Smoky Mountain Dreams

Folks in Bryson City never called him “Red,” at least not in the old days.

Everyone in the North Carolina mountain town seemed to know him by his first initials, “A.L.” Some still call him that, but they don’t pronounce it “Al.” They say it the old mountain way, with the “A” and the “L” drawn out into something that sounds like “Ell,” with a distinct twang, and a noticeable fondness and familiarity normally reserved for treasured family members. 

But all bluegrass fans and musicians, mountain-born or not, know Arthur Lee Smiley Jr. as “Red,” and they nearly always speak that name in the context of his gifted musical partner and an incredible band. 

Don Reno and Red Smiley, like most bands burdened with talent weighing too heavily, blazed with fury before breaking up too soon. Between 1952 and 1964, they redefined the repertoire of bluegrass, cut the competition with their stage shows, and raised the musical bar so high that musicians have been blessing or blaming them ever since.  Reno and Smiley paved the road for country crossover and the dazzling instrumentalists who would launch bluegrass into the stratosphere.

Perhaps it is safe to say that the five-string banjo genius Don Reno left a more definable musical legacy than his musical partner, but it has long been Red, the tall, gaunt, haunted guitar picker, who has most frequently popped up in conversations around my dinner table. 

Blame it on family ties, both blood and chosen. As a life-long bluegrass disciple, I’ve always known about Red Smiley. But when I met my wife-to-be, one of the first things she told me was that her father, Lewis Sherrill, had played fiddle in a band with Red Smiley. True bluegrass fans take closer notice of such things.  

A.L. Smiley Jr., born in 1924, was the son of a fiddling father who worked as a school administrator and teacher. Census records show that in 1930 Red was living in the Forney’s Creek area of Swain County, N.C.  It is important to understand the Carolina mountain roots. In a pre-bluegrass world, the old-time country string bands formed the style and repertoire for mountain musicians, and in western North Carolina they had access to radio stations in Asheville, Knoxville and Chattanooga. Before the recording industry embraced them, musicians still honed their chops with extended family members inside homes, schoolhouses and wherever they could get a local gig.

The picking bug bites hard, and A.L.’s early musical talent led him to other kids who would live with the sting. Two of his earliest band members, fiddler Lewis Sherrill and guitarist Harry Tallent, were Bryson City boys with no immediate aspirations for stardom.  

 “Oh man, we were just happy-go-lucky kids,” Tallent said in a phone interview from his home in Daytona Beach, Fla. Tallent described the early band, Smoky and the Carolina Ramblers, as a close-knit group fond of their instruments, chasing girls and getting attention. “We didn’t have a leader,” he said. “We just all got together.  I was the youngest one. I wasn’t the leader for sure.” 

The front man was Tallent’s brother Harley, who assumed the comedic role of Smoky and blew on a jug. Tallent proudly proclaimed he knew only three chords on the guitar and Sherrill seemed an unlikely choice for fiddler. He began playing when he was 12 after ordering a fiddle from a Sears Roebuck catalog in his Uncle Homer’s name. The fiddle arrived unexpectedly and Homer discovered the scam. When he realized Sherrill had no money, he paid for the fiddle on the condition the youngster would learn to play it. He did. “He was great back in those days,” Tallent said. “He was real good. He picked it up quick.” 

The little group gathered a local following in Bryson City and played for fun in the homes of their family members. Tallent’s sister, Mildred Bryson, was one of the faithful followers of the band, and in a phone interview from her home in New Orleans, she used one word to describe the music she heard. 

“Well, it was country,” she said. “What you’d really call country.” But she is also quick to point out that among the old-time fiddle breakdowns and folk songs, sacred music formed a necessary part of the repertoire. It was a bond that most rural musicians shared, and bluegrass musicians who wanted to stay in the business would have to know how to play and sing gospel. Reno and Smiley would make it a centerpiece of their music. 

Like her brother, Bryson speaks of those early days in idyllic terms, and indeed it is difficult not to envy the scenes she described as “good, clean fun.” The Ramblers played all night jam sessions and square dances and, as Bryson pointed out, “of course, the girls were all crazy about those boys.” A.L.’s sister, Polly Finney, recalled in a phone interview from her home in Trussville, Ala., that she had a tremendous crush on Sherrill, and the memory of the boys practicing on the porch of Tallent’s house has stayed with her forever. This was music played for sheer enjoyment in a small town where everyone knew each other. “Oh, back in them days there wasn’t as much to do,” Tallent said. 

