I Can Only Imagine Page 10

  After a while, Rusty began to burn out from working all week and doing the events all weekend, not to mention juggling the scheduling conflicts between the two jobs. He asked if I wanted to replace him at the Awe Star events. I respected the ministry and thought it would be a cool opportunity, so I accepted.

  The Awe Star Ministries worship band was led by Jami Smith, a young lady who had gained a solid reputation as a respected worship leader in student ministry circles. One weekend she was scheduled to play at a different event, so Jami’s backup singer replaced her. Early on in the first set, she forgot the words to a popular song and froze. Freaking out a bit, she nervously announced to the audience, “Does anyone here know the words to this song?”

  Well, I had heard this set every weekend for quite a while. I had all the words memorized to every song and could sing them in the same key for a girl’s vocal range that the band was used to performing in. (High voice, remember?)

  So I left the soundboard, ran up onto the stage, and finished the song. In fact, I ended up finishing out that entire set with the band. It felt very natural, and I connected really well with the students.

  Afterward, the Awe Star leadership asked to talk to me. Jami had been offered another touring job, and they wanted to know if I would take over fronting their band. Ready for just such an opportunity, I gratefully agreed. Isn’t it amazing to look back and see the key moments when God orchestrates His will in our lives?

  Now I was in a worship band with Mike in Florida during the week, and touring with Jim Bryson, who played keyboards in the ASM worship band, on the weekends. Another member was added to the MercyMe family tree.

  In 1993, Jim and I played an Awe Star youth camp in Switzerland for kids of military members and missionaries. One day, as all three hundred students were gathered together outside, surrounded by the beauty and majesty of the Swiss Alps, we encouraged them to stand shoulder to shoulder in a circle. I jumped up onto a large rock and led us all in an a cappella worship song. I had never experienced anything like it—all those voices singing God’s praises, echoing through that massive mountain range. To say it was incredible or amazing or awesome doesn’t do it justice. That holy moment was the stuff of heaven. Indeed, a literal mountaintop moment!

  As the students lifted up their voices heavenward, something happened deep inside me. Gently but powerfully, God spoke to my spirit that He wanted me to be a worship leader. This was about something bigger, wider, deeper, and more permanent than what I was already doing. I realized that I wasn’t going to wait until after college or seminary as I had planned. The time was now!

  It was my very own burning-bush moment. God had spoken.

  Worshiping with those students in that setting made an eternal impact on me. I knew I had to be a part of leading songs of praise wherever God sent me. As I was standing on that physical rock in the Alps and on my spiritual rock in Christ, God connected my faith, my gift, and my calling for the rest of my life.

  On the long flight back home, I replayed the Alps moment over and over in my heart. At one point I looked at Jim and said, “Hey, we have to do this. This is exactly what we’re supposed to be doing. We need to start a band—full time.”

  After I got home from that trip, Mammaw Millard and I had a very honest conversation. I confessed to her that I hated college, which she was paying for. After hearing me out, she said she felt that if I did whatever I was passionate about, I would do well in life. She agreed to let me take a semester off to figure things out. She knew what Dad had told me about my music, and now she was placing that same belief in me. She knew it might not have been the “right” way, but it was the cowboy way.

  You’re Called What?

  Mammaw Millard often called me in Florida, and soon she started to realize I was always home, available to talk. In her old-school estimation, she equated that with me not working.

  One day she asked, “Bart, what exactly do you do all day?”

  “Well, I’ve got my calendar cleared, because I think I’m going to start a band. All I need to do is come up with a name, and I’m good to go,” I joked.

  “Mercy me, Bart!” she shot back. “Why don’t you get a real job?”

  And that is how our band got its name. Really. No joke. Totally serious.

  Some artists have slick managers, marketing people at record labels, or public relations folks to help them create a catchy, trendy, memorable band name. Who needs all that when you have a Mammaw?

  Living Large at the Day Care

  I would not be returning to college in the spring, and Mike had just graduated from high school in Lakeland, so I convinced him to move with me to Oklahoma City, where Jim lived. (Mike was eighteen, so we had to convince his parents too.) For the three of us to start a touring band, we figured it made the most sense to be centrally located in the United States. The middle of Florida is a long way from most places, but Oklahoma City is right in the middle of the map, with three major interstates running through it.

  I worked for two years with Rusty at Lakeside before pulling up stakes and moving to Oklahoma. In 1994, three years after Dad died, Mike, Jim, and I started chasing the dream of a Christian group named MercyMe. As only God could orchestrate, our first official show took place at the same camp in Switzerland where the original vision had been cast.

  Jim had a little recording studio set up at his parents’ house, so when we came to town, Mike and I stayed in a camper in their driveway. Several months later, Jim told us he’d found a place where we could all live, with plenty of room for his recording gear. Intrigued, we went to go look at the property. We pulled up to the address, only to find out it was an abandoned day-care center. The windows were broken, and the inside was full of trash left behind by the various homeless people who had been living in it. The building had been vandalized repeatedly. It was in really bad shape, so it had been for sale for quite a while.

