It took more than 40 years, but Bill Anderson (ABJ '59) has now joined the likes of Hank Williams and Roy Acuff in the Country Music Hall of Fame

B Y - R I C H A R D - H Y A T T

his building is new and modern, somewhere between two blocks and two centuries removed from the Ryman, the mothership of the Grand Ole Opry for nearly 50 years. And here comes Bill Anderson, entering through the side door of the Country Music Hall of Fame's new digs. After this evening is over, Whisperin' Bill will be able to walk through the front door.

Like the two buildings in downtown Nashville, Anderson is a picking, singing contrast. He hit town 43 years ago with a guitar and a suitcase filled with songs and dreams. Quicker than you can say "City Lights," he's a senior statesman, with one foot on the stage of the new, corporate-owned Opry and the other down on Music Row, making music with the young guys in hats.

Standing there in his countrified tuxedo, Anderson is ready to smile and ready to cry. In a few minutes, he will see for the first time a plaque with his name engraved on it hanging in the Country Music Hall of Fame. He'll be part of the industry's unbroken circle, next to Hank Williams, near Roy Acuff and in sight of Cousin Minnie Pearl. This is a night that validates the Nudie suits, the drafty National Guard Armories, and too many late-night bus rides.

"Funny you should say that," says Anderson. "I almost used that word—validate—in my acceptance speech. I went downtown to Nashville a few weeks ago to an attorney's office. When I got ready to leave, the receptionist said, 'Did you park in the garage? Then let me validate your parking ticket.' It struck me that going into the Hall of Fame is like having my parking ticket validated. It's like they're saying to me, 'You've been parked here 40 years. Let us stamp your ticket.'"

This ceremony culminates a roller-coaster year of emotions for Anderson, who celebrated his 40th anniversary at the Opry. He was selected to the hall in late summer and introduced as one of 12 new inductees in October. In November, he won a CMA Award for his contributions to Brad Paisley's recording of "Too Country," a song Anderson co-wrote.

That's the good stuff. The bad includes the death of his mother, who passed away in August, and a career setback for his only son, who had dreamed of being an airline pilot since he was a toddler—a dream that was shattered by industry cutbacks in the aftermath of Sept. 11.

Roy Acuff had his yo-yo. Cousin Minnie Pearl had the price tag on her hat. Ernest Tubb had the familiar message on his guitar. Dolly parton had her obvious assets. But Bill Anderson is just . . . "Whisperin' Bill"

couple of hours have now passed since Anderson was feted at the $250-a-plate hall of fame banquet, and people are lining up to shake his hand. One poses a question to the former UGA journalism major.

"Wonder what Dean Drewry would say about all this?"

Anderson laughs, the delight starting at the pointy toes of his cowboy boots and rolling all the way up to the familiar wet look on his head. John Drewry, the long-time journalism dean at UGA, had a fascination for big words and a love of great books. He was, in short, not a person with an appetite for hillbilly music.

Anderson is still laughing.

"I have thought about a lot of things today, but I haven't thought about him," says Anderson. "I used to tell him I was the black sheep of the department. But he was so nice to me. He wrote me some of the nicest notes. 'Don't you worry,' he wrote. 'I'm proud of you.' I remember the first time I met Dean Drewry. I went over to his office, and he said, 'Okay, I'll tell you about you. You like English. You like history, geography, spelling, and writing. And you don't like math or science.' I nodded my head and he said, 'You're in the right place.'"

Actually, he wasn't. And the baseball diamond wasn't right either, though Anderson had designs on playing when he arrived at UGA in the mid-fifties. He had been a crafty left-handed pitcher at Avondale High in Decatur. ("I threw like I sing," he laughs. "Very softly.") But by the end of his freshman year, he fell in with a crowd of campus pickers and never returned to the mound.

aseball and college aren't on Anderson's mind this night in Nashville. His past is. As late as 3:45 on the afternoon of his CMA induction, he still hadn't finished his acceptance speech. Later, sitting at his table in the audience, waiting for his big moment, he still ponders what he should say. Finally, standing at the glass podium, he recalls meeting Roy Acuff, one of his childhood heroes. He talks about the people who helped him get here, some you've heard of, some you haven't. He talks about DJs who played his records, musicians who crawled on and off buses with him, the three children who had to share their Daddy with the road, and about a mom and dad who never told him to put down his guitar and get a real job. Of all the legends honored on this night—the pantheon includes Waylon Jennings, the Everly Brothers, and Webb Pierce—Whisperin' Bill is the most emotional inductee.

His children—daughters Terri and Jenni, and son Jamee—have come from Nashville to join him. They're at his side as he first sees his plaque. They tell him how glad they are to be with him. Anderson says he is the happy one.

Jenni points to the plaque, then touches it gently, saying, "That's my favorite part."

Next to the date of Anderson's birth, Nov. 1, 1937, there is nothing. Many of the plaques are inscribed with the date of the inductee's death.

