Nashville 1958.

For the boy from Hazard Kentucky, Music City unfolded like a dream as the Greyhound Bus rolled past the city limits. Roscoe Caudill stared out the window as they rolled by the big brick building with the marquee out front....Grand Ole Opry. Beneath the bold letters, it read Tonight! Ernest Tubb, The Stonemans, Porter Wagoner, Minnie Pearl, Grandpa Jones. A drizzling rain had just quit, and the sign and the red brick glimmered in the morning sun, a haze of steam rising off the sidewalk. Roscoe grabbed his guitar case and his Mom's battered leather grip and left the bus at the station, walking through the mingled aromas of diesel exhaust and coffee to the station restaurant.

A heavy-set individual with a red round face sprawled at the lunch counter, cowboy hat on his head, bolo tie with steer-head clasp tight on his broad neck. He smiled at Roscoe and said "Mornin' son! You got to be Rosc Tate."

"Howdy. You're Mister McDaniel," said Roscoe. The older man tipped the glass of Coca Cola back, drained it, and said "yep" through the ice. He jumped off the stool, displaying surprising dexterity for such a portly individual. "Let's get to goin'" said Chuck McDaniel. "Can I take your case?" Chuck said, and without waiting for a reply grabbed the guitar, giving it a shake. "What you got in here?" inquired Chuck. Rosc smiled and said "Harmony. It was Daddy's." Chuck grinned and said "I hear you're greased lightnin' on it." He opened the trunk of a white cadillac convertible and placed the guitar inside. "Don't know that I call myself 'greased lightnin'" said Roscoe. Chuck slammed the lid. "Well, son, if you ain't, you better be by the time we get to Hank's."

****

The skinny fellow played an A on his Guild and turned his dark eye to Rosc. "You know Hey Good Lookin'?" he asked. Roscoe nodded and took a step closer to the guitar microphone. Did he know it? He'd played it several hundred times sitting in the parlor of his Mom's cabin on Coal Creek. Played it until she said "Please, Roscoe! If'n that song's all you know anymore, take it out yonder by the shed and sing it for the chickens!" He'd even worked out a finger-picked lead to complement the fiddle. When they had finished the song the skinny fellow nodded his head and said "I'm So Lonesome." The combo went through the tune, and the skinny fellow yawned and unsnapped the guitar strap. "He'll do," said the man, and turned to the fiddle player. "Get him ready for Saturday night, James. Take him through the songs." He strode up to Roscoe and extended a bony hand. "Welcome to the band," he said. The fellow put on his embroidered jacket, then paused as he opened the studio door to say "one more thing. Get yourself an electric guitar and an amplifier. Don't spend more than a hundred dollars, OK?"

*****

The guitar hung in the window of the Great Western Music store. It had a top of tiger-flame maple, and it shown amber, red, and gold as Roscoe stepped from side to side to view it. "Forget it son," said James. "That guitar alone is a hundred bucks." But Roscoe entered the store, and in minutes the clerk had hooked it up to a Fender amp. James listened to the full, sustained notes that tumbled from the guitar, and he couldn't help thinking that Hank would love the sound. "Best price, Barney" he said to the clerk. "Hundred seventy nine for the guitar and amp. But that includes a hard case, a cable, and a strap."

James shook his head. "Put down the guitar, Roscoe." Rosc ran his finger tips over the top, then handed it to the clerk. They had reached the street before Barney shouted "alright! One fifty!"

"One twenty five," said James.

"Thirty nine," said Barney.

James took a deep breath and sighed. "We can't let fourteen bucks come between us gentlemen, can we?" Barney shrugged his shoulders. "Deal," muttered James, then turned to Roscoe. "Loan," he said. "I get it back after your firstpaycheck son."

***

Nashville 1959

James stepped to the microphone and said "I can't sing it the way he could. But this is for him." The spotlight came up on an empty patch of stage behind the microphone stand, and James sang the song to this circle of light.

Do you hear that lonesome whipperwill
He sounds too blue to cry

The audience sat in quiet grief until the end, and in silence they left as the band put their instruments away. Chuck counted out cash to the players. He put his hand on Roscoe's shoulder and said "don't look so glum, Rosc. You did him proud. And there's plenty others would jump to get you as a session man."

Roscoe snapped the Les Paul into its case. "No, Chuck," he said. "I'm goin' home. My Mom's not doin' well and ...well, I just ain't cut out for this. I'm a farmer at heart." Chuck shook his hand. "Well, good luck to you Greased Lightnin'".

In the morning, Roscoe loaded the Studebaker up and made one stop before putting it on the road to Hazard. As he pulled out from the curb, Barney was hanging it in the window, with a sign that read "57 Les Paul. Used by Roscoe 'Greased Lightnin' Caudill. $89"