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Greatest Hits Oldies But Goodies Ever

Four years before Devil Without a Cause sold 11 million copies, a broke, 24-year-old Kid Rock walked into a Macomb County courtroom in Michigan and won custody of his two-year-old son. Robert James Ritchie Jr. was born on June 14, 1993, right as Jive Records dropped his father after a failed debut album. Kid Rock and his high school sweetheart, Kelley South Russell, split after a paternity test revealed a second child he had been helping raise for months was not biologically his. With no steady paycheck and long hair that invited plenty of 1990s skepticism, he petitioned the court anyway and walked out as Bobby Jr.’s primary parent. Between 1995 and 1997, he launched Top Dog Records, mopped floors at Detroit’s White Room Studios in exchange for late-night recording hours, and sold tapes and CDs out of his car trunk to buy diapers, milk, and clothes. While he tracked vocals inside the booth with Twisted Brown Trucker, toddler Bobby Jr. slept on a worn studio couch near the mixing board. After his August 1998 album made him a star, Russell sued in 2000 for custody and steep child support, though the court kept sole legal guardianship with Kid Rock amid evidence of her drug struggles and his five years of steady care. Even so, he still tried to let his son maintain safe contact with his mother during sober stretches before her death in 2014. One morning during that sudden rush of fame, he woke after a late night out and found his young son eating cereal alone in front of cartoons, waiting for a ride to school. From then on, he kept the rock-and-roll circus out of their Clarkston, Michigan home, routing tours around Little League games until Bobby Jr. made him a grandfather at 43 in 2014 and graduated from Nashville’s Belmont University in 2015.

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Instead of moving to Los Angeles after Devil Without a Cause sold millions, Kid Rock built his next recording studio in Clarkston, Michigan, minutes from his young son’s school.

Years before arenas knew that stage name, twenty-two-year-old Robert James Ritchie became a single parent almost overnight in late 1993. His on-and-off Romeo High School girlfriend, Kelley South Russell, had given birth to Robert James Ritchie Jr. on June 14, 1993, shortly before a paternity test showed that another child they were raising together was not biologically his.

Jive Records had already dropped Ritchie following his 1990 debut, Grits Sandwiches for Breakfast, leaving him broke when Russell left six-month-old Bobby Jr. on his doorstep. At twenty-four, with long hair and no steady paycheck, he petitioned a Macomb County court anyway and won full legal custody of his two-year-old son, leaning on his mother, Susan, his sister, and the boy’s godmother for backup childcare.

Between 1995 and 1997, survival and fatherhood ran straight through White Room Studios in downtown Detroit. Ritchie worked there as a janitor, mopping floors to trade labor for late-night recording hours under his self-funded label, Top Dog Records. While toddler Bobby Jr. slept on a worn couch near the mixing board, his father cut 1996’s Early Mornin’ Stoned Pimp and assembled his backing band, Twisted Brown Trucker, alongside keyboardist Jimmie Bones and DJ Uncle Kracker.

Daytime meant placing cassettes and CDs on consignment in metro Detroit shops and selling copies out of his car trunk to pay for diapers and milk. Even after Atlantic Records signed him, he stayed inside White Room Studios to record his August 1998 breakthrough, Devil Without a Cause.

As “Bawitdaba” and “Only God Knows Why” pushed that album past eleven million U.S. copies, Ritchie bought land north of Detroit in Clarkston rather than pulling his son out of Michigan. By 1999, he had opened his own Clarkston Chophouse studio near the house. Recording 2001’s Cocky there, and 2003’s self-titled album at his nearby Allen Roadhouse studio, let him work late without living on airplanes.

Sudden wealth also brought a ten-month custody fight in 2000 when Russell returned to court seeking expanded visitation and financial support. Under the resulting settlement, Ritchie kept primary physical custody, granted Russell broader visits during healthier stretches, and insisted on a $25-a-week child support order unless she had Bobby Jr. for at least six days.

At home, the rock-and-roll lifestyle delivered its own wake-up calls. On Christmas in 2000, seven-year-old Bobby Jr. walked in and found his father passed out on the floor after a post-concert party. Ritchie later told Esquire he refused to make excuses, explaining plainly to his son that he had drunk too much after a big show and was not proud of it.

Another morning after a late night out, he came downstairs to find the boy eating cereal alone in front of cartoons while waiting for a ride to school. From then on, Ritchie tightened the wall around their Clarkston home and routed tour schedules around Little League games and school mornings.