The local venues included the Swain County Courthouse lawn on Saturdays, the local theater and Bryson City’s Fryemont Inn. “We’d play in the lobby for tourists,” Tallent said. “It was the first time many of them had heard this kind of music. Of course, after hearing us, maybe they didn’t want to hear it no more. But they’d throw the money in there.”

A.L., who played guitar, had more going for him than good looks and musical talent. He also had a car. Actually, it belonged to his father, but with wheels, the band began covering more ground. The schoolhouse circuit brought entire families to their shows and their local following inevitably led to looking beyond Bryson City. 

Two events led to the separation of professional and amateur musicians and the mapping of their careers. First, the expanding radio markets allowed musicians to reach wider audiences and network with other pickers and singers. This interaction meant that bands could more easily maintain personnel and possibly find their big break. Such was the case of Red Smiley, who began playing on WROL in Knoxville, Tenn., in the late 1930s. With a warm, smooth voice and a rapidly developing steady guitar style, the teenaged Red seemed to be well on his way to making his big move. 

But the other event that charted the course of many young lives was World War II. Red enlisted as a private in the U.S. Army in 1943. A story has persisted that Red lost a lung in Sicily when bomb shrapnel tore through his chest. Red’s sister said that the story sprang from the imagination of a publicity agent. The real story, according to Finney, is that Red was working in shipbuilding in Pennsylvania when he contracted pneumonia that nearly killed him. He spent two years recovering in Walter Reed Hospital. That Red could still sing at all was a miracle. His greatly diminished breathing capacity was only one of the many health problems he suffered throughout his career. The wasting effects of his diabetes would become especially devastating. 

World War II also set events in motion that led to the partnership of Reno and Smiley. A native of Spartanburg, South Carolina, Reno had auditioned for the banjo slot in Bill Monroe’s Bluegrass Boys. Monroe, the “Father of Bluegrass” was blown away by the kid with the three-finger rolls (Reno was a pioneer of the style) and vast song repertoire. When the Army grabbed Reno soon after the audition, Monroe replaced him with a young man from North Carolina named Earl Scruggs. Consequently, the spotlight followed Scruggs and his legendary right hand rolls. In 1948, Scruggs left Monroe and Reno returned to Monroe’s band. 

Reno eventually left Monroe and joined fiddler Tommy Magness and his Tennessee Buddies on WDBJ radio in Roanoke, Virginia. The band included Red Smiley on guitar, and he and Reno left Magness to share their dream of shooting for something bigger. The pair moved to WWVA in West Virginia before securing a record contract with King Records in Cincinnati and forming one of the classic bluegrass bands, the Tennessee Cut-Ups. They recorded many of the songs that would become bluegrass classics, including “I’m Using My Bible for a Road Map” (Reno had a knack for writing religious songs with true conviction) and the all-time greatest adultery-in-my-mind heartbreaker, “I Know You’re Married but I Love You Still.” 

Musicians took serious notice of Reno and Smiley. Reno left a legacy that frustrated banjo pickers are still trying to figure out. Playing without a capo, he changed keys on an open neck, and his right hand whipped out demanding razor-sharp single-string attacks. His rich backup work, especially on slow songs, remains an instantly recognizable bluegrass trademark. Part of the appeal was visual. Reno was the tenor and energetic genius, shorter and more compact, while the tall, rail-thin baritone Red was all country coolness, steady and smooth.  Their music differed from the bluegrass of Monroe in that it came very close to straight country, and they borrowed material from just about anything. The band’s video-friendly image contributed to their success on the “Top of the Morning” television program on WDBJ in Roanoke, Virginia, a spot they held for several years. 

