Country Strong. My shot at TV romance. John Prine.

The human mind’s ability to recall is a quirky, fascinating thing. A sensation in the present can provoke a memory from years gone by like it happened yesterday. The slightest whiff of a scent from childhood takes you back to adolescence like you never left. 

The smell of fresh cut grass takes me back to my grandparents front yard where a smaller, blonder version of me was taking hacks off my dad, trying to immolate the swings of Sammy Sosa, Mark McGuire and Ken Griffey Jr. A taste of strawberry and I’m 12-years old again, fawning over the high school girls in bikinis and charging too many virgin strawberry daiquiris to my parent’s hotel room while on Spring Break in St. Pete Beach. 

I assume for most of you, like me, these sensory time hops don’t happen every day, but when they do, they hit you like a sneeze, most of them coming and going so quickly that we almost don’t realize they happen. But sometimes, they hit us and they linger for a while, forcing us to confront those memories. Sometimes they are happy thoughts, sometimes sad, sometimes funny. And sometimes those memories leave you thinking — Damn, I was an idiot. 

The latter is exactly what happened to me the other night as I was laying in bed watching one of my favorite guilty pleasure movies — Country Strong.  I’ve seen it roughly ten times and each time I finish it I’m torn between two schools of thought: 

1.) It’s an easy, entertaining watch with a solid soundtrack and it doesn’t require a whole lot of thinking. And… 

2.) What the hell was that!? 

If you haven’t seen the movie or have the slightest clue as to what the hell I’m talking about:

Gwyneth Paltrow is a disgraced country starlet who falls in love with her rehab facility’s janitor, an aspiring singer-songwriter played by Garrett Hedlund. You know how millionaires are always falling in love with custodial types? It’s that same old song and dance in the film.

Anyway, Paltrow’s tone deaf husband, a bearded and well-coiffed Tim McGraw, inexplicably yanks Paltrow out of rehab to do a round of public relations-rebounding arena shows in Texas, but not without Paltrow bringing Hedlund and up-and-coming pop-country teeny bopper Leighton Meester along for the ride as opening acts. Something resembling drama ensues for the next two hours. 

Hedlund is by far and away the best part of the movie. His character, Beau Hutton, is one of my all-time favorite movie characters. He is the Nashville country anti-establishment songwriter not concerned with fame. He scoffs and turns his nose up at “Friends in Low Places.” He just wants to make a living writing good songs, even after a taste of stardom. He admires Townes Van Zandt, Patsy Cline and Merle Haggard. I imagine his character probably loved John Prine, too.  Most of the songs he sings in the film are actually Hayes Carll tunes, which makes me admire him more. He is mischievous, stubborn, funny, ruggedly handsome, and big-hearted despite his hardened armor.  

I met Garrett Hedlund once. He popped into the midtown dive bar I was working at a few years back. It was summertime, middle of the week, and I was configuring my tips into the computer by the stairs that lead to the upstairs bar. It was late afternoon, so the place was empty except for me and my manager, Rob. Hedlund startled me when he slapped me on the shoulder on his way up the stairs. I thought it was Rob about to tell me a joke. 

“Hey, brother! That cigarette machine still up stairs?”

I stood there for a second wondering why this extremely handsome man was wearing a jean jacket in mid-July. Then I uttered, “Uh. Yeah, dude.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“No problem.”

He jogged upstairs in his Canadian tuxedo and boots. Thirty-seconds he later came back downstairs, a dart pursed between his lips. 

“You’re a good man. Have a good one, brother”

“You too, dude.”

Then he lit that cigarette as he walked out the door into the Nashville summer sun, clad in denim. It all happened so quickly. It couldn’t have been more than a minute of total time. But it did happen and Garrett Hedlund seemed nice and cool even though he spoke roughly 15 words to me. 

The moral of that story — I bought a jean jacket. 

Anyway…

I’m laying in bed, hate watching this movie, trying to figure out for the tenth time if Paltrow is convincing enough to play a six-time Grammy winner. I’m still not sure. As one scene fades and the films jumps to an establishing shot of a concert crowd starting to form outside of a venue that is allegedly somewhere in Austin, Texas (but is actually in Nashville), the opening guitar riff of a song I used to know pops out of my TV speakers. 

