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    Family, Friends and Fans
    Family, Friends and Fans
    Family, Friends and Fans
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    Family, Friends and Fans

    By Jason Aldean and Tom Carter

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    About this ebook

    Country music star Jason Aldean spent his adolescent years singing in rowdy bars, unaware that they would be his first steps toward achieving icon status.  Riding in rickety vans from show to show with his dad, the troubadour juggled his schedule to accommodate school, baseball, working for spare money and playing in dives.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMacon Music, LLC
    Release dateSep 1, 2017
    ISBN9780692941522
    Family, Friends and Fans
    Author

    Jason Aldean

    After twenty years as an award-winning newspaper and magazine reporter, journalist Tom Carter moved to Nashville, Tennessee, in 1989 to help celebrities write their autobiographies. Two years later, Carter's second co-written book, Memories: The Autobiography of Ralph Emery, rose to number-two on the New York Times best-sellers list. It was the first of seven Times best-sellers he would pen before the end of the 1990s. He also had two USA Today best-sellers. By 1996, he had written more best-selling memoirs during the '90s than any other writer in America, according to People magazine. That title stood through the decade's end. The new millennium saw two works of ghostwritten fiction by Carter, Holiday In Your Heart and A Mother's Gift. Each spawned a prime-time, made-for-TV movie on CBS and ABC. Carter's celebrity clients include Reba McEntire, Britney Spears, Merle Haggard, Glen Campbell, Ronnie Milsap, George Jones, Tammy Wynette, LeAnn Rimes, Ralph Emery and Larry Jones, among others. Oklahoma Associated Press has honored Carter, naming him "News Writer of the Year" and "Columnist of the Year." He is also a former reporter for Time and People magazines. Carter has been a professional writer for 46 years.

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      Book preview

      Family, Friends and Fans - Jason Aldean

      Beginnings

      I’ve always been somewhat of a loner, even in front of 50,000 people or on coast-to-coast television. I was equally alone inside a school classroom where I wanted to learn only one thing.

      What time will class end?

      My interests weren’t in textbooks. I didn’t care about their contents. Why should I? I didn’t know who wrote them!

      If you think that sounds outrageous, it’s not when compared to many other experiences in my youth and childhood. Experience, I stress, really is the best teacher. And many things I’ve been taught have led to permanent conclusions.

      My first lesson was that love begins whenever and wherever it wants.

      I hadn’t been born the day my dad, Barry Williams, then 17, was walking though the Pendleton Homes public housing complex in South Macon, Georgia, where he encountered the former Debbie Wooten, 15, my eventual mother. Dad had found Mom and her mother, Annie Mae Wooten, stalled in a station wagon. It was attached by a rope to an old car trying to pull it.

      Trying to impress my mother, Dad offered to steer the junker while Annie Mae drove the lead car.

      Neither woman told Dad that the pull car had no brake lights. Each time Annie Mae hit her brakes, my dad slammed into the rear of the pull car!

      When that two-car motorcade reached the repair shop, both vehicles needed work! I guess you could say my future parents’ very first outing was filled with collisions.

      As was their future, it turned out. My mom and dad divorced when I was three, but they’ve remained friends to this day, 37 years after parting.

      When I was four, my father met the former Vivian Melo, a Cuban who eventually became my stepmother. She was one of six sisters who showed me that love flourishes even more among large numbers.

      Vivian’s large family introduced me to a new culture laced with noisy happiness. My Cuban grandparents, Abuela and Abuelo Melo, were hosts to loud family gatherings, affectionate chaos among two parents, six sisters, their husbands and all of their children!

      They were like the Walton Family on too much caffeine!

      Everyone seemingly talked louder than everyone else. As a pre-schooler, I sometimes thought they were arguing, and on the brink of brawling! Not true. They were just a fun family whose members were much noisier than the silence at my mom’s.

      To this day, I can hear the Cubans’ carryings-on, and smell the aromas of roasted pork, black beans and rice and fried plantains filling Abuela’s kitchen.

      Those people were hard-working and obeyed the law—their own.

      Abuelo kept 30 illegal fighting roosters inside a backyard pen.

      I wondered why the police didn’t see and hear those crowing birds? Why didn’t lawmen notice there were no hens and no eggs? Clearly, that pen was a dirt and wire training camp whose feathered soldiers fought to the death.

      How did Abuelo get away with that?

      On weekends, he’d put two fighting roosters inside a burlap sack, and hand-carry them to organized fights. In each skirmish, one of his roosters, or its opponent, bled to death from razors attached to both birds’ feet.

      Those fights were blood baths that would make today’s animal rights activists cringe. But I knew nothing about the rights of animals when I was that small.

      I always knew when one of Abuelo’s roosters was killed. We ate it that night for dinner!

      Inside the free-spirited Melo family, I also met Papo, a step-cousin who was two years older than I was. He was foulmouthed and taught me how to cuss. He was a hard-fisted fighter and took no guff from anyone. It seemed natural that everyone assumed he’d someday live outside the law and behind bars.

      Instead, to our surprise, he became a deputy sheriff and holds that job to this day! I wonder if he arrests owners of fighting roosters?

      When Dad, Mom and I were at home, I fell in love with another kind of sound. Music. Sometimes it was loud, but it always had purpose. Enjoyment.

      About that same time, I found audio companionship in cassette tapes. Each song yielded the singer’s feelings, and I could always find a song with feelings that matched my own.

      I was an only child but I was never entirely alone. Music was my playmate. So what if I couldn’t speak to it?

      It spoke to me.

      My dad showed me how to handle the tapes and how to take special care with vinyl records. I carefully held the vinyl so as not to rub its surface. Dad had shown me how such rubbing scratched the music.

      Those delicate tapes and records became miniature trophies in my small hands.

      Recordings were great, but live music had its own excitement. One of the first emotional rushes I ever felt was from hearing Dad and his brothers, Uncle Ray and Uncle Roy perform. I was blown away by their bloodline harmonies, and the way they coaxed rhythm from chords played on their guitars.

      I yearned to do that.

      So Dad drew six horizontal lines on paper. Each represented a guitar string. There, he drew large dots that represented my fingers and where they should go among vertical lines. Those lines represented guitar frets.

      I used that diagram to place my real fingers on a real guitar neck. I practiced that position daily while Dad was at work.

      Dad taught me two more chords using the same system. In maybe a week, I learned a three-chord pattern that allowed me to accompany myself on guitar as I sang.

      My first rendition was The Cowboy Rides Away by George Strait.

      I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was my persistence that had paid off—my determination was more vital than any talent I might have possessed at that young age.

      Now, while I do understand there is awesome value in talent and new ideas, I’ve foremostly learned the lesson that nothing is as productive as persistence. Nothing.

      Later in these pages, I’ll talk about my persistence in staying the course when pursuing a music recording deal. Then, as now, hundreds of singers in Nashville wanted the same thing.

      They just didn’t want it as long as I.

      That same brand of drive intensified when I was thirteen or fourteen years old, and Dad bought me my first guitar, a cheap Bentley whose strings were too high off the neck, and wouldn’t stay in tune. I actually had to tune that guitar after every song.

      Dad told me, If you learn to play this Bentley, I’ll buy you a better guitar.

      Those words may stand as the most valuable proposition ever spoken to me in my entire life!

      Today, that old Bentley and my second guitar hang on the wall in my Man Cave, that place where I process the future by recalling the past, among other

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