BOBBY BARE CAME OUT OF THE ARMY WITH HIS BIGGEST HIT CREDITED TO SOMEBODY ELSE — AND STILL COULDN’T GET HIS OWN CAREER MOVING — UNTIL HARLAN HOWARD AND HANK COCHRAN PUSHED CHET ATKINS TO LISTEN. After two years in the Army, Bobby Bare returned to recording with a strange problem. “The All American Boy” had already climbed to No. 2 while Bare was in basic training, but the record had been released under Bill Parsons’s name. Fraternity Records later began putting Bare’s name on singles, yet none of them became the breakthrough he needed. Meanwhile, some of Bare’s old California friends had moved to Nashville. Harlan Howard and Hank Cochran were becoming successful songwriters, and both believed Bare was being overlooked. Bare later remembered that they effectively “ganged up” on RCA executive and producer Chet Atkins, repeatedly telling him how good their friend was. Atkins finally agreed to meet him. Bare walked in without much leverage. He had already been through Capitol, Challenge and Fraternity, and the one giant record carrying his voice had made somebody else look like the star. Chet listened anyway. Bare recalled Atkins telling him to come back in a week: there would be a contract, they would find songs, and they would make a record. RCA signed him in early 1962. The change came quickly. Atkins let Bare push against Nashville convention. When Bare wanted horns and strings on “Shame on Me,” Atkins allowed it. The single became Bare’s first major country hit under his own name. Then Bare heard Billy Grammer’s recording of “Detroit City” while driving. He later joked that the song hit him so hard he nearly wrecked the car. Bare cut his own version, and in 1963 it reached the country Top 10, crossed to No. 16 pop and won the Grammy for Best Country & Western Recording. A few years earlier, Bobby Bare had watched his own voice become famous under somebody else’s name. This time, Nashville finally knew whose voice it was.

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”

BOBBY BARE CAME OUT OF THE ARMY WITH HIS BIGGEST HIT CREDITED TO SOMEBODY ELSE — AND STILL COULD NOT GET HIS OWN CAREER MOVING. THEN HARLAN HOWARD AND HANK COCHRAN PUSHED CHET ATKINS TO LISTEN.

After two years in the Army, Bobby Bare returned to recording with a strange problem.

His voice had already been on a giant record.

But the public did not fully know it was his.

“The All American Boy” had climbed to No. 2 while Bare was in basic training, but the record had been released under Bill Parsons’s name. Fraternity Records later began putting Bare’s own name on singles, yet none of them became the breakthrough he needed.

That is a hard kind of almost.

The song had happened.

The voice had happened.

The career had not.

The Hit Made The Wrong Name Famous

Bare had already been through more than one label.

Capitol.

Challenge.

Fraternity.

There had been chances, records, and movement, but no stable career under his own name. The strangest part was that the biggest thing connected to him had not truly belonged to him in the marketplace.

“The All American Boy” carried his performance into American homes.

But another name stood in front of it.

For a singer trying to build a career, that kind of accident can feel almost cruel. The proof exists, but it does not open the right door. People have heard you, but they have not learned who you are.

Bare needed someone in Nashville to hear the man behind the misplaced credit.

Two old friends decided to force the issue.

Harlan Howard And Hank Cochran Went To Work

Some of Bare’s California friends had moved to Nashville.

Harlan Howard and Hank Cochran were becoming successful songwriters, and both believed Bare was being overlooked. They knew his voice. They knew his timing. They knew there was more there than the business had managed to use.

Bare later remembered that Howard and Cochran effectively “ganged up” on RCA executive and producer Chet Atkins.

They kept telling him how good their friend was.

That mattered because Atkins was not just another listener. He was one of the men shaping Nashville’s commercial sound, a producer with the power to turn belief into a contract, a session, a single, and a real career.

Eventually, he agreed to meet Bare.

Chet Atkins Listened

Bare walked into that meeting without much leverage.

He was not a fresh new act with a clean story.