I can’t pinpoint the first time I heard Brett Eldredge’s “It Ain’t Gotta Be Love,” but for whatever reason, 23-year old me loved it. Like every 23-year old American, I was mostly a complete idiot, naive to the real world. I was living at home with my Dad and Paps in Indianapolis, working as a before-and-after school site director for the YMCA. I mean, really living the dream. 

Eldredge’s second single was never a big hit, topping out at No. 46 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart back in summer of 2011. But it was fun and upbeat, a great pop-country tune to pregame with friends before a night out at The 8 Second Saloon or one of the countless summer country concerts of my early 20s. It was never included on any of his studio albums and I don’t think it’s available for streaming anywhere right now. At this point, Eldredge was still a relative unknown to most country music fans. But however I came across his song, I loved it. It was actually one of the few songs that I bought on iTunes, along with Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll Part II.” I sincerely apologize for the latter. 

As the scene flips and “It Ain’t Gotta Be Love” pumps out of the movie, my auditory memory kicks in — and I lose it. I’m rolling around in my bed, cackling and howling laughing at myself. For one hilarious moment, that opening riff took me back to eight years ago, back to oft-hungover 23-year old me and the time that I was selected to be on a CMT dating show with Brett Eldredge. 

Let me clarify. I was not chosen to go on a date with Brett Eldredge. (Talk to me when you get a Top 10 single, Brett.) He had selected me to go on a blind date with another single contestant — a lovely young gal named Rachel from Alabama — for a show that he was hosting and pitching to the folks at CMT. 

If memory serves me correctly, it was a Saturday night in late April or early May 2012. As usual, my friends and I were enjoying too many Long Island Iced Teas at Kilroy’s in downtown Indy. Eight bucks for a pitcher of any type of Long Island that you could imagine is almost criminal on so many levels. Such nights lead to many, many poor decisions by yours truly, the runt of said friend group. 

On this particular Saturday, I had been scrolling Twitter while at Kilroy’s when I came across a tweet from Eldredge’s account announcing he was hosting a new, blind date, reality-TV show that he would host. But this show was going to be different from other dating shows as Eldredge would not only host it, but he would also be playing matchmaker, choosing who the lucky guy and girl contestants would be and planning out their entire day together. The couple would have no idea who one another were until the day of the date nor would they have any clue as to what the date would consist of. 

With the encouragement of my pals and lawd-knows how much liquid courage, I threw my name in the virtual hat. The process was simple. Log on to Brett’s website, submit a picture, tell a little about yourself and why you should be on the show. To this day I have zero recollection as to what I wrote about myself or why I felt like I would have been a viable contestant. I mean, it’s not like I was any sort of catch at the time. 

“My name is Jake. I’m 23. I used to be athletic. I live at home. I sometimes go to college. I work with kids. And, uh, dollar beer nights are kinda my thing. Date me?” 

What I’ll never forget, though, is the picture I submitted along with my bio. Sometime between 2AM and 3:30AM on that night, er morning, one of my pals let me borrow his white Blackhawks sweater (jersey). 

That’s it. That was the picture. 

I stood in my friend’s hallway, clothed in nothing but a white Blackhawks sweater. Boxers, no pants, beer in hand, sunglasses on my face. Hit send. 

Sadly for you, dear reader, there is no evidence of this picture. I looked and looked, leaving no stone unturned to find this self-incriminating photo, but to no avail. The funny thing is, the last person to see it was likely Brett Eldredge himself. 

A week or two later, I get an email in my inbox from a rep at The Warner Music Group in Nashville. I had been selected as a finalist for the debut of Brett’s new dating show, Take Me Home Tonight, and that he would be hand-selecting the first two blind date contestants within a few days. I have zero recollection of my reaction.

What I do remember was getting a phone call the ensuing Friday afternoon. I was at work and likely throwing dodgeballs at grade school kid’s faces when my phone vibrated in my pocket. My Blackberry Torch showed a number with a 615-area code. I answered. 

“Hi. Is this Jake? This is …(I don’t remember her name). I’m Brett Eldredge’s manager. Got a minute?…Brett saw your entry for his show and thought it was hilarious. He picked you to be the first male contestant. We shoot next Wednesday morning at Arrington Vineyards in Nashville. Can you make it?”

It was in this moment that I realized if the show was five days away from filming, I was either the only dude that had actually submitted anything or they were getting down to the bottom of the barrel of entries. If I remember correctly, I think the rep had said I would have to pay for my own travel and hotel room. Sadly, I was out, because, ya know — money. My TV debut would have to wait another for another three years. 