Bobby Jr. grew up attending Clarkston Community Schools and Orchard Lake St. Mary’s Preparatory while his father guarded the household circle fiercely. During Ritchie’s four-month marriage to actress Pamela Anderson in 2006, he filed for divorce the morning after hearing her speak poorly of his mother and sister in front of his fourteen-year-old son, refusing to let anyone belittle the two women who had helped raise him.

Away from his father’s rowdy stage persona, Bobby Jr. grew into adulthood with no interest in drugs or hard partying. He moved south to Nashville to attend Belmont University from 2011 to 2015, working regular jobs, recording his own music, and earning his college degree.

In 2014, Bobby Jr. and his Clarkston high school sweetheart, Marisa Trovato, welcomed a daughter named Skye, making Ritchie a grandfather at forty-three. Married in late 2021, the couple later added a son named Ryder.

Three decades after sleeping on a studio couch in Detroit while his broke father mopped floors for tape time, that toddler now brings two children of his own to visit Grandpa in Michigan.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glb2U6y-GdU

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When Miranda Lambert married Brendan McLoughlin on January 26, 2019, she also became a stepmother to his nearly three-month-old son, Landon, born just days after the couple first met. Learning that the man she had just met in November 2018 was welcoming a newborn from a previous relationship could have easily made a woman walk away. Instead, watching how responsibly the young New York police officer cared for his infant boy showed Lambert the kind of man he was, and she opened her arms to the child without hesitation. Determined never to pull Brendan away from his son’s earliest months, Lambert arranged their lives across two states. She kept a home base in New York City so Brendan could stay close to Landon and maintain a respectful, harmonious bond with the boy’s mother, while regularly bringing the baby home for long stays on her four-hundred-acre farm outside Nashville, Tennessee. Until age thirty-five, Lambert’s world had revolved almost entirely around highway tour buses and rescued dogs and cats. Back at her Tennessee log farmhouse, she outfitted a room with a crib, baby supplies, and toys. On free weekends away from arena crowds, she traded her stage gear for simple cotton clothes, walking Landon with Brendan around the farm pond and introducing the baby to her miniature horses. When she spoke about married life at CMA Fest in Nashville in mid-2019, Lambert beamed as she called her stepson an amazing baby who had given her the best of both worlds. For a singer who had once retreated to those Tennessee pastures to heal in solitude, the sound of a child laughing under her wooden porch roof turned a quiet hideaway into a true family home.

On January 26, 2019, Miranda Lambert married former New York City police officer Brendan McLoughlin in complete secrecy on her four-hundred-acre farm an hour outside Nashville. Years earlier, following a 2015 divorce that tabloid papers had dissected in public, Lambert had bought that quiet stretch of Tennessee land as a refuge to heal among her horses and rescue dogs. Less than three months after her Pistol Annies bandmates introduced her to McLoughlin in Times Square, she chose the very pastures where she had once spent solitary days to exchange vows in front of only their closest circle, including her parents, Rick and Bev Lambert, with not a single reporter in sight. Setting aside the leather jackets and cowboy boots that had long served as her armor onstage, Lambert stepped out in a fitted, long-sleeved white lace gown by Lela Rose. In the afternoon light beside her horses, she stood next to McLoughlin in his dark suit, marrying a man who cared nothing for music industry trophies and loved the woman who cooked at home and played guitar on the porch. To guard their early days as newlyweds, the couple kept the wedding hidden from the entire entertainment world for nearly three weeks. Even when Lambert attended the sixty-first Grammy Awards in Los Angeles on February 10, 2019, she walked the red carpet with her mother, Bev, giving away no hint in front of hundreds of cameras. Only on Valentine’s Day, February 14, did she share two wedding photographs to introduce McLoughlin as her husband. By welcoming both Brendan and his newborn son into the farmhouse, Lambert turned the secluded acreage she once bought for solitude into a shared family home.