He was a singer who had already been signed, recorded, missed, miscredited, and passed through the edges of the business. One huge record had carried his voice and made somebody else look like the star.

But Chet listened anyway.

Bare later recalled Atkins telling him to come back in a week. There would be a contract. They would find songs. They would make a record.

RCA signed Bobby Bare in early 1962.

That did not simply give him another label.

It gave him a powerful producer willing to treat him as more than a voice that had slipped through the wrong door.

RCA Finally Put His Name On The Record

The change came quickly.

Atkins gave Bare room to push against Nashville convention. When Bare wanted horns and strings on “Shame on Me,” Atkins allowed it. That mattered because Bare was never the easiest singer to fit into one neat country box. His instincts could move toward folk, pop, humor, story songs, and arrangements that did not always obey the stricter rules of hard country.

“Shame on Me” became Bare’s first major country hit under his own name.

That phrase is the key.

Under his own name.

After the odd shadow of “The All American Boy,” that was not a small correction. It was a public reset. Radio was no longer hearing Bobby Bare by mistake. It was hearing him as the artist on the label.

Then came the song that made the breakthrough unmistakable.

“Detroit City” Nearly Stopped Him In The Road

Bare later heard Billy Grammer’s recording of “Detroit City” while driving.

He joked that the song hit him so hard he nearly wrecked the car.

It is easy to understand why. “Detroit City” had the kind of ache Bare could carry naturally — homesickness, failure, distance, pride, and the quiet shame of a man pretending life away from home is going better than it is.

Bare cut his own version.

In 1963, it reached the country Top 10, crossed to No. 16 on the pop chart, and won the Grammy for Best Country & Western Recording.

That record did what “The All American Boy” had not done for him.

It made Bobby Bare visible as Bobby Bare.

The Voice Finally Belonged To The Man

“Detroit City” also pointed toward the kind of artist Bare would become.

He was not only a smooth country singer. He had an ear for story, for outsiders, for men caught between where they came from and where they were trying to survive. That gift would later carry him through some of the most memorable narrative songs in country music.

But before all of that, he needed the basic thing every artist needs.

Recognition.

Not just for the sound.

For the person making it.

Harlan Howard and Hank Cochran understood that before the business did. Chet Atkins finally heard it clearly enough to act.

And once RCA put the machinery behind Bare, the old misfire no longer defined him.

What Bobby Bare’s Second Chance Really Leaves Behind

The deepest part of this story is not only that Bobby Bare got another record deal after the Army.

It is that his career had almost been stolen by confusion before it truly began.

A No. 2 hit with the wrong name on it.

Two years in uniform.

Capitol, Challenge, Fraternity, and stalled momentum.

Then Harlan Howard and Hank Cochran pressing Chet Atkins, an RCA contract, “Shame on Me,” and “Detroit City” carrying Bare’s own name onto both country and pop radio.

Bobby Bare had already heard what it sounded like when his voice reached people without giving him the career.

RCA changed that.

This time, when the record broke through, Nashville knew whose voice it was.

And the man who had once watched a hit make somebody else look like the star finally had a song, a label, and a name standing in the same place.