  While we knew the building would need some work, we thought the layout was perfect for us. We called the owners in California, explained our situation, and asked if we could rent their building at a reduced rate in exchange for doing some upkeep on the place. I guess they figured some income was better than none, because they agreed. We cleaned it up, fixed the windows, made the classrooms into our bedrooms, configured one large play area into a living room, and put a recording studio in the other. It was the perfect band house.

  Sometimes we invited a bunch of buddies over, opened up all the windows and doors, and played “Capture the Flag.” Nowhere was out of bounds; you could go anywhere inside or outside the property—even on the roof. This game was especially fun in the wintertime when it was freezing and there was snow on the ground.

  These were incredible, carefree days. Well, most of them. There were also the tough days, when the landlord would call about the rent being late or the phone company threatened to cut off our service if we didn’t pay the bill. We didn’t have the money, so we would call all over the area, begging youth ministers to let us come play at something, anything—even for a love offering—so we could make it another month. (Wouldn’t our band adventures have made a great reality TV show?)

  During this time, we met a bass player named Kendall Combes. Kendall played for other Christian artists and also did studio work. He was married, a little older than us, and more established, but the more we played together, the more we connected. Kendall agreed to become a full member of MercyMe as our bass player. Now we had everything—vocals, keys, guitar, and bass—covered by band members except drums, which we hired various musicians to play.

  On the Home Front

  On the morning of April 19, 1995, we woke at 9:02 a.m. to the sensation of the entire building shaking. Pictures we had hung in our rooms came crashing down. Twenty-five miles away from where we lived in Edmond, a rental truck filled with explosives had detonated in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, and the nine-story structure was decimated in the terrorist attack. News reports said the blast w
as felt as far away as fifty-five miles. The rescue effort took two weeks as workers combed through the rubble. The death toll was 168 people—19 of those young children from the day-care center located on-site.

  It was a sobering time to be a band traveling the country to spread the message and hope of Christ when the eyes of the world were suddenly on our own town. Because we were a local band, we were asked to play at some of the funerals and fund-raisers the community put on to help the families of the victims. We were humbled and grateful to serve in some small way at such a horrific time.

  Not long after, we had to play an out-of-town event and needed to rent some additional production gear. The best way to transport everything to the location was to rent a box truck. On the way out of town, we stopped by the church where Jim’s dad was on staff to borrow some microphone stands. We pulled up to the front of the church in the box truck, noticing that the parking lot was full of cars. As Jim jumped out of the cab, the church doors flew open, and men in suits came running out with guns drawn, yelling.

  Unbeknownst to us, the church was holding a funeral for one of the ATF agents who had died in the bombing, and we had driven up to the church in the exact type of Ryder rental truck that the bomber had used. It never occurred to any of us what we were driving and how that might have affected people, especially so soon afterward and at an officer’s funeral. Needless to say, we had some explaining to do. We felt horrible about the confusion and upset. We apologized profusely and explained the circumstances. Finally, we got the gear we needed and got back on the road.

  Our days in Oklahoma brought a lot of great relationships into our lives, ones we still have to this day. We have even gone back several times to play benefits to help the victims of other disasters that have occurred in that great state.

  Growing Pains

  For traveling highways and back roads to gigs, we bought a gutted-out 1973 Silver Eagle tour bus to haul both people and gear. It wasn’t much to look at, but the diesel dinosaur allowed us to have a place to sleep when we toured, since we couldn’t afford hotel rooms. The entire bus interior was like a long hallway from front to back, lined with plywood. A family who owned a mattress company in Florida had given us a bunch of twin-size pillow-top mattresses, so we lined them two-by-two down the inside of the bus. We slept side by side and end to end. If the driver had to slam on the brakes in the middle of the night, everyone rolled from the back to the front. (It was actually kinda fun when that happened.) Fortunately, no one ever got hurt, but it was a crazy way to wake up for sure. We took turns driving the three-speed transmission behemoth in three-hour shifts, trying to ensure no one got too sleepy or fatigued behind the wheel.

  With Mammaw Millard’s blessing and Dad’s six-hundred-dollar monthly provision, I agreed to work full-time for the band. I worked the phones, calling churches and ministries to book us. I acted as agent, manager, and road manager, doing anything I could do to keep us busy and get our name out there. The other guys got jobs to pay their bills when we were off the road.

  We led worship as the opener at a youth event in Oklahoma in which Audio Adrenaline was the headliner. They were one of the biggest and best bands back in that era of CCM. Their number-one hits included what are now classics like “Big House” and “Get Down.” Audio A’s manager was Scott Brickell, but everyone just called him Brickell. He is a mountain of a man, a no-nonsense, straight-shooter kind of guy. (Trace Adkins was the perfect choice to play him in the film.)

  As it happens, we almost didn’t get to perform at that show at all. If we hadn’t, who knows how our lives might be different today? Here’s the story.

