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Vince Gill on Truck Songs, Clapton & Women's 'Unfair' Role in Country

Country statesman sits down with Rolling Stone Country for an intimate, in-depth conversation

Vince Gill
Jim Wright
June 4, 2014 3:40 PM ET

It's Memorial Day in Nashville and Vince Gill isn't enjoying the national holiday with a day off. It's a Monday night, and as is his custom every week, Gill is ambling onto a stage with 10 other musicians to play two sets of Western swing classics and originals for a regularly sold-out crowd at club 3rd and Lindsley. Gill joined the Time Jumpers four years ago, adding one more qualifier to a remarkably full career as a solo artist, guitar ace, songwriter and producer of albums by Ashley Monroe and LeAnn Rimes. At just 57, he's already been inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame, won 18 Country Music Association Awards and holds the record for most Grammy Award wins — 20 — for a male country artist.

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Later in the evening, the Time Jumpers' de facto leader, fiddler Kenny Sears, will introduce Gill as the "resident superstar" of the group of moonlighting session players. "He's not your usual superstar who knows three chords and has a capo. He's a guitar player," Sears tells Rolling Stone Country. "Vince is one of those guys that could have easily been a studio musician and actually he says that that's what he always wanted to be. He didn't set out to be a star. It just sort of happened. He always wanted to be a guitar player in a really good band."

More specifically, Gill could have been singing about getting his money for nothing and his chicks for free: Mark Knopfler once invited the equally nimble player to join Dire Straits. Gill declined, determined to carve out a spot for himself in country music. Thanks to hits like "When I Call Your Name," "I Still Believe in You" and "Go Rest High on That Mountain," he succeeded, and along the way become the Grail Knight of traditional country music, dedicated to protecting and preserving the treasured sounds of old Nashville.  

"Vince likes what's good, whether it's new or old or in between," Sears says. "I think he really is a torchbearer for protecting what is good."

Two weeks earlier, however, Gill, a native Oklahoman who married pop-gospel singer Amy Grant in 2000, sounds like a bemused observer in the great debate over what is and isn't country music. Wearing a baseball hat with a peace sign emblem and dressed in madras plaid shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, Gill makes himself comfortable on a couch in the Rolling Stone Country office.

"I'm too much of a musician to lay claim to what is and isn't," he says, reaching into his pocket to unwrap a peppermint candy. "That's the beauty of it. You have to look at a young person today and understand their influences were nothing like mine. I'm almost 60 years old. And so 50 years ago what taught me how to play and sing, it's gone. It's in our history and that's great, and if you go find it and learn it, you'll be better for it. But you take a young kid like Brett Eldredge or Kip Moore, guess who their mentors are? Tim McGraw and Toby Keith, and the biggest people from 15 years ago. So I'm not ever going to be critical of a young person that doesn't know [country's] history. I didn't either."

Yet Gill did extend a challenge to a country music industry bloated with rural clichés and tropes when accepting a career achievement award at the 2012 ACM Honors ceremony in Nashville. "I feel inundated these days with music that's telling me how country it is," he said, his voice full of emotion. "And what I long for, more than anything, is to hear how country it is."

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It's been two years. Has country risen to that challenge?
No. But I think the statement, it borderlines on being that guy that I'm not crazy about either.

Meaning you don't want to be the policeman of country?
No. I don't want to be that guy. I'll do it with what I choose to do, but I don't need to be the mouthpiece. In saying that, all I know is that historically, if you look at [country] throughout its entirety, this has always been going on. It always strays away and then comes back, strays away, comes back. There's no rule to how it has to be, how it should be.

It is ironic though that its lyrical message is beating you about [how country it is], but its musical message is nothing related to it at all. To me, it's a mixed message. I feel like it's fair to have an opinion, it's fair to like what you like. The weird thing is if you make a comment like that, I think that the young generation takes it as criticism. And it doesn't have an ounce of criticism intended. You'll meet some of these kids and you'll think, "This is the greatest guy in the world. How can you not like this guy?" You may not be crazy about his music, and that's fair, but it doesn't need to be personal.

