Here's the one I think I linked or posted at the time it came out. Great article:

Fort Worth Star-Telegram (TX) - Monday, November 5, 2007
Author/Byline: DAVID CASSTEVENS, Star-Telegram staff writer
Edition: Tarrant
Section: Your Life
Page: E1

Starmaker on Center Street - He put LeAnn Rimes onstage when she was 6. He's boosted the careers of many a musician at his Arlington theater. Now, at 78, Johnnie High has even bigger plans up his sleeve.

Marvin Blum's spirits sank when he drove up to the Arlington Music Hall.

Johnnie High 's Country Music Revue was staging an open audition that weekend morning, eight years ago, and hundreds of hopeful performers — many of them youngsters, in Western costume — formed a line that snaked around the building.

The Fort Worth tax attorney turned to his 13-year-old.

Elizabeth Blum wasn't a country singer. She knew Tchaikovsky, not Tammy Wynette. Twice monthly she and her parents and grandparents attended the Fort Worth Symphony. At home her dad listened to classical music and Broadway show tunes. But the child desperately wanted to sing — to entertain — and her father had told Elizabeth, promised, that once she completed her Hebrew studies in preparation for her bat mitzvah he would help her pursue her dream.

Even so, the elder Blum knew this was a bad idea.

"Lizzie, this isn't your world," he said as they sat in the car. "You don't belong here ... Let's go home."

"Dad, we're already here," she replied. "Let me try."

And so, reluctantly, he parked among the pickups and trailers, some with performers' names spelled out on the sides. Father and daughter took their place at the end of the line. Inside the hall, Marvin Blum's apprehension grew as he listened to the voices, a roll call of talented, accomplished singers belting out country songs. The sound of a steel guitar was as foreign to him as cowboy boots.

At noon, Elizabeth still was waiting her turn, so they went to a fast-food restaurant, where over lunch Blum again tried to dissuade his child. "I just don't want you to be hurt ... You're going to leave in tears."

Finally, late in the day, the determined child stood nervously before the judges.

She sang one of her favorites, Tomorrow, from the musical Annie, with a taped accompaniment.

After the final note, she waited to hear what every performer before her had heard, a polite "Thank you, we'll be back in touch."

Instead, Johnnie High wanted to hear the song again, without accompaniment.

The founder and host of the weekly show — now in its 34th consecutive year — is blessed with an eye and ear for talent. He put LeAnn Rimes onstage when she was 6. High's 21-year-old granddaughter, Ashley Smith, sang You Are My Sunshine on the show at age 4. She still performs and now co-hosts the show.

High is a people person, gracious, generous, empathetic, nurturing. He can't watch American Idol. " They tear 'em down for entertainment purposes," he said of the harsh judging. "There's no way of knowing how many kids' lives [Simon Cowell] has screwed up."

High won't berate auditioners. He offers words of encouragement, and his show has opened doors to future stars, such as Rimes, Lee Ann Womack, Linda Davis, Gary Morris and Steve Holy. Gutsiness and perseverance are qualities High admires.

That afternoon Johnnie smiled at Elizabeth and asked, "Do you know any country songs?"

"No," she told him, "but I can learn one."

High gave her the title of a number to practice and, to her surprise, invited her to return and appear on his show.

The protective father was right about Lizzie's tears.

"I was crying," his daughter, now 22, said, reliving what she calls the happiest and most important day in her life.

A month later, the teen walked out and bravely faced an audience in the 1,200-seat music hall. As the closing act, she sang an old Brenda Lee song, Sweet Nothin's. As she turned to leave the stage, washed in applause, High pulled her back and together they stepped forward, hand in hand, and happily told the crowd goodnight.

Blum regularly appeared on High's show until she finished high school. Now a senior at New York University, she studies music and sings country music, and jazz, at Manhattan nightclubs. Part of her heart remains in Texas and belongs to the person who provided her a safe training ground and helped her believe in herself.

"There's no one better," she said. " Johnnie High changed my life. And I'm just one of many stories."

Country to the core

In his mind he can see Lizzie Blum's debut, as clearly as if May 1999 were yesterday.

"It's amazing — he remembers everything," marveled his daughter, Luanne Dorman.

"Except what I had for breakfast," High joked and flashed his bright smile.

A child of the Depression, High grew up in the 1930s in rural Central Texas, near McGregor. His family, High is fond of saying, was what the poor people called poor. Their home had no electricity. For entertainment Johnnie sat next to a battery-operated radio on Saturday nights and drew a mental picture of Bill Monroe and Roy Acuff and the "fiddle bands" of that era as they performed live from the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. The lively, heartfelt music — such as Acuff's songs The Wabash Cannonball and The Great Speckled Bird — became part of the common bond that united rural folks across the country.

When High was about 12, he spotted a used guitar at a Waco pawn shop. Price: $6.50.

The boy had $6 cash, earned the hard way, in the farmland fields chopping cotton for $1 a day.

"You really want that guitar, don't you?" his dad said, after they had left the shop.

His father fished into his pocket and loaned Johnnie 50 cents.

At 14, High began singing and picking as host of a 15-minute morning radio show in Waco, earning $25 a week.

