All I Really Wanted: Volume 1
“Living in the spotlight can kill a man outright. Remember all that glitters is not gold. ”
The Wish
All I Really Wanted was to Join the Family Choir
The Song
‘All the Gold in California’ written by Larry Gatlin was first recorded by Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers Band for their platinum selling 1979 album Straight Ahead. The song spent two weeks at number one and was even performed at the 50th Presidential Inauguration Gala for Ronald Reagan. For the last four decades it has become one of their signature standards and a beloved classic in the genre.
Apart from their effortless harmonies, the song has always resonated with crowds due to the message and story behing the song’s creation. A natural storyteller, Gatlin shares that he was stuck in traffic in Los Angeles around the Hollywood Bowl as he was heading to a record meeting with famed producer Mo Ostin in Burbank. There was a station wagon with an Oklahoma license plate ahead of him filled to the brim with children and boxes. As an English major, this reminded him of the Jode Family from the Grapes of Wrath. Gatlin envisioned these folks thought they were moving to California to become rich and famous. He immediately thought of the line “ but all the gold in California is in a bank in the middle of Beverly Hills in somebody’s elses name.” Struck by the flow, he got his pen to immediately write it down. After the meeting with Mr. Ostin, he sat in the Warner Brothers parking lot and wrote the entire song in eight minutes. The group quickly recorded it and six months later it was the number one song in the country.
The Story
Growing up in a church family, I connected with HBO’s The Righteous Gemstones on a deeper level than most. In many ways I understood their dynamics, church politics, and though often extreme their choices somehow made sense to me. Particularly, I felt a kinship with Judy Gemstone. Like her, I too have had my own desires to be seen in spaces where I felt overshadowed by others. A passionate longing for the spotlight. Not to mention a penchant for showstopping Sunday best outfits.
I was particularly excited for the show’s recent return after hearing of Sturgill Simpson’s guest appearance. Simpson played militiaman Brother Marshall and brought his widely appreciated sense of humor to the role. While mostly in the background it was a pleasure to see the country star in a different medium. Though in one scene he secured the attention all on his own. As he slowly walked to the pulpit, I gripped my couch in anticipation of what would unfold before me. I had expected a few laughs but never to hear his signature voice singing a song that was reminiscent of my own childhood. Though during the first bars of his glorious rendition of ‘All the Gold in California’ my focus was replaced with utter distraction. Foggy memories floated through my mind before clearing to present one image. All I could think about was a glistening bead of sweat that stared at me just below my Uncle’s hair piece. Perched and seemingly judging me from his tanned forehead.
I was ten years old at the time. Every Sunday, I was required to attend service at my family’s home church. From tithes to preaching, they held a firm grip on every facet of worship for the congregation. All blood relations were expected to witness the glory. These traditions were their birthright. Their father, my grandfather, had been a preacher and each of his eleven children grew up establishing places of worship in the region. Some welcomed at the door. Others set up the pews. And the chosen few performed as a family choir.
Since birth, performance had existed all around me which established a deep appreciation of music. Matched by an even deeper desperation to participate in any capacity. Though in my small town options were starkly limited apart from my daydreaming about performing on the Disney Channel. My Momma had her pursuit of country music and my Daddy’s side of the family held the reigns in gospel spaces. Not old enough to enter a Moose Lodge on my own, the latter would have to suffice for my youthful desires. For years I had eagerly watched the family choir as they performed at revivals, baptisms and everything in between. I was captivated not only by their harmonies but their trust in one another. A space of belonging. And even further their connection to the congregation. All who willingly raised their hands and spoke in tongues with each hymn delivered. Their power was magical and I wanted in on the action.
I envisioned myself being called to the pulpit to sing alongside them. The natural successor. Adorned in the best matching polyester suit Kmart’s layaway had to offer. One hand on the microphone and one gracefully extending towards the sky. Part of me thought that maybe Jesus would shine a heavenly light upon me for witnessing in this capacity. But most of me knew he wouldn’t appreciate that I was using church as a stepping stone towards my ultimate goal of auditioning for the Mickey Mouse Club. Either way, I’d take my chances.
After this particular sermon concluded I left my parents to find my Uncle who was packing away the microphones in the music room. I started to help and he seemed quietly appreciative. I told him how much I had enjoyed the musical worship and that I connected with the sermon. Thought my attempts at small talk created little reaction so I laid out my interest in joining the family choir. It was then and only then that he paused his tasks to look at me. He tenderly asked, “Sing a little of one of our songs?”
It was in this moment I realized after years of observing my family sing I had never actually learned any church songs. My mind raced into overdrive and found a song I knew by heart. One that I had heard for hours on the record player at my MeeMaw’s house. Filled with lush harmonies and what I believed a striking message. My golden ticket to next Sunday’s sermon and then child stardom. I closed my eyes and began.
After I finished, I expected a smile. An outreached hand to honor my artistry. But instead, my Uncle’s face had become flushed. Little beads of sweat were forming and he continued to stare at me. I asked if I should start again and he shook his head. As he walked away, he whispered, “I think you need to pay closer attention in Sunday school.”
On the drive home, I could hear my parents grumbling as a result. I had crossed a line. One I didn’t understand at the time. My Daddy glared at me in the rear view mirror as my Momma attempted to ease the tension with casual conversation. I sat in the backseat looking out the window, attempting to make sense of what had transpired. Already plotting where to find my next possible musical opportunity. A space of belonging. A connection. And maybe a mouse eared train out of town.
The next day, I accompanied my MeeMaw as she went from house to house cleaning. It was my only chance at watching cable and I loved listening to her as she told stories about my family. As I helped dust, the Mickey Mouse Club played in the background and she turned off the vaccum so that I could watch for a few minutes with no distraction.
“Your Momma told me you sang the Gatlins in church?” I shook my head in affirmation.
“You like those songs, huh?” I nodded again.
“Could you sing a little for your MeeMaw?”
Without the hesitation, I turned off the television and stood a few feet away from her. I closed my eyes and began. I sang about gold and Beverly Hills. I extended my hands towards the sky as I hit the soaring chorus and allowed myself to really feel the song without holding back. No fear. No restrictions. After I was done, I opened my eyes and saw her smiling back at me. She clapped loudly and dug into her purse for her cigarettes. As she lit her Virginia Slim, she exclaimed, “Sometimes those church folk can get a little jealous. Don’t mind them. You keep singing boy, you hear me?”