  The woman sponsoring and promoting the event was a huge supporter of MercyMe, and she called Brickell and told him she had a local band for the opening slot. She went on and on about us, so he asked to hear some of our music. All we had at that point was a very poor cassette recording of some of our earliest songs. Regardless, she got it from us and sent it to Brickell.

  He listened to the tape and called her back. Not one to mince words, he said, “I don’t think this is going to work. I just don’t think they are very good.” She went on to tell him we were far better than the recording and that we were great with students.

  “Will you take a few days to pray about it?” she asked. Brickell agreed.

  The next week the woman called back. “Well, did you pray about MercyMe opening for Audio Adrenaline?”

  “Yes, I did,” Brickell answered.

  “And?”

  “Well,” he said, “God didn’t tell me anything different. . . . I still say no.”

  A few more days passed, and, determined to not give up, she called Brickell again. She explained how she really wanted us to play the event and hoped there would be more than just Audio A on the bill. Finally, reading between the lines, Brickell asked her, “Are you telling me that if I don’t agree to your band opening for us, you might cancel my band?”

  She responded, “Well, I don’t want to have to say that.”

  The threat was clear, and Brickell gave in. But he insisted that we couldn’t get onstage to set up or do a sound check until Audio A was completely finished and ready for the show, which might allow only thirty minutes for our setup and sound check. Thanks to some tough negotiations on our behalf, the deal was done.

  We showed up at the agreed time on the afternoon of the event and moved our gear as close to the stage as we possibly could without interfering with anyone. The show started at seven, and the doors were supposed to open at six. Brickell finally cleared us to get on the stage at about 5:35 p.m. We rushed to get set up, even carrying Jim’s huge Hammond B3 organ up the steps to the platform. We were still trying to do a sound check when the back doors flew open and the kids started running in to get their seats. We wrapped up and went backstage to get ready.

  The event sponsor stood at the back of the venue during our set. Brickell said he had planned on walking up beside her, listening to about half of a song, telling her “I told you so,” and then walking off. Well, he listened to half a song—and then the rest of the song and the rest of our set.

  After the show, he came up to us and said, “Gentlemen, I was wrong about you. You are really good, and you’re great with the crowd. Very nice job tonight. I know you aren’t at the place to be able to afford a manager, but if there is ever anything I can help you with, just let me know.”

  At that event, we made a real connection with Audio A, particularly with Mark Stuart, their lead singer. They were all super-nice guys and very encouraging to us. The introductions we made that night would turn out to be yet another major God moment for MercyMe. Over time, we all became good friends, and Mark became our advocate in so many situations. He wanted to see us signed to a solid Christian label so that we could get our music out to as broad of an audience as possible.

  As for Brickell, well, he probably regretted his offer, because I took him up on it in a major way. I called anytime I had a question. Amazingly, he always took my calls, when I’m sure all kinds of crazy young musicians just like me were trying to get through to him. Every time, he did his best to help us—at no charge. Let me tell you, that is not normal behavior for a music manager, Christian or not.

  Brickell’s office manager, Kim Davis, told me several years later that she always thought I worked for a charity organization because of the word mercy in our name. Well, we were starving musicians, so you might say she was right.

  First Album and Last Drummer

  Using our little studio in the day-care center, we cut our first independent record. We were blessed that Jim had attended Full Sail University, a comprehensive recording school in Florida, so he knew what he was doing. Our debut project was called Pleased to Meet You. (Get it? Clever, huh?)

  Having our first actual project with our own original songs began to open doors for the band. This was back when not just anyone could make a record in their living room, so being in a band with a record to sell was a big deal and offered some real c
redibility. One of the local radio stations even played one of our songs. While we didn’t sell that many records early on, the project helped us grow as artists, expanding our reach.

  We hired the best studio drummer in the area, Trent Austin, to record with us. We hit it off with Trent and enjoyed working with him. Any time we would get a gig, we would ask if he could play with us. Because he was our first call, we considered him “our drummer.” But he was in high demand and was often already booked, so during our stint in Oklahoma, we ended up using twenty-three different drummers. (Yes, really.) Some we hired once, others several times.

  One of the guys that Trent had mentored and recommended was Robby Shaffer. He played for us several times and we really liked him, so we finally realized it was high time to commit to someone and stop the drummer drama. Of all the guys we had worked with, Robby played the best and fit the band the most. We asked him to officially join the band, and he gladly agreed. So not only did we have our first album release, but now the band lineup was complete. Robby may have been the twenty-fourth guy, but since that day, MercyMe has never had another drummer.

  Music City Madness

  We enjoyed our simple and innocent days living in the converted day-care center, but we knew we needed to grow as a band, and Oklahoma wasn’t exactly a hotbed of musical opportunity. I was well versed in all things Christian music, so I knew that Nashville was the hub of the wheel from which everything in CCM spins. It was the home of record labels and managers and booking agencies and radio consultants and even tour bus companies. Music City, as they call it, was the one-stop shop. All the Audio A guys lived there. Plus, Brickell had been telling me if we ever wanted to give Nashville a go and play a showcase to try to get a record deal, he would help.