After an Army stint, he worked two decades as a sales manager for a hand-lotion company, but country music remained as dear to him as his teenage sweetheart, Wanda. The couple has been married 60 years.

In 1974 he started his country show in Grapevine, thanks largely to the generosity of a benefactor, Susie Slaughter (known as "Aunt" Susie). High's revue, which showcases local talent of all ages and offers an evening of family entertainment, moved to Fort Worth's Will Rogers Auditorium and later to Haltom City before reopening in 1995 at its current location, a remodeled 1950s-era movie theater in downtown Arlington, near Center and Division streets.

Many years, High lost money producing the show. To stay afloat, he sold his home. He sold his office space. He sold his stocks — "Exxon, would you believe."

The singer/musician/songwriter and businessman could have quit, but determination and resiliency are part of his DNA.

High never considered giving up, not even after he received a phone call on the morning of a scheduled Friday-night show informing him that Will Rogers had closed. A worker, he was told, had discovered asbestos in the building. After leasing the venue for 15 years, High was given no warning. When he drove to the auditorium, he grew angry. All his sound equipment had been dumped in the parking lot.

High set up chairs next door, at the coliseum. Staff members telephoned every season-ticket holder informing them of the venue change.

A way of life

High's life and career are testimony to the old theatrical credo that the show must go on.

In 1983, High was introducing an act when he felt a burning sensation in his chest. After he left the stage, High's doctor, seated in the audience, was summoned. The host was having a heart attack and needed hospital care.

Dressed in a rhinestone-crusted, Western-cut suit, his lanky 6-foot-3 frame stretched out atop a grand piano backstage, High said he didn't want the ambulance to pull away with lights flashing and siren wailing. Don't tell the crowd, he insisted. Ticket holders weren't informed of the medical emergency until the end of the performance.

The outpouring of concern from audience members helped High recognize that his wealth far exceeds his bank account. He considers himself blessed by the incalculable riches of friendship, people like Patsy Seeton of Arlington, who has attended every show.

"I just loved it from the start," Seeton said. "Getting to know Johnnie and Wanda, going to the show every week, has become part of my life. I can't imagine Saturday night without Johnnie High . It's like family."

That family includes the host's seven-member band and a popular cast of regulars.

Singer Mike Stewart joined High's group 20 years ago and can't say enough about his friend's selflessness.

"People have walked up and said, 'Johnnie, I sure like your shirt,'" Stewart said. "I've seen him take it off and give it to them."

After an evening show at Six Flags Over Texas, High and some of his cast met at a restaurant for a late dinner. The place was packed. Stewart stuck a fake set of buck teeth into his mouth, buttoned his collar and put on a ball cap. High asked to speak with the maitre d'.

"I want you to meet someone," High told the headwaiter.

Keeping a straight face, he turned toward Stewart.

"This here is ... Earl," High said, picking a name. "He only gets out twice a year, for his birthday and Christmas. This is his birthday, and he's gotta be back in by midnight."

"They felt real sorry for me," Stewart recalled.

The restaurant set up tables for the group, tied party balloons to Earl's chair and brought him dessert.

That's how Stewart's comic persona — Earl makes a brief appearance during most shows — was created.

The jokes, with High as straight man, are hokey but in keeping with the host's pledge to provide G-rated entertainment.

"You've got to set boundaries and stick to 'em, or your reputation and credibility aren't worth a flip," High said. "I have a ground rule. I tell [first-time performers], 'As best I know, my grandmother never said 'hell' in her life. She certainly never said 'damn.' I want you to assume my little grandmother is sittin' in the audience. Keep that in mind. Don't embarrass me.'"

Lecil Martin, performing as hobo singer Boxcar Willie, once told an off-color joke onstage. High interrupted the act.

"Nobody apologizes for me," Boxcar told High.

"Well, I do," the host shot back. High's close friend didn't speak to him for two years.

In the 1980s, High booked singer Engelbert Humperdinck and a 40-piece orchestra for a sold-out show at the Tarrant County Convention Center. Beforehand, he issued a very clear warning to the 1960s pop-music star and his manager. This wasn't to be a Las Vegas act. No alcohol onstage. No women onstage. No offensive language.

"I guess he decided he was going to show me something," High said, picking up the story. "He started telling off-color jokes. He had someone bring him a glass of whatever it was. Then he got a lady onstage. He put a scarf in his pants and asked her to take it out. That's when I stopped the show."

From the wings, High walked out, apologized to the audience and restated his commitment to offering a clean show.

Humperdinck left town — that night.

"Madder," High said, "than two wet hens."

Big plans

At age 78, he has survived three heart surgeries. Four years ago he was flown to Houston and underwent a life-saving operation to repair an aneurysm.

High opened a show last month by informing his audience that he had been to his doctor. A severe pain in his big toe was a new ailment.

"I got the gout," he announced.

Ashley Smith knows her grandfather doesn't feel good some nights, but no one would know it by his cheerfulness.

On Saturdays, he arrives at the music hall hours before the 5 p.m. rehearsal, as high-spirited as the show's mascot, a tiny white Maltese dog, Sammy, that prances along the building's hallways behind him.