"That's my favorite part," she repeats. "It's blank."

ill Anderson arrive in Music City in 1960 and let loose with a stream of hits. He became a star. He never reached the legendary status of Hank Williams or Johnny Cash, but he remains a steady-as-she-goes singer-songwriter with a unique ability to sell a song and himself.

"He's a Renaissance man. He can do it all and do it well," says Harry Chapman (ABJ '67), a veteran television reporter at WTVF in Nashville and another UGA journalism grad. "People who haven't thought of him as a major figure in the business ought to look at him and listen to him. He's important."

Anderson's voice isn't powerful and he talks instead of sings on many of his recordings, hence the nickname. But he is a survivor in a fickle industry that is unforgiving and wholly unpredictable.

"There are singers on every street corner in Nashville," says Chapman. "But there are few Bill Andersons."

As a college student, Anderson worked at small radio stations in and around Athens. He was spinning records in Commerce when he wrote his first No. 1 song, "City Lights." That was 1958. In 2001, he co-writes songs with artists who aren't as old as his guitar.

It started with Vince Gill.

"I called him up to say, 'Let's write a song,'" says Gill. "I was going to make a record that was pure country and I wanted to go to the source—the purest source. This guy still writes great songs. He's one of the originals who put the blueprint on how to write a great country song."

Once Anderson was among the young, learning from the old. He came to the Opry at a time when older artists were condescending, patting young singers on the head, reserving closeness for the people of their generation.

Retired Opry general manager Bud Wendell says Anderson was accepted because he was still a fan in awe of the pioneers. "Bill reached a plateau, but there was a higher plateau," says Wendell. "Bill fit in because he knew his place—and I don't say that to put Bill down. It was Mr. Acuff, not Roy Acuff. Backstage, there was that kind of feeling. Bill's not like that with the younger people. I don't know of any other artist who has spanned the generations as well as he has."

That's true enough, but Anderson is reluctant to settle for the seniors tour. He's still on the road most of the year, singing his hits and reaching his audience with a simple style that treats folks as if they're sitting around his kitchen table.

onight, Anderson's bus is headed

to the Georgia National Fair in Perry, Ga., where he's agreed to make a senior-tour-type appearance at an Opry Legends assemblage, following Little Jimmy Dickens to the stage. Leaning back on a bench seat, he remembers 1960, the year he moved to Nashville.

"I didn't tell them I was a college boy," he says. "For the first five years, only three people knew—people I could trust. In those years, that wasn't the norm. The other performers came from small towns and farms. They hadn't had the opportunities I had. Some had to quit school to help their families. Those who graduated from high school didn't have the luxury of college. That's what I was scared of. I didn't want anybody thinking I was a smart alleck because I had a college degree."

College didn't teach him to write songs—though the who, what, when, and where of journalism school actually enhanced his ability to paint a picture with lyrics, thus avoiding the stereotypical honky-tonk tales of drinkin', cheatin', and pickups. (He did write a song that rhymed gigging frogs and how 'bout them Dawgs, however.)

Close friend Zell Miller says Anderson has never gotten enough credit: "He's Phil Niekro. He doesn't have a great fastball. His curve isn't that great. But he gets 'em out."

To old friend Zell Miller, Anderson's song writing is what sets him apart. They met 35 years ago—long before the current U.S. Senator had ascended to governor, when Miller hired the young singer to add music to his unsuccessful campaign for the U.S. House. Their friendship remains close. Miller says Anderson is still the person he was when they first met.

"He still has those emotions very close to the surface. Still has that quick mind, that quick wit all good song writers have," says Miller, who believes Anderson has never received the respect he deserves. "He's Phil Niekro. He doesn't have a great fastball. His curve isn't that great. But he still gets 'em out."

In a business that featured Mr. Acuff with his yo-yo, Cousin Minnie with the price tag on her hat, Ernest Tubb with a message on the back of his guitar and Dolly Parton with her obvious assets, Anderson is just "Whisperin' Bill." But he thinks he deserves the label of outlaw, just like Willie, Weylon, and the boys. "I am an outlaw," he claims. "I've done some strange things. I hosted game shows. I was the front man for a country cooking chain. I've been on soap operas and even recorded some disco country. I've never been afraid to try new things. Like Ricky Nelson said, 'You've got to please yourself.'"

In the arena across from the horse barn in Perry, Anderson is pleasing his fans a-plenty tonight. He's humble, patriotic, and spiritual. He sings all the hits the audience came to hear. Except "Mama Sang a Song," which he hasn't performed since his mother died—and doesn't know if he ever will again.

When the show ends, Anderson heads backstage to meet and greet his fans. He hugs them and poses for snapshots. He kneels to get closer to a young man in a wheelchair. Then, shedding the sequined jacket he wore on stage, he heads for his bus.

This is the life in his dreams. This is his dividend. Not the plaque on the wall of the Hall or the hit songs on the chart. "The icing on the cake," he says. "But not the cake." His awards and rewards are the applause, the adoring fans who crowd close and the ones in the cheap seats who sing along. It's people who play his record at a funeral because the song was a loved one's favorite, or people being buried with his records because he was that special to them.

"That," he whispers, "is my hall of fame."

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