It's just musical criticism.
Well, yeah. I think any time somebody is not nuts about what you do, it's critical, and I get that. But at the same time, I just want to go, 'I'm not being critical, it's just not for me. It is for you, and I'm cheering you on.' I want these kids to live their dreams, want them to be musical, to do what's in their hearts. I don't have anything but a cheerleader brain for young people. I understand how evolution works, how this business works, how it's always worked. And that's the way it's supposed to happen.

At May's All 4 the Hall benefit concert, which you co-hosted with Keith Urban, some truly classic songs were performed in a night dedicated to the stories behind them. Deana Carter talked about "Strawberry Wine," Lee Ann Womack sang "Little Past Little Rock" and Ronnie Milsap did "Smoky Mountain Rain." Where did an artist like Brantley Gilbert, who performed the hip-hop-influenced "Bottoms Up," fit in there? He seemed a bit like the odd man out.
He [was] a better fit last year, with the rebels and outlaws [theme]. But what's fun for me is to watch how the people respond to him. He had the Number One song in the country going on, and you watch them all out there, they know all the words. That's very telling.

You and Keith were the house band, but he had his producer Dann Huff with him on guitar.
Yeah, he was afraid me and Keith couldn't play that song. [Laughs]

But I get that. I do get that. And younger artists especially, they're not as adaptable. I've done this for 40 years, and jumped onstage and played with anybody and everybody, and I'm a decent musician so I can kind of plug in anywhere and make my way. But a lot of people can't — and that's not a knock at all. But they like the comfort of knowing what's going to be around them, and I totally get that. But I think [pauses]…on one side of it you wish they would be more amenable to it being loose and be a little messed up. That's the point of the evening. It's not, 'Let's go be perfect. Let's go do perfect performances that sound just like the record.' Let's go have a fun time, and it's going to be a little bit different because different guys are playing your stuff. But once again, I understand that security factor of [wanting your] guy being up there because he knows what [you're] doing.

So what's your take on the "bro country" phenomenon?
I don't like it very much... But everybody wants to knock all these songs, and, yeah, they're a lot the same, but go back to the early Sixties and there were songs about trucks then too.

Eighteen-wheeler songs by Red Sovine.
Yeah, they were trucks with CB radios in them! [Laughs] I don’t think it does anybody any good to bash anything that is going on. That doesn’t serve much of a purpose. I had a visit with an executive who runs a record company. He was bemoaning yadda yadda, and I looked at him and said, "Don't you get it? It's your fault." He said, "What do you mean?" "Everything you're saying you don't like, you're signing, you're recording. Just do your part." If you don't like it, quit jumping on the apple cart because you think it will work.

But you know what I do like about that generation? How much they like each other. How much camaraderie they have. My generation didn't have it.

No?
Not like that. Their compatibility, their willingness to embrace each other, be friends, all of that stuff. They're very inclusive of all things and everything. And I admire the hell out of that. I wish my generation had more of that. But of the people who were really knocking it out of the park, it didn't. If you want to take that core of artists throughout the Eighties and Nineties, do I go pal around with Garth or Alan or George? No. But the generation before me, Jimmy Dickens was going fishing with Porter Wagoner, and Mel Tillis was taking so and so… They had that.

Why wasn't that prevalent in the Nineties then?
There was so much at stake. It was the biggest era of country. There was this wealth of record sales and attention, and all the TV things. Everything fired on all cylinders. And it was the biggest-selling period of all. No one wanted to upset that applecart.

Our current era is big too, but…
It pales in comparison. In just the straight numbers. Taylor Swift might sell 4 million records and Shania Twain sold 40. It's that meteoric kind of success, that the whole world knows, every radio station, pop and country, are playing those records. Hold them side by side and it's night and day.

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This pop standard had been previously recorded by dozens of artists, including by Bing Crosby 33 years before Otis Redding, who usually wrote his own songs, cut it. It was actually Sam Cooke’s 1964 take, which Redding’s manager played for Otis, that inspired the initially reluctant singer to take on the song. Isaac Hayes, then working as Stax Records’ in-house producer, handled the arrangement, and Booker T. and the MG’s were the backing band. Redding’s soulful version begins quite slowly and tenderly itself before mounting into a rousing, almost religious “You’ve gotta hold her, squeeze her …” climax. “I did that damn song you told me to do,” Redding told his manager. “It’s a brand new song now.”

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