Video

Related Post

In June 1986, Eddie Rabbitt walked into Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital with an acoustic guitar and helped dedicate a playroom to the two-year-old son he had lost the previous summer. Only a few years earlier, Eddie’s life had been moving at the speed of his biggest records. “Drivin’ My Life Away” and “I Love a Rainy Night” had carried him beyond country radio, while “You and I,” his duet with Crystal Gayle, became one of the defining love songs of the early 1980s. Then his son Timothy was born with biliary atresia, a rare disease that prevented his liver from functioning properly. Eddie began removing himself from the road. Against the advice of people managing his career, he reduced his recording and concert schedule and spent as many as four hours a day, six days a week, at Vanderbilt. Timmy underwent four operations while the family waited for the liver transplant that represented his best chance of survival. The transplant finally took place in Minnesota in July 1985. Timmy died less than two days later. He was twenty-three months old. Eddie stayed home with his wife, Janine, and their young daughter, Demelza, who could not understand why her little brother had disappeared. He later remembered the family talking with her about God and heaven while trying to answer questions for which the adults had no easy language. Nearly a year after Timmy’s death, memorial donations were used to furnish and refurbish a playroom at Vanderbilt, where the boy had spent much of his life. Eddie and Janine returned for the dedication. Then Eddie took out his guitar and played for the children inside the hospital. His full return to country music came later. A new son, Tommy, brought laughter back into the house, and in 1988 Eddie reached No. 1 again with “I Wanna Dance with You.” But one of the first rooms to receive his music after the family’s long silence was not a recording studio or concert hall. It was the hospital playroom carrying Timmy’s name, filled with children who needed somewhere to be children between treatments. More from the years Eddie Rabbitt stepped away from the road—and the quiet way he entered public life again—is explored below.

One Christmas, Tom T. Hall Hung Thirteen Stockings for the Dogs—and Opened Fox Hollow to Children Whose Parents Were in Prison At Christmas in 1977, thirteen stockings hung above the fireplace at Tom T. Hall’s home. Every one belonged to a basset hound. The dogs were part of the unruly household Miss Dixie Hall had created at Fox Hollow, the couple’s sixty-acre farm outside Nashville. On that cold December morning, however, the rooms were also filled with children brought up from Chattanooga. A television crew had arrived to film a holiday special, but the children were not actors or relatives assembled for the camera. They lived at Bethel Bible School, a residential home serving children whose parents were incarcerated. Hall had been quietly helping support the institution for years. Each spring, he organized a celebrity golf tournament to raise operating money. A 1978 profile reported that his contributions had become so substantial that he was regarded as nearly the home’s sole financial supporter. He refused to publicize several other charities because he did not want people examining his motives. The scene at Fox Hollow was far removed from Hall’s own Kentucky childhood. He had grown up in a family of ten children and remembered one Christmas waiting late into the night for older brothers and sisters returning from industrial jobs in the North with whatever gifts they could bring. By 1977, “Harper Valley P.T.A.,” “The Year Clayton Delaney Died” and his own hit records had given him a beautiful farm, a writing cabin and enough money to make Christmas easier for children outside his family. The television production did not proceed smoothly. One compressor failed. A replacement brought from town also broke. While the crew tried to repair its equipment, the children moved constantly through the den, past a leather sofa, a door reportedly taken from a British castle and the thirteen dog stockings hanging over the fireplace. Hall had written some of country music’s most exact portraits of people overlooked by respectable society. At Fox Hollow, that instinct did not end when he put down his pen. The holiday program could be filmed again. The children’s home had to remain open after the cameras left, and that was the part Tom T. Hall kept paying for.

A Doctor Told Roy Rogers and Dale Evans to Put Their Baby Away. They Took Her Home. After Robin Elizabeth Rogers was born in August 1950, a doctor advised Roy Rogers and Dale Evans to place their daughter in an institution. Robin had Down syndrome and a serious heart defect. The doctor warned that she might not live long and that caring for her would take attention away from the other children in the Rogers household. In mid-century America, when children with intellectual disabilities were frequently hidden from public life, the recommendation was not unusual. Roy answered that they would take Robin home. At the time, he and Dale were among the most recognizable entertainers in America. Roy had announced Robin’s birth to a rodeo crowd of roughly 90,000 people. Their films, radio appearances and merchandise presented a bright Western world where good people always found their way safely home. The private reality awaiting them was more fragile: medical appointments, constant vigilance and a child vulnerable to illnesses her body had little strength to resist. Robin lived within the family rather than apart from it. Dale later said that those two years changed the household’s understanding of patience, faith and responsibility. Then mumps passed through the family. Robin developed encephalitis and died on August 24, 1952, two days before her second birthday. Dale responded by writing a small book. Published in 1953, Angel Unaware was only sixty-three pages long and told Robin’s story as though the child were speaking to God after returning to heaven. It was openly religious and deeply personal, but its public consequence reached beyond the Rogers family. Dale had written plainly about raising and loving a child whom many parents of that era would have been urged to conceal. The book became one of the year’s bestsellers. At appearances, parents began bringing children with Down syndrome out to meet Dale—children who had seldom been taken into stores, theaters or large public gatherings because their families expected rejection. That same year, a group of Oklahoma parents established a school for children with developmental disabilities. After reading Angel Unaware, they named it for Dale. The organization eventually became the Dale Rogers Training Center, providing employment and support services far beyond its original classroom. Roy Rogers spent his career playing a cowboy who brought people safely home. With Robin, he did something quieter. He refused to send his own child away.

