve got real integrity, and you’re really trying to bring something to the party and leave something there when you’re done, it’s got to be better in the long run.
“Maybe 10 years from now I’ll tell you I was wrong, but right now I feel good about the way I’m doing it.”
