August 1961 was a month to remember for Jim Pike. That was the month his song "The Way You Look Tonight" hit the charts at number thirteen in the nation. From that moment on, Jim Pike and The Lettermen would be known around the world. Jim had everything going for him. Then, in 1975 and at the height of his fame, he lost his golden voice. For the next decade, he spoke only in whispers. He had to give up The Lettermen. For the next ten years, he struggled with the fear that he may never be able to sing again. But when, miraculously, he was reunited with his voice, he took it as a sign. Reunion, his new group, was born. After suffering for a decade, he overcame one of the biggest tragedies of his life. Losing his voice cost him much more than just his career, but when he got it back, he also regained a greater appreciation for his family, his life, and his music. Through it all, Jim realized that what seemed like a tragedy was really a blessing. In the process of finding his voice again, what he really found was himself.

MY LETTERMEN YEARS

THE JOURNEY TO HELL AND BACKBy Jim Pike E. L. Scott

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Jim Pike with E. L. Scott
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4079-4

Contents

Foreword................................................................viiAcknowledgments.........................................................xiPrologue Goin' Out of My Head...........................................xiiiChapter 1 Memories......................................................1Chapter 2 Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind..........................7Chapter 3 Bits and Pieces...............................................9Chapter 4 And I Think to Myself.........................................13Chapter 5 What a Wonderful World........................................19Chapter 6 Fools Rush In.................................................23Chapter 7 The Way You Look Tonight......................................27Chapter 8 Just the Right Sound..........................................33Chapter 9 You'll Never Walk Alone.......................................39Chapter 10 Sue, the Wind Beneath My Wings...............................43Chapter 11 There Is Someone Watching Your Footsteps.....................51Chapter 12 Silly Boy....................................................55Chapter 13 Don't Know What I'm Going Through............................65Chapter 14 Hold Your Head Up High.......................................69Chapter 15 Like Needles and Pins........................................73Chapter 16 Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too.........................77Chapter 17 Nobody Could Paint a Dream...................................81Chapter 18 How Many Times I Wish I Could Tell You.......................85Chapter 19 Let Me Love You, Baby, Let Me Love You.......................89Chapter 20 Put Your Head on My Shoulder.................................99Chapter 21 Made It through the Rain.....................................103Epilogue Life Is Still Worthwhile If You Just Smile.....................109Discography.............................................................111

Chapter One

Memories

I was born November 6, 1936, to Joy, an affectionate mother, and Russ, a famous cowboy singer.

My mom was very petite, only about four feet and eleven inches. She had these big, wide eyes that made her look like one of Walt Disney's rabbits, but she was absolutely beautiful. When I was in elementary school, I would bring the boys from my class home to see how pretty my mom was. I thought she was an angel. She was very fun-loving—she loved to laugh and had a great personality. Mom came from a large family, and all of our family had nicknamed her Joy because she was so happy. She had been schooled only until eighth grade, but she was a successful waitress. Mom always got big tips because everyone liked her.

My father was part of a group called Russ Pike and His Prairie Knights. They were pretty popular, especially in the Midwest, and traveled all over the country. Radio shows were my dad's thing; he Jimmy played on all the 50,000-watt radio stations. When I was three, he started taking me with him to do radio shows. After they rang the cowbell at the end of his show, I would sing, "There's an old prairie schooner, wending its way, over the Santa Fe 'Twail,'" while my mom and uncles sang the background pieces. After my first time, my dad smiled at me and said, "Jim, you've got to be the youngest singer to ever sing that song on the radio." When I turned four, my dad let me open each show with "God Bless America." There's still a recording of it in the Library of Congress.

I loved singing until my first time in front of a live audience at one of my dad's rodeos. I was about five. It wasn't the audience that scared me—I don't think I had stage fright—it was that microphone! I had no idea how powerful a microphone could make my voice sound. I can still recall the reverberation of my voice: my dad set me up on a chair in front of it, and when I went "Ga-a-a-a," the microphone went "GA-GA-GA-GA" back at me. It's funny now, but that moment scared me enough that I didn't want to sing anymore. I don't have another childhood memory of me singing.

From the time I can remember, I was fearful of my dad. In 1945, I didn't see my dad for nearly six months. He'd moved to Oklahoma to work on WKY, a 50,000-watt radio station. When my mom and I moved there to join him, my dad met us at the train station. I remember standing up and thinking my dad had shrunk. He wasn't the big man he used to be when I was scared of him as a little boy.

On my first day of school in Oklahoma, the teacher asked me to introduce myself. I didn't want to just be "Jim." When I was younger, I wanted to be anyone but Jim, so I told the class my name was Rusty. I liked that name, and I was sure the other kids would like me because of it. Of course, being "Rusty" didn't get anyone to like me; in fact, I got teased because I hadn't given my real name. I didn't realize it then, but this was my first time trying to be what I believed others wanted in order to be liked. It's taken me years to be happy with who I am.

I remember going to California from the Midwest for the first time. We moved there after a Beverly Hills agency sent talent scouts to see my dad at one of the rodeos. He and his backup band, comprising my mom and uncles, were very popular. At the rodeo, my dad always wore his white hat because he said it made him "the good guy." He twirled a rope and had a pair of pistols he flashed at the crowd while doing his rope tricks. The audience loved him, but I've always thought Boots, his horse, stole the show. Always standing tall and strong, Boots could count with his hooves, answer "yes" and "no" questions with a specific whinny, and sure did know how to take a bow when the audience applauded him. Boots knew he was something special. I treasured that horse and used to ride him almost every day out in the pasture.

When the scouts from the Beverly Hills agency had seen my dad's show and noticed Boots with his silver saddle, they brought our family out to California. Republic Pictures wasn't well known, but they wanted my dad to make movies for them as a singing cowboy. B Westerns is what they called those movies—where the good guy never gets his hat knocked off. My dad said it was the silliest thing he'd ever heard of. He considered himself a true cowboy—I'd seen him shoot a jackrabbit from his horse with a nice clean shot—so he turned them down. About a month later, they signed on this guy named Gene Autry. Go figure!

After California, we moved to Twin Falls, Idaho. Dad went to work for Bud Larson, or "Big Bud" as everyone called him. Big Bud was about seven feet tall and looked like James Arness. Dad's job was to herd Bud's cattle and brand them. Dad was still singing on the radio at the time, and kids at school teased me because of it. I realize now they were probably just jealous, but back then it was enough for me to tell my dad I didn't want to sing anymore.

"You're not going to sing anymore? Ever?"

I looked down at my feet and answered him, "No, sir."

Dad just shook his head and walked out of the room. Later that day, he came up to me and said if I didn't want to sing, I didn't have to. Years later, that moment still means a lot to me. I don't have many memories of my father being as understanding of me as he was that day. For the most part, my dad tended to be mean. He never hit me or anything, but he would yell a lot, especially at my mother.

I remember my mother coming...