Surviving footage from their television appearances includes their special guests and friends, the Stanley Brothers. Ralph and Carter Stanley had built an intensely loyal following of fans devoted to their haunting harmonies and songs of loss and longing that never left the chill of the mountains behind. Compared to any other bluegrass band, the Stanleys “were down to earth, way back in the sticks,” Ralph said in a phone interview from his home in Dickenson County, Virginia. Although the “more modern” style of Reno and Smiley was different from the Stanley Brothers, they shared a fan base, and Ralph saw Reno and Smiley as men he could relate to musically and personally. 

“They were both 110 percent in my book,” Ralph said. 

The video footage includes moving proof of the bond that the men shared. Much of it was due to their fondness for sacred music, and one episode of their show includes a gospel quartet of the Stanley Brothers and Reno and Smiley. Ralph still looks at the rare performance with fondness. 

“Don was always ready to talk about the Bible,” he said. “I think he was well read in the Bible.” 

Ralph stressed that he knew Reno much closer than Red, and Reno enjoyed teasing the more serious Ralph with jokes and “monkey faces.” Red was different. The guitar picker was always friendly and charming, but something did not seem right. “He had bad health,” Ralph said. “You could tell it by talking to him.” 

Another band member stands out in the television footage. Reno’s son, Ronnie, began playing onstage before he was tall enough to reach the microphone. Ronnie, in a phone interview from his office in Hendersonville, Tennessee, described his first memory of Red. He was only 5- or 6-years old and appeared in a talent show in Richmond, Virginia. Red strode on stage apparently uninvited and played guitar backup for the child. Ronnie won the contest and what every boy needs—a five-pound bag of Martha White Flour.

Ronnie admits that the presence of daddy’s kid in the band was a novelty at first. For young Ronnie, this was the world as he knew it: constantly surrounded by his father’s friends, some famous and some not, older men who smoked heavily and maintained tough musical standards. He especially remembers that when he was home, his father’s legendary breakfasts attracted an assortment of characters. When it came time to hit the next gig, Ronnie “would get up in that car and roll down the road with them.” Only later would it hit home how special their music was. “Now that I look back on it I am truly amazed,” he said. 

The Tennessee Cut-Ups amazed many bluegrass fans and they enjoyed a loyal following. In a 1976 interview in Banjo Newsletter, Reno recalled when he and Red played a set that followed Nashville producer and guitar wizard Chet Atkins. The guitarist played a version of “Wildwood Flower” that was so dazzling that the simple melody was unrecognizable. Atkins received a smattering of applause. When Reno and Smiley took the stage, someone sarcastically yelled for them to play “Wildwood Flower.” Red played the melody in the plaintive Maybelle Carter style. When he finished, the crowd roared its approval for the tall, skinny bluegrass picker. Reno took notice of the crowd’s reaction. “I thought to myself, ‘Now if that didn’t teach me a lesson,’” he said. 

Atkins was not the only Nashville star burned by this charismatic duo.  Country music historian Eddie Stubbs has pointed out that Jim Reeves and Ray Price wrote provisions into their contracts that stated they would not follow Reno and Smiley on stage. The duo was at the top of their game. It made no sense to dissolve the partnership. 

That was the way it seemed to most of the bluegrass world. But Reno and Smiley were at a crossroads in 1964. Red, who had become more emaciated due to his complications with diabetes, decided not to continue with the Cut-Ups. The true reason for the separation has remained unclear, but the pair parted amiably and embarked on separate careers. Red played in several bands and Reno was best known for his work with Bob Harrell, which tried to reproduce the sound of the Cut-Ups. Although Red and Reno each reached some creative high points, something was missing. Ronnie Reno said it for all time: “Their greatness was together.” 

One rare recording in particular gave the world a strong hint of what could have been. “Red Smiley Sings Country” appeared through the efforts of Buddy Hogan of Richmond, Virginia. Hogan fell under the spell of Red when he was only 15 years old. Hogan said in a phone interview that the first time he saw his new neighbor, a tall, very thin, cool-looking guy carrying a guitar case, he was hooked. He became Red’s roadie, fishing partner and official band archivist. “He was like a big brother to me,” Hogan said. 