You Missed

In June 1986, Eddie Rabbitt walked into Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital with an acoustic guitar and helped dedicate a playroom to the two-year-old son he had lost the previous summer. Only a few years earlier, Eddie’s life had been moving at the speed of his biggest records. “Drivin’ My Life Away” and “I Love a Rainy Night” had carried him beyond country radio, while “You and I,” his duet with Crystal Gayle, became one of the defining love songs of the early 1980s. Then his son Timothy was born with biliary atresia, a rare disease that prevented his liver from functioning properly. Eddie began removing himself from the road. Against the advice of people managing his career, he reduced his recording and concert schedule and spent as many as four hours a day, six days a week, at Vanderbilt. Timmy underwent four operations while the family waited for the liver transplant that represented his best chance of survival. The transplant finally took place in Minnesota in July 1985. Timmy died less than two days later. He was twenty-three months old. Eddie stayed home with his wife, Janine, and their young daughter, Demelza, who could not understand why her little brother had disappeared. He later remembered the family talking with her about God and heaven while trying to answer questions for which the adults had no easy language. Nearly a year after Timmy’s death, memorial donations were used to furnish and refurbish a playroom at Vanderbilt, where the boy had spent much of his life. Eddie and Janine returned for the dedication. Then Eddie took out his guitar and played for the children inside the hospital. His full return to country music came later. A new son, Tommy, brought laughter back into the house, and in 1988 Eddie reached No. 1 again with “I Wanna Dance with You.” But one of the first rooms to receive his music after the family’s long silence was not a recording studio or concert hall. It was the hospital playroom carrying Timmy’s name, filled with children who needed somewhere to be children between treatments. More from the years Eddie Rabbitt stepped away from the road—and the quiet way he entered public life again—is explored below.

One Christmas, Tom T. Hall Hung Thirteen Stockings for the Dogs—and Opened Fox Hollow to Children Whose Parents Were in Prison At Christmas in 1977, thirteen stockings hung above the fireplace at Tom T. Hall’s home. Every one belonged to a basset hound. The dogs were part of the unruly household Miss Dixie Hall had created at Fox Hollow, the couple’s sixty-acre farm outside Nashville. On that cold December morning, however, the rooms were also filled with children brought up from Chattanooga. A television crew had arrived to film a holiday special, but the children were not actors or relatives assembled for the camera. They lived at Bethel Bible School, a residential home serving children whose parents were incarcerated. Hall had been quietly helping support the institution for years. Each spring, he organized a celebrity golf tournament to raise operating money. A 1978 profile reported that his contributions had become so substantial that he was regarded as nearly the home’s sole financial supporter. He refused to publicize several other charities because he did not want people examining his motives. The scene at Fox Hollow was far removed from Hall’s own Kentucky childhood. He had grown up in a family of ten children and remembered one Christmas waiting late into the night for older brothers and sisters returning from industrial jobs in the North with whatever gifts they could bring. By 1977, “Harper Valley P.T.A.,” “The Year Clayton Delaney Died” and his own hit records had given him a beautiful farm, a writing cabin and enough money to make Christmas easier for children outside his family. The television production did not proceed smoothly. One compressor failed. A replacement brought from town also broke. While the crew tried to repair its equipment, the children moved constantly through the den, past a leather sofa, a door reportedly taken from a British castle and the thirteen dog stockings hanging over the fireplace. Hall had written some of country music’s most exact portraits of people overlooked by respectable society. At Fox Hollow, that instinct did not end when he put down his pen. The holiday program could be filmed again. The children’s home had to remain open after the cameras left, and that was the part Tom T. Hall kept paying for.