On the morning of November 2, 2018, while Miranda Lambert was in Times Square promoting the album Interstate Gospel on Good Morning America, her bandmates spotted a young police officer outside the backstage window. By then, the country star was weary of romance inside the music industry following her 2015 divorce from Blake Shelton and a string of broken relationships with fellow musicians. Having watched her carry those bruises for years, Pistol Annies bandmates Ashley Monroe and Angaleena Presley knew their friend needed a steady partner far removed from Nashville spotlights. Without telling Lambert, the two women and their security guard handed twenty-seven-year-old NYPD officer Brendan McLoughlin tickets to the group’s show that night at The Town Hall. Raised on Staten Island and assigned to the Midtown South Precinct, McLoughlin knew almost nothing about country music fame when he arrived that evening. He did not look at Lambert as a Grammy winner or a tabloid headline, speaking to her simply as a woman who deserved to be heard. When McLoughlin welcomed a newborn son from a previous relationship just days after they met, Lambert embraced the boy as a stepmother, flying back and forth between New York and Tennessee beside Brendan to help care for him. Less than three months after meeting in Manhattan, on January 26, 2019, the couple married in secret in a quiet field in Davidson County, Tennessee, before sharing the news on Valentine’s Day in February. Soon after, McLoughlin took a leave of absence and retired from the NYPD, trading Manhattan patrol sirens for Lambert’s four-hundred-acre farm outside Nashville. The former city cop learned to drive a tractor, mow pastures, and tend horses and rescue dogs while accompanying his wife on tour, giving a singer who had spent years wearing armor onstage a quiet place to set her guard down.

Long before Alabama sold 75 million records, Randy Owen played every unfinished song for his wife Kelly first, watching her eyes in their Fort Payne kitchen before calling Nashville. They married in 1975, back when his band was still called Wild Country and played for tips dropped into a glass jar at The Bowery in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Through the late 1970s, Kelly worked to keep them afloat in a cramped mobile home while Randy stayed up late writing songs. Even after RCA signed Alabama and 43 number one singles followed, the couple chose not to relocate into Nashville’s spotlight. Instead, they built a Hereford cattle ranch on Lookout Mountain in Fort Payne, on the same land Randy had worked growing up. Whenever a new song came together, often written on a tour bus while missing home, Randy brought the rough draft straight to their kitchen or front porch with an acoustic guitar. Kelly listened without industry polish. When others around a Country Music Hall of Fame singer might hesitate to be blunt, she would gently shake her head if a melody felt untrue to him. If she went quiet with tears in her eyes, he knew millions of strangers would feel it too. That quiet test helped send classics like 1981’s Feels So Right out into the world. Across five decades together, the bond forged in those lean Myrtle Beach years also carried them through launching the Country Cares for St. Jude Kids radiothon in 1989 and facing Randy’s prostate cancer diagnosis in 2010, on the same Alabama mountain they still call home.

In 1976, forty-two-year-old Vern Gosdin was measuring construction glass and keeping ledger books at his shop in Atlanta, Georgia, convinced his singing career was already behind him. Nearly a decade earlier, he and his brother Rex had earned notice in California as The Gosdin Brothers, taking their 1967 single Hangin’ On into the country top forty. When their momentum stalled in the early 1970s and family bills mounted, Vern packed away his guitar and opened an Atlanta glass business to support his wife and children. Few customers across his shop counter knew his past, though two people in the music world had never forgotten that 1967 record. The late Gram Parsons and his singing partner, Emmylou Harris, had long treated the Gosdin Brothers’ original version of Hangin’ On as a masterclass in emotional singing. By 1976, Harris was a gold-selling star in her own right, and she could not accept that a voice like Vern’s had vanished from the business. Working with veteran Nashville producer Gary S. Paxton, Harris reached out to Atlanta and persuaded the hesitant forty-two-year-old businessman to try the studio one more time. When Vern stepped back to the microphone to cut new versions of Hangin’ On and Yesterday’s Gone, Harris set aside her own headlining billing to stand behind him as a backing vocalist, wrapping her clear soprano around a baritone that had grown deeper and heavier through years of ordinary labor. Those tracks immediately convinced Elektra Records to sign him, and in late 1976 the new recording of Hangin’ On climbed to number sixteen on the Billboard country chart, far outperforming the 1967 release. Harris returned to sing harmony on his 1977 breakthrough album Till the End, helping the middle-aged Atlanta glass merchant begin the chapter that made him known across Nashville simply as The Voice.

Years after March 2020, Kenny Rogers’ twin sons Justin and Jordan still returned to their local Chuck E. Cheese in Georgia just to sit at the same old table. On March 20, 2020, when the eighty-one-year-old singer passed away peacefully at his home in Sandy Springs, Georgia, Justin Charles and Jordan Edward were only fifteen. Born on July 6, 2004, when their father was sixty-five, the boys suddenly had to face their high school years without the dad who had shaped his final decade around their childhood. Instead of searching for him only in museum displays or grand tribute concerts, the brothers went back to the final stop of their childhood Super Saturday routine. Even as they grew into tall young men in their late teens and twenties, graduating from high school in May 2023 and stepping into college, they still walked into the noisy children’s pizza parlor and sat at the exact table the three of them once shared. Surrounded by small kids and flashing arcade machines, the brothers sat beside the spot where their silver-haired father in his seventies used to wait with pizza, hand out fistfuls of tokens, stoop to pick up strips of paper prize tickets, and crack jokes. Revisiting those laughs at that small booth steadied them through graduations and adulthood milestones where their father could no longer stand beside them to pat their shoulders. For their mother, Wanda Miller, seeing the twins carry their father’s warmth and humor into adulthood brought quiet comfort after more than twenty years of marriage. When Rogers welcomed the twins at sixty-five, he often worried that age would cut short the memories he could leave behind, yet that familiar table in Georgia proved those Saturday afternoons stayed with his boys for good.