The sessions that would become “Red Smiley Sings Country” were discovered after Hogan wondered whatever happened to the rest of the 1968 recordings that produced a 45 record called “Best Female Actress of the Year.” The sessions in Waynesboro, Va., had included top Nashville players, including Elvis Presley’s drummer, D.J. Fontana. Hogan tracked down the owner of the studio and found that Red had recorded other country songs. Released together for the first time in 2005, the album gives a startling glimpse into the country stardom that eluded him. This was hard country, and although Red’s voice had the resonant smoothness of a Nashville crooner, it also had a cutting edge that suggested a life lived hard. It was a voice probably too real for pop country. 

“Red used to tell me, ‘I’m not getting into that rat race in Nashville,’” Hogan said. Perhaps another recording a year later gives more insight into Red’s true musical calling. Among Hogan’s archival treasures is a rare recording of Carlton Haney’s 1969 festival in Camp Spring, North Carolina. Reno began the set with a fond introduction of Red, calling him “retired.” Red replied in the background, “Just tired, not re-tired.” Reno joked that he brought Red onstage to “keep him from going crazy,” and Red responded, “to keep from starvin’ to death!” Reno finally summed it all up: “He’s too good a musician to completely retire.” 

Red joined Reno on stage to a loud applause and the two men performed a retrospective of their greatest songs. The music was powerful, but the most moving moments came in their dialogue between songs. This was Red and Reno recalling road life and the stories behind the music. Listeners today feel that they are hearing a living room conversation between old friends, not just a stage show. This recording is the most essential document to understanding the bond that Red and Reno shared. 

Although his health continued to decline, Red rejoined Reno’s band. Harrell graciously stepped back so Red could enjoy the spotlight once more. But the old magic was gone. Red, ever more skeletal and weak, played when he could, but in late 1971, he could play no more.  On New Year’s Day of 1972, Red was rushed to a Richmond hospital. He died on Sunday, January 2. He was 47 years old.

Red’s wife, Gladys, insisted that his body return to Bryson City. Many of his musician friends, including Bill Monroe, attended the funeral service held in the First Baptist Church. He was buried in the DeHart/Jackson Line Cemetery on the side of a hill next to his parents. The impressive headstone included an engraved guitar and a medallion that featured a photo of Red. 

You can see the grave from the highway if you know where to look. The Jackson Line cemetery is easily accessible and visible. Thousands of tourists on board the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad pass by the cemetery on their way back and forth from Fontana Lake each year and probably do not notice it. The tour narration never mentions the grave or the cemetery. The medallion featuring Red’s photo was stolen long ago. 

But Bryson City never completely forgot its famous son.  A local news photographer, Teddy Greene, decided years ago that someone had to do something to recognize Red’s accomplishments and replace the missing photo. He has no relation to the family and had never met Red. He just always thought the headstone was interesting and it needed restoration. Greene eventually grew tired of waiting. “I wanted it done right,” he said. 

Greene called up people who would care. He pulled together some local musician friends and a few remaining relatives of Red and scheduled a memorial service and dedication of a new photo for the headstone. He found a suitable image from an album cover, reproduced it and paid for the expense of a new photo medallion himself. 

The morning of December 6, 2008, dawned bitterly cold in the Great Smoky Mountains.  The small group that Greene assembled huddled around Red’s grave and tried to stay warm.  Although some of the group were musicians, they were simply too cold to sing. Cody Shuler, Kevin Tuck and the Rye Holler Boys found it was also too cold to pick their instruments, so everyone simply joined in prayer. Surely everyone there must have been thinking of all the bluegrass lyrics that described cold, lonely, windswept graves. But Greene’s project brought a warm reality to the raw day: The beaming face of one of bluegrass music’s most shining stars had finally returned to the mountain. 

It is only natural to think of what could have been when one reflects on Red’s career. I can’t help but think of a line from “Old Has Been,” which appeared on “Red Smiley Sings Country:” “I’ll just walk the night away trying to forget the past if I can/But that’s not easy for me when you’ve been called an old has been.”

Red Smiley probably walked many nights away thinking of what could have been, and it had to be agony to admit that his career—and life—was over much too soon. The photos of Red as a boy show a child aglow with the innocence and promise of the road ahead. But the road rarely leads to what most dreamers envision. Maybe it took Red farther than he could ever imagine. Maybe he ran out of road before he reached what he had always wanted. 

One thing is certain. It finally brought him home.