Jump back to the other night — I started to wonder what had happened with that show I could have been on? I started digging and outside of a few introductory press releases I didn’t find much. Apparently CMT never picked up the show and it died after the initial episode which was released on Brett’s website and YouTube. 

But, I did find the one and only episode on YouTube, broken up into three small videos. And it is…well, let’s just say that I think it’s fair to say that I might have fared a little bit better than the poor fella that eventually got the gig. 

Take a look for yourself at Episode One. 

It’s obvious from the jump that Rachel from Alabama wanted nothing to do with Jared from Wyoming. It was probably white button-up with a red undershirt look that did him in. Or the mohawk. Or the star-gauge earrings. Or the single cuff-sleeve being rolled up. I don’t know. I just know that I’m not bitter about any of this. I swear.

The look on her face when he said he listened to The Fugees —which is totally fine— is absolutely incredible. How is his answer not instinctively a Brett Eldredge song? If Jared said that he collected Beanie Babies as a hobby, he would have gotten the exact same reaction from Rachel. He should have seen that look of dread, read the situation, and walked out the door immediately. Know when it’s not your day, dude. Don’t crash and burn on TV.

The rest of the date goes to hell when Brett Eldredge surprises the couple, doing our friend Jared absolutely no favors whatsoever. Rachel’s body language immediately changes from GET ME OUT OF HERE into full-on Flirt Mode as soon as Brett opens his mouth (“I’m a big workout fanatic”) with that faux Southern draw (he’s from Illinois). Meanwhile, poor Jared is left to wither and die on the vine in front of our eyes.

To add insult to injury, Brett then points out Jared’s embarrassment to the idea of pole dancing as a second date. “You got, this right?” as he points at Jared. “Oh, he’s turning red in the face, big time!” 

Bad form, Brett. Bad form. 

It’s at this point in time that an InfoWars-type theory formed in my head. My hunch? I think, Brett was swooping in to steal Rachel away from Jared. Maybe the whole show was actually a ploy for Brett to meet Rachel all along. Maybe Brett was using Jared to prop himself up, to make himself look more attractive! Maybe Brett wanted to find the biggest sap that would volunteer themselves for a blind-date TV show hosted by a handsome up-and-coming country singer, and cut their legs out from under them to find a date for himself! I could have been that sap! I’m on to your games Brett Eldredge! 

Anyway — you can guess how the rest of the date went, or watch for yourself on YouTube. It went about as expected.

Jared wore low-cut Chuck Taylor’s to the pole dancing studio where his pliability was equivalent to that of Larry King after a hip replacement. Larry still would have had a little more enthusiasm than Jared, but I digress. 

The couple finished off the night at Brett’s show in downtown Nashville, where Jared threw up a Hail Mary at the buzzer by waiting until the last song of the night to ask Rachel to dance. At least at some point, one of the show’s producers wisely told our boy to ditch the red undershirt. 

The night ended with the couple sort-of hugging, Jared half-heartedly mentioning wanting to hang out again before giving up all hope in the same sentence with a meager and defeated “good luck.”

I like to think that both of our contestants learned a lot from their blind-date experience. Hopefully they are both happily married, living the life of their dreams. I imagine that Jared is probably living in some slice of suburbia somewhere with a couple kids and a wife, working on his motorcycles, and paying the bills as one hell of a graphic designer. 

And Rachel, well — I like to think after attending roughly two dozen bachelorette parties in downtown Nashville, Rachel met the love of her life inside the three levels of pure hell that is Honky Tonk Central on lower Broadway. 

Look, I’m not saying that had I been able to participate in Take Me Home Tonight, I could have saved the show. I’m not even claiming my presence would have helped the show survive past the pilot episode. All I’m getting at is that I would have rocked the hell out of that pole dancing class and American viewers would have been better for it. I’ll die on that hill — well, pole.  

Anyway, that’s my goofy story. I hope you laughed at my expense, a least a little bit. 

Keep staying safe and keep washing those hands!

WHAT I’M LISTENING TO

Earlier this week, Nashville and the world lost one of the greatest songwriters to ever pick up a pen and a guitar. John Prine wasn’t just one of the best to ever do it, he was your favorite songwriter’s favorite songwriter. While we mourn his loss, especially here in the Music City, we know that his music left the world a better, more understanding place. The best way I can describe it, John Prine’s music made you feel like he was your friend.