Gary also garnered a sweetheart of a deal with an adoring and indulgent Hightone. Basically, he doesn't have to tour or do interviews-things that traditionally increase record sales.
"A big label will want a lot of road work," Stewart giddily explains, "and they have a right to it. But with my leg and back, I can't do that. Hightone said, `Gary, we'll take you even if you don't want to go on the road at all.' I said, ~`Okay.'"
Stewart laughs and pauses; the faint sound of glass clinking can be heard. "And, man, I don't want to sound like a wise-ass, but they don't make me do interviews, either. Of course, I still go on the road-about four, five days a month-and do interviews, a couple a year maybe, but only when I want."
Stewart lets out a small whoop and drops the receiver. He returns in seconds, apologizes and explains, "I had to do a little dance, man! The pressure's off!"
He spends most of his free time now finding ways to stay near Fort Pierce. He admits that advancing years, nagging infirmities and the demands of grandpadom are the primary reasons for his slow-lane lifestyle.
"If I was young, I'd probably do it again," the toned-down Hightone singer admits. "I loved going out after shows and partyin', and I made a lot of friends during those days. Now I still have a few beers during the show, but I head straight for the hotel room afterward."
Gary Stewart fanatics needn't fret: He's still the wild man who loves performing, and he still eats up the stage when doing so. He's writing more, too-often in collaboration with Lou-but the melodies and lyrics don't come as easily as in the old days when he was doing all the drugs.
"If you don't do cocaine or bennies," he rues, "the songs don't come so fast."
Still, he's eager to show off his new wares. He sings a few bars from several new tunes that are so new, he frequently drops the telephone to pace. This, he explains, helps him recall the words. ÔRussian Roulette" and "Jesse James" are lyric-rich ballads that send Stewart's voice racing up and down his register, the controlled vibrato in his mountain tenor wrapping around the lyrics like fuzz on a pipe cleaner.
He's most proud of "Draggin' Leather (Off My Cowboy Boots)," a sure-fire addition to his upcoming album. He sings several verses of the bluesy tune, putting every bit as much of his soul into this concert as for the packed houses he usually faces.
Done, he unleashes a healthy holler and sets down the receiver. The steady hoofing of a spur-of-the-moment mountain jig can be heard, along with the gentle tinkle of glass as he sips from the Special Reserve Crown Royal. He picks up the telephone again, charged up.
"I'm gonna put some fire in them songs," he half-shouts. "I don't just want to do ten songs, I want to do them right! And near my home!" There is the familiar pregnant pause. Then, in the coolest, most serene tone of the evening, he says, "You know, you're listening to one happy man, dammit. I'm the luckiest man in the world.
