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Authors: Waylon Jennings, Lenny Kaye
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that year. Buddy’s big break came at a Bill Haley concert
in October 1955, at the Fair Park Coliseum, when “Lubbock’s own Buddy, Bob, and Larry” were discovered by Eddie Crandall of
Decca Records. Rather, Buddy was. Decca was probably looking for their own version of Elvis, who had just been signed by RCA
Victor, and Buddy was it, even though they clearly didn’t understand rock and roll judging from Buddy’s experiences in Nashville.
I thought about that in years to come when I made my first records there.
He went to Nashville with Sonny Curtis and a new rhythm section, drummer Jerry Allison and bassist Don Guess; the rest is
his story.
In the meantime, I was busier than a three-peckered goat. People have always said that I “attack” work, and I guess I can’t
help it. I was always doing something. I’d play at a parade or the community center and then go do my radio program before
trying to win a trophy in a talent contest. After I got fired from KVOW I went over to KLVT in Levelland, where I had a country
show. I’d start making up these little songs about the radio station—jingles set to the tunes of the day. I’d do imitations
of Hank Snow, which sounded like Waylon trying to imitate Hank Snow, or John Cash, or George Jones. It was attention-grabbing,
and I was noticed by the Corbin family, whose dad, A.G., and two of his sons, Slim and Sky, were about to buy a station in
Lubbock, atop the highest, most prestigious building in town: the Great Plains Life. They were pretty tall themselves; each
Corbin brother stretched about six feet five inches, and their mom wasn’t far behind.
Lubbock was the biggest city in the south plains, the Hub of the Plains, as they liked to say. KLLL, the station started up
by the Corbins, hit that town like a truckload of geese. They bought it, hired me, and there we were, shit-on-the-boot cowboys
ready to take on the competition. KDAV had already staked out their claim; they were country, and we were country. There was
nothing left but to go to war.
We started using the station’s studio as a production center. I taught them how to do jingles, and we prided ourselves in
being airtight. In those days, KDAV would be very loose and sloppy. “Here’s Hank Williams,” they’d say, and there’d be some
dead space and then the record would start. We’d cue that record right up to the groove and let it go when we finished talking.
KDAV read all their commercials; we produced them.
We didn’t make fun as much as cut up about being country. We used it as humor. Instead of “Friends and neighbors, y’all,”
we’d say “Hi there, all you friends and neighbors out in radiolint.”
We did remotes from local grocery stores and meat markets. I’d sing a little, and talk to the owners, Morris Fruit and Vegetables
at 704 East Broadway, or his competitor, George Sewall. Ten pounds of flour for forty-nine cents, twenty-five pounds of potatoes
for just seventy-nine cents, sausage at three pounds for a dollar, mustard greens at ten cents a bunch; where you can save
yourself a bushel of money, friend, on good vittles. One time I said, “Come on down to George’s Fruit and Vegetables. You
can’t beat George’s meat.” The phones lit up pretty bright after that one, and those cards and letters kept comin’ in.
Nobody knew what to make of us. People went crazy because of all these “hillbillies” up at the station. The secretaries in
the Great Plains Life Building would walk past on their way to the restaurant at the end of the hall and they’d stare through
the glass at us. I think they liked what they saw, and we’d be looking back at them, especially Ray “Slim” Corbin, who was
my best friend for many years. We were wilder than guineas.
Hi Pockets joined us from KDAV, and he became one of the four main K-triple-L disc jockeys. It was a daytime station, though
we used to have a guy who was a holdover with the
in October 1955, at the Fair Park Coliseum, when “Lubbock’s own Buddy, Bob, and Larry” were discovered by Eddie Crandall of
Decca Records. Rather, Buddy was. Decca was probably looking for their own version of Elvis, who had just been signed by RCA
Victor, and Buddy was it, even though they clearly didn’t understand rock and roll judging from Buddy’s experiences in Nashville.
I thought about that in years to come when I made my first records there.
He went to Nashville with Sonny Curtis and a new rhythm section, drummer Jerry Allison and bassist Don Guess; the rest is
his story.
In the meantime, I was busier than a three-peckered goat. People have always said that I “attack” work, and I guess I can’t
help it. I was always doing something. I’d play at a parade or the community center and then go do my radio program before
trying to win a trophy in a talent contest. After I got fired from KVOW I went over to KLVT in Levelland, where I had a country
show. I’d start making up these little songs about the radio station—jingles set to the tunes of the day. I’d do imitations
of Hank Snow, which sounded like Waylon trying to imitate Hank Snow, or John Cash, or George Jones. It was attention-grabbing,
and I was noticed by the Corbin family, whose dad, A.G., and two of his sons, Slim and Sky, were about to buy a station in
Lubbock, atop the highest, most prestigious building in town: the Great Plains Life. They were pretty tall themselves; each
Corbin brother stretched about six feet five inches, and their mom wasn’t far behind.
Lubbock was the biggest city in the south plains, the Hub of the Plains, as they liked to say. KLLL, the station started up
by the Corbins, hit that town like a truckload of geese. They bought it, hired me, and there we were, shit-on-the-boot cowboys
ready to take on the competition. KDAV had already staked out their claim; they were country, and we were country. There was
nothing left but to go to war.
We started using the station’s studio as a production center. I taught them how to do jingles, and we prided ourselves in
being airtight. In those days, KDAV would be very loose and sloppy. “Here’s Hank Williams,” they’d say, and there’d be some
dead space and then the record would start. We’d cue that record right up to the groove and let it go when we finished talking.
KDAV read all their commercials; we produced them.
We didn’t make fun as much as cut up about being country. We used it as humor. Instead of “Friends and neighbors, y’all,”
we’d say “Hi there, all you friends and neighbors out in radiolint.”
We did remotes from local grocery stores and meat markets. I’d sing a little, and talk to the owners, Morris Fruit and Vegetables
at 704 East Broadway, or his competitor, George Sewall. Ten pounds of flour for forty-nine cents, twenty-five pounds of potatoes
for just seventy-nine cents, sausage at three pounds for a dollar, mustard greens at ten cents a bunch; where you can save
yourself a bushel of money, friend, on good vittles. One time I said, “Come on down to George’s Fruit and Vegetables. You
can’t beat George’s meat.” The phones lit up pretty bright after that one, and those cards and letters kept comin’ in.
Nobody knew what to make of us. People went crazy because of all these “hillbillies” up at the station. The secretaries in
the Great Plains Life Building would walk past on their way to the restaurant at the end of the hall and they’d stare through
the glass at us. I think they liked what they saw, and we’d be looking back at them, especially Ray “Slim” Corbin, who was
my best friend for many years. We were wilder than guineas.
Hi Pockets joined us from KDAV, and he became one of the four main K-triple-L disc jockeys. It was a daytime station, though
we used to have a guy who was a holdover with the
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