Photos and Memories

The Ballad of Troy Hess

by Marty Stuart

[Foreward From Troy Hess’ upcoming book ]

I first saw Troy Hess on a cold November Saturday night in 1972. He was in front of Lawrence Brothers Record Shop on Lower Broadway in Nashville, dressed in a white Hank Williams-styled suit, singing a Jimmie Rodgers song. There was an enthusiastic crowd gathered around, listening to him sing his songs and tell his stories. Troy was seven years old and I was fourteen. In September of the same year I had moved to Nashville to work with Lester Flatt. On any given Saturday night when we weren’t on the road, Lester Flatt and the Nashville Grass could be seen at the Ryman Auditorium, playing two Grand Ole Opry shows. On break between one of those Grand Ole Opry spots, I went on a vinyl buying mission with a visit to Lawrence Brothers, Buckley’s and the Ernest Tubb Record Shop in mind. That’s when I encountered the Little Troy Hess experience and he totally captivated me. On subsequent Opry Saturdays, weather permitting, my in-between shows routine became, hitting Lower Broadway, grabbing a bite to eat, taking in the sights, and shopping for records. I always hoped to see the little kid who sang old country songs. Sometimes he was there, sometimes he wasn’t.

Lower Broadway in those times could have given Babylon a run for its money. Decadence was the word. Today’s version of Lower Broadway is a little more sanitized, homogenized version of the same old scoundrel that the place truly is. However, in the early 1970s, the scene was that of XXX peep shows, winos, and street urchins who were the seediest of the seedy. This menagerie of characters moved up and down the street, under the cover of darkness, like busy rats. It was a scene underscored by the sound of blue collar country music blasting out of the doors of honky tonks with names such as Demon’s Den, The Wheel, and Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge.

When I hit town, I quickly got to know several of the kids who were regarded as insiders from country music’s family circle. Tanya Tucker was becoming a huge star, Grandpa Jones’ son Mark and I hit it off as roots music pals, Lorrie Morgan and Pam Tillis were fellow Opry brats, Hank Snow’s steel guitarist, Kayton Roberts’ son Louie could out sing even the most seasoned of pros. There was Steve Wariner, who was a teen idol starring in Dottie West and Bob Luman’s bands, along with several other assorted hopeful singers, fiddlers, square dancers, steel guitar, banjo, mandolin, and guitar whiz kids to be found hanging around in the wings of the Grand Ole Opry. What we all shared in common was acceptance by way of decree bestowed upon us by some of country music’s most titanic and royal figures. As Opry kids, we all lived in the warmth of the industry glow. Not Troy Hess. He was an independent, a lone soldier. Under the watchful eye of his Mom and Dad, Troy took his hard country songs to the street and sang them to the restless people, the tourists, and citizens of the night owl society. And he did it with dignity. He was an ambassador who flew the flag for authentic country music from the most unlikely of places. Even as a kid, Troy Hess stood out as a unique star. I remember thinking one night as I watched him sing his song “Please Don’t Go Topless, Mother”, he could play on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry and no doubt, wreck the house. But, I also thought, none of us Opry kids could fill his shoes down here on Lower Broadway. Troy probably thought nothing of it at the time, but night after night he was forging a legacy that money couldn’t buy. He was loved by the business owners and the clientele alike. They all claimed him as one of their own. Troy Hess was indeed a touchstone figure of the city and its times.

1974 will always be remembered as the year that the Grand Ole Opry pulled out of downtown Nashville and moved to its new home on the north side of the city. The show took with it a major portion of the tourist trade, and the Saturday night excitement that for decades it had generated for the businesses of Lower Broadway. Eventually, the entire scene dried up, and the loveable characters that had been so much of the Opry’s lore moved on. The neon signs grew dimmer, and Little Troy Hess vanished into the night. Troy Hess lived on in my mind as one of the legends of those times in Music City and I often wondered what became of him.

In 2018, at a concert hall in Houston, Texas, a security guard brought a hand-written letter to my tour bus, written to me by Troy Hess. The heart of the letter spoke of a 1928 Martin guitar that had been in the Hess family for decades. The guitar had originally belonged to the Father of Country Music, Jimmie Rodgers. Troy’s grandfather Cap Festo Hess was one of ten fellow railroad workers who worked alongside of Jimmie on the trains. The well documented story goes that Cap and the boys pitched in to buy their buddy a good guitar to help him get started. After Jimmie Rodgers’ death, his wife Carrie gave the guitar back to the Hess family. The guitar had been stored in not the greatest of conditions, in the humid, flood-prone city of Houston for seven years. Troy came to believe that the guitar needed to live in a more suitable environment. He had heard of a country music cultural center that I’m working to establish in my hometown of Philadelphia, Mississippi and thought perhaps that I might be interested in purchasing the old treasure.

We reconnected by way of the telephone and finally, after all these years, formally met on June 5, 2019 at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. The event was a show that I’ve been doing since 2002 called Marty Stuart’s Late Night Jam. Troy and I took care of our guitar business backstage, I then welcomed him to center stage where he passed Jimmie Rodgers’ guitar on to me. The two of us performed his song “My Sweet Maria”. Troy received a great ovation. The Nashville Tennessean newspaper covered Troy Hess’ visit to the city with a front page headline that read, Ghosts of Nashville, The Return of Troy Hess. At the end of the evening, it could be said that Troy Hess finally played the stage of the Ryman Auditorium, I went home with Jimmie Rodgers’ guitar, and two former country music kids finally got to shake hands and become pals.

Troy went home to Texas to complete his record The Tune in Dan’s Café, a concept inspired from an old Night Gallery episode. I totally get his vision. The television version centers around a haunted jukebox that plays a particular song over and over in Dan’s Cafe. A similar type of place to Dan’s would have been Linebaugh’s Restaurant which was just a few doors down from Troy’s station at Lawrence Brothers Record Shop. Little Troy Hess must have been a walking, talking ray of sunshine when he walked through the doors of the place. The night manager was named Don Day. Troy remembers him as a kind and gentle soul who showed his love and appreciation by “slipping me countless Cokes, bags of Cheetos, and Three Musketeer bars at no charge.” On any given night, Linebaugh’s had a Twilight Zone vibe about it. The place bordered on the surreal. It was a terminal of sorts that hosted a seemingly endless parade of rogue poets, songwriters, faded old rhinestoned country stars, regular folks, pickers, truckers, hookers, pushers, hucksters, cops, cabbies, shipwrecked Christians, talent scouts, up and coming singing sensations, people on the way on, people on their way out. The air in Linebaugh’s was filled with countless stories of love, heartbreak, d-i-v-o-r-c-e, gambling, rambling, legal matters, illegal matters, run-ins with the law, mother, home, heaven, and hell. A dime-hungry jukebox played the same old country songs over and over. The twang in the room was a thick as the grease on the walls. But the rascally old place was alive, brimming with the spirit of country music, the kind of country music that Troy Hess and Jimmie Rodgers know all about. What makes this project special is, the songs are a subtotal of Troy Hess’ life. They are built upon many of the classic themes of traditional country music, and they are presented here by a life-long ambassador of the culture. There are some ghosts here as well, but then again, that is to be expected on a record where the Twilight Zone and country music collide. It’s all here on The Tune in Dan’s Café.

Marty Stuart
Congress of Country Music
Philadelphia, Mississippi

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