A Doctor Told Roy Rogers and Dale Evans to Put Their Baby Away. They Took Her Home. After Robin Elizabeth Rogers was born in August 1950, a doctor advised Roy Rogers and Dale Evans to place their daughter in an institution. Robin had Down syndrome and a serious heart defect. The doctor warned that she might not live long and that caring for her would take attention away from the other children in the Rogers household. In mid-century America, when children with intellectual disabilities were frequently hidden from public life, the recommendation was not unusual. Roy answered that they would take Robin home. At the time, he and Dale were among the most recognizable entertainers in America. Roy had announced Robin’s birth to a rodeo crowd of roughly 90,000 people. Their films, radio appearances and merchandise presented a bright Western world where good people always found their way safely home. The private reality awaiting them was more fragile: medical appointments, constant vigilance and a child vulnerable to illnesses her body had little strength to resist. Robin lived within the family rather than apart from it. Dale later said that those two years changed the household’s understanding of patience, faith and responsibility. Then mumps passed through the family. Robin developed encephalitis and died on August 24, 1952, two days before her second birthday. Dale responded by writing a small book. Published in 1953, Angel Unaware was only sixty-three pages long and told Robin’s story as though the child were speaking to God after returning to heaven. It was openly religious and deeply personal, but its public consequence reached beyond the Rogers family. Dale had written plainly about raising and loving a child whom many parents of that era would have been urged to conceal. The book became one of the year’s bestsellers. At appearances, parents began bringing children with Down syndrome out to meet Dale—children who had seldom been taken into stores, theaters or large public gatherings because their families expected rejection. That same year, a group of Oklahoma parents established a school for children with developmental disabilities. After reading Angel Unaware, they named it for Dale. The organization eventually became the Dale Rogers Training Center, providing employment and support services far beyond its original classroom. Roy Rogers spent his career playing a cowboy who brought people safely home. With Robin, he did something quieter. He refused to send his own child away.

Bobby Bare Jr. was five when his father placed him beside a studio microphone and let him ask a string of impossible childhood questions. Shel Silverstein had written “Daddy What If” as a conversation between a boy and his father. Bare did not polish the child out of the recording. His son’s small voice, uncertain timing and complete trust were the reason the song worked. Released on Lullabys, Legends and Lies, it reached No. 2 on the country chart in 1973. Television producers noticed. The Bare family followed with Singin’ in the Kitchen, an informal album featuring Bobby’s wife, Jeannie, and their children Cari, Shannon and Bobby Jr. For one summer, the family traveled and performed together. There was an obvious commercial future available. Bare ended it. When Hee Haw wanted to hire Bobby Jr. after the children appeared on the show, his father said no. He had enjoyed making the records with them, but he did not want his son living inside the attention given to a successful child performer. Bobby Jr. later remembered that his parents removed the children from entertainment because they did not want them becoming washed-up performers before reaching their teens. The decision carries additional weight beside Bare’s own childhood. His mother died when he was five—the same age his son was when they recorded “Daddy What If.” His father could not support three children alone, and the family was divided among relatives and neighbors. By fifteen, Bobby was working on farms and in factories. Fame had finally given him the money to keep a family together. He would not allow fame to reorganize that family around itself. Bobby Jr. eventually became a musician, but he returned as an adult and chose a harder, noisier path far outside his father’s shadow. In 2005, he produced The Moon Was Blue for the elder Bare. By then, the little boy had acquired his own voice. His father had helped preserve the years in which he was allowed to find it.