High says he wants to keep working for as long as he is able, and he has never felt more optimistic, more enthusiastic, about the show's future.

As a teenager in the 1940s, he thought anyone who owned a Cadillac was rich. He often introduced himself to people who drove the luxury sedans and asked them for a moment of their time. He wanted to know what made them successful. What he learned — the importance of persistence and determination — finally is paying off in his own life.

"The worm," High said, "is starting to turn."

This fall, High's country show is being telecast nationally on RFD, a 24-hour satellite and cable network. He also is partnering with longtime friend Burk Collins, a commercial real-estate developer and country-music fan. Collins is planning a $30 million project that includes remodeling the downtown music hall and enlarging the stage to accommodate Symphony Arlington. A Babe's Chicken Dinner House restaurant will open next door and is expected to help attract showgoers.

"I'm really proud for him," said Ashley, who one day will assume High's role and host the show that, she says, will continue to bear her grandfather's name.

On this evening, as 7:30 neared, the master of ceremonies changed shirts and slipped into a white sports coat.

He headed down a flight of stairs, past a row of autographed photos of Rimes.

On one, the Grammy-winning star had written, "You will forever hold a special place in my heart!"

The band members were seated, the technicians and singers in place.

"Are we ready?" he asked backstage.

Parting a red velvet curtain, High and his granddaughter stepped into the circular spotlight, all smiles.

Ashley gazed admiringly at her "Pa-Paw" as he turned on his charm and primed the audience, telling the folks, "Y'all please be enthusiastic tonight, 'cause that's what we thrive on!"

If you go

Johnnie High 's Country Music Revue

224 N. Center St., Arlington

817-226-4400 or 888-544-2686

Tickets $13-$16, $8 for children 11 and younger

Christmas show tickets $20 for adults, $10 for children 11 and younger

Memorable performances

Joey Floyd — "He was about 5 years old. His grandpa brought him in for an audition. I asked to hear something, and he started singing, 'This old highway she's hotter'n nine kinds of hell ...' I stopped him and told him he can't use that word on our show. We're like church. He said, 'What's wrong with hail? It's just ice.' He thought 'hell' was 'hail.'

"Joey later played Willie Nelson's son in Honeysuckle Rose. Now he's a guitar player and backup singer for Toby Keith."

Merle Travis — "Merle had a stroke. They said he'd never play again. I said, 'Merle, make me a promise. When you think you can do it, and I know you're going to, I want to be the first one to book you.' We were at Tarrant County Convention Center theater that night. It was incredible to see him perform again. He died later of a heart attack."

Danny Cooksey — "A guy from Oklahoma I knew and trusted called me and said there's a boy he wanted to have sing on the show. I asked how old he was. He said 4. I said, 'You gotta be kidding?' He was a little red-headed turkey. I've been doing this 34 years, and no one has gotten the ovation Danny Cooksey did that night. He sang Old Chunk of Coal. The audience just exploded. Next thing you know he was making commercials and got the part of Sam on the TV show Diff'rent Strokes."

LeAnn Rimes — "To me, on a scale of 1 to 10, she was an 8 1/2. I didn't realize how good she was until she'd been on four or five times. I realized then the kid had something special. When she was 7 or 8 we lined up in the lobby to greet people after the show. A little old lady patted LeAnn on the head and said, 'Honey, what you want be when you grow up?' LeAnn looked shocked. She said, 'I'm gonna be a star.' She knew it from dadgum day one. That's the attitude you've got to have."

Boxcar Willie — "His name was Lecil Martin. I first met him in Nashville. He said he lived in Grand Prairie. I told him we had a show in Grapevine. I told him I only could pay him $30. He said, 'I don't care, I just want to sing.' He did train songs. I had him on pretty regularly. I got him a gig singing and playing in England for 30 days, making $100 a night. He was an immediate success. Later he became a member of the Grand Ole Opry and bought his own theater in Branson [Missouri]. So I guess I had a little bit to do with his success."

Shoji Tabuchi — "He's a Japanese fiddler. Shoji had a pickup with a camper. He would pull up behind our building and ask, 'Johnnie, can I plug in?' I told him, 'No, you come and sleep at my house.' He had $500 in his pocket and was living off hot dogs. We had him on and he was incredible. Absolutely magic. To give you an idea of where he stands today, he's doing 100 Christmas shows in Branson. Every one is sold out, at $47 a ticket. He's by far the biggest success there."

Johnnie High 's advice for young performers

1. "If you really want to do it, don't listen to anybody else. You're going to get put down, maybe by your own parents, I'm sorry to say. You've got to have tunnel vision, like a racehorse with blinders on. That's LeAnn Rimes exactly. She never gave up."

2. "Practice. Say you're a banjo player. While you're practicing an hour a day, remember there's someone in Kansas practicing two hours a day. You've got to consider that. This ain't a little circle here. It's the whole country. You've got to get better than they are. Nothing comes easily."

3. "If you're hired to sing some place, whether you're paid or not, ask some questions first. No. 1, who are the people I'm singing for? What age are they? What percentage are women? What percentage are men? If they're all over 50, you can't go wrong singing Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, people like that. It's very, very important to know your audience."