This article was written by my long time friend Holly Richardson from
Scottsdale AZ. I loved it. Holly is a great writer and she helped me quite a
bit with G.I. Joe and Lillie. I am flattered and honored that she would write
about me!! Thanks Holly! (JSB)

It was 2:00 a.m. The fluorescent lights in the used car lot across the
street silhouetted his lanky frame against the white-washed motel walls. He
strode purposefully down the outside walkway, then carefully negotiated the
open flight of stairs from his 2nd floor room to the parking lot. He was
bent forward just slightly, weighed down by the well worn black leather
overnight bag, which he had slung casually over his right shoulder, and the
laptop computer tucked safely away for the night in the case that occupied
his left hand.

Across the parking lot was his home on wheels, a maroon and gray
custom-fitted tour bus, looking as though it held the secrets of a thousand
stories from the lives that resided within its walls. The door opened; he
climbed aboard. Perhaps there would be some conversation tonight; or perhaps
instead some quiet reading or listening to music. Soon though, he would
crawl into his narrow bunk and retire for the night. The other 4 passengers
on board would do the same. Within a few moments, the bus would pull onto a
nearby interstate and begin a journey to another town, most likely several
hundred miles away, its taillights soon disappearing into the night.

How many countless thousands of times had this scene been repeated in the
past 3 decades? How many nights away from his home and wife and children and
grandchildren? How many cheeseburgers in nondescript coffee shops, and how
many autographs and how much small talk with so many people? He was a singer
and a road warrior. He had seen every concert venue of every size all across
this nation and many all over the world in those years. He had reached the
pinnacle of success in his business; higher than most can even dream. The
career had seen its share of peaks and valleys, to be sure, but most of it
had been good?very good. In the glory days, his time had been filled with
press conferences and radio interviews. He appeared on countless television
shows, juggling those commitments with the never-ending concert performances
in sold out arenas, as well as the time-consuming challenges of recording new
material every year. It was a heady time. He was a household name. The
years rolled by against a backdrop of chart-topping songs, the date of each
release etched in his memory. And always, there was the road. Years of
watching the landscape change as it rolled by. He brought his music to
outside amphitheaters where the stars, illuminating the sky like a thousand
sparklers on the Fourth of July, competed with the flickering of the
lighters and matches lit by the audience as they swayed to the smooth
harmonies of a romantic ballad. Every summer, he played the fair circuit,
with the midway rides providing a backdrop to the stage; the aroma of cotton
candy and popcorn mixing with the smell of prized cattle and sheep. He sang
in large casino showrooms for a week at a time, two shows a night, ushered
down the elevators and through the kitchens of the hotels by beefy security
guards to the backstage suites. The thick carpeting and luxurious
appointments of these rooms were further reminders of his status in the
industry. His arrival was usually met by photographers and VIP?s from all
walks of life, all of whom were anxious for a moment of his time, a word, a
photo, and a chance to bask in the glow of his celebrity. Yes, he had surely
come a long way from his childhood days on the streets of Philadelphia, where
he had pretended he was Elvis, belting out "Don't Be Cruel" to his image in
the bedroom mirror. (Although come to think of it, he STILL liked to bring
forth Elvis from time to time when the spirit moved him).

But like all things in life, nothing in his business stays the same. New
singers came along, commanding their share of the entertainment dollar. The
venues were smaller than they had once been; sometimes the road seemed a
little longer. He was older now, and a little grayer. His days were more
reflective. As he walked from his bus to yet another motel room in the
harsh sunshine of a new day, his hand gripping a styrofoam cup of steaming
coffee, he thought about how to spend his down time before the night would
bring the routine he knew so well. He liked to keep it simple. A quiet
meal, usually by himself at the nearby restaurant or hotel coffee shop.
Perhaps if the weather was nice, he would take a long walk, dreaming of home
and the people he loved. Or maybe he would take out the trusty laptop and
organize his thoughts into a new story or song. When his head overflowed
with ideas, it was like a faucet had turned on, and words simply flowed from
his mind and his heart. He loved to create something where once there was
nothing. He was good at it, and he knew it. It brought him solace; it was a
catharsis for him. It helped him come to peace with past demons and release
his pent-up creativity.

But still he had to sing. It wasn?t for the money so much anymore, although
there were still expenses to be met and people on the payroll that needed to
eat. It wasn?t ever for the fame or the public adoration. So why did he
continue to do it? Why did he leave the rolling hills of Tennessee and his
comfortable home for the narrow bunk on the cramped bus that he shared with
other grown men, also in their 5th and 6th decades? Why did he subject
himself and his body and mind to the rigors of life on the road?the airline
hassles, the sterile hotel rooms, the bad food, those endless miles of
rolling interstate?

Tonight, like so many other nights, he had played to a packed house. The
audience had been abuzz with anticipation fully an hour before the first note
was sung. Many had come from long distances or had been devoted followers
for many years. They brought their children and their grandchildren. They
clapped and cheered and knew all the words to all the songs. They laughed;
they enjoyed. And the singers felt their devotion and played off their
energy. It had been a good show. On this night, the road warrior had a
little extra spring in his step as he made his way across the parking lot.
And on this night, he didn?t need the luxurious suites or the limousines or
the press or the huge venues. He was at peace with himself and where his
path had taken him. He had heard the applause for one more night, and it was
like a drug to him. It rang in his ears like a thousand bells long after the
last person had left the room. It kept him going. He knew that as long as
he was in harmony with his audience as he had been tonight, he would never
stop singing. No, he would never stop singing.