After paparazzi camped outside her Nashville home following her July 2015 divorce from Blake Shelton, Miranda Lambert fled to the West Texas desert with two trusted friends and wrote Tin Man beside a campfire. By November 2015, months of tabloid headlines after the end of her four-year marriage had left her exhausted. Looking for quiet, she headed deep into the Chihuahuan Desert to an isolated ranch in Marfa with fellow Texas songwriters Jack Ingram and Jon Randall. With weak cell service and no studio gear, the three sat around a fire in the cold desert night with acoustic guitars and cold beers. While others tiptoed around her breakup, Ingram and Randall listened without pushing for a radio hit. Staying up through the night, they drew on the heartless figure from The Wizard of Oz so a singer long known for fiery, defiant anthems could put her own emptiness into words. When Miranda recorded the song with producer Frank Liddell for her 2016 double album The Weight of These Wings, they left out heavy drums and sweeping strings, keeping her shaky breaths and fingers sliding on steel strings intact. Early on, singing it live sometimes choked her up onstage. At the April 2017 ACM Awards, she walked out alone with an acoustic guitar and hushed the arena. In April 2018, Tin Man beat upbeat radio favorites to win Song of the Year at the 53rd ACM Awards in Las Vegas, making Miranda the most awarded artist in ACM history at the time as she stood onstage holding hands with Ingram and Randall. Those desert trips kept calling the three friends back, eventually growing into their Grammy-nominated 2021 acoustic album, The Marfa Tapes.

At sixteen, Miranda Lambert broke down crying inside a Nashville recording studio and walked out on the music industry before her career had even started. In 2000, after catching the attention of scouts at the Johnnie High Country Music Revue in Arlington, Texas, the high schooler traveled to Music City to cut her first professional demos. Her parents, Rick and Beverly Lambert, had lost their home to bankruptcy during the 1990s while running a private investigation business and scraped together precious savings for the trip. Yet when producers handed Miranda glossy pop-country tracks that sounded nothing like the Merle Haggard, Guy Clark, and Emmylou Harris tapes from her dad’s pickup, she called her parents in tears. Rick packed their bags and took her straight home to Lindale. Determined never again to let strangers choose her voice, Miranda asked her father, a former police officer and songwriter, to teach her guitar. Starting with G, C, and D chords in their living room, she practiced on steel strings in her bedroom every night until her blistered fingertips could barely hold a pencil in class. In 2001 and 2002, her parents helped fund a self-released independent album and booked her as the house singer at East Texas honky-tonks like the Reo Palm Isle in Longview. Because she was under twenty-one, Beverly went along as legal guardian and sold CDs while Miranda built her grit in smoky barrooms. Three years after leaving town in tears, Miranda returned in 2003 on Nashville Star, holding her own guitar and singing original songs. Finishing third earned her a deal with Sony Music on her own terms and launched the career of the most awarded artist in Academy of Country Music history.

In early April 2009, seventy-four-year-old Vern Gosdin stepped into a Nashville studio to record four final songs just weeks before a second stroke took his life on April 28. By then, the singer Nashville called “The Voice” had lived alone for years after three marriages ended in divorce. From Cathy Gosdin during his lean early years, to a thirteen-year marriage with songwriting partner Glenda Gosdin that broke apart in 1989 at the height of his fame, to a third marriage that also faded, none of the women who anchored his music stayed to the end of the road. Close friends on Music Row often saw the quiet contradiction that cost him his peace. Standing behind a studio microphone, Gosdin could lay bare his deepest tenderness, weakness, and apologies, yet when conflict reached his own kitchen table, old childhood scars and a guarded nature made him pull back into silence. For decades, he had built a career singing about men sitting in empty rooms, mourning the homes they had lost. After a first stroke hit him in 1998 at age sixty-four and took away his long-distance touring life, the scenes in those ballads became his actual home. With no wife beside him during his recovery, he spent his final decade in solitude, showing up now and then at the Nashville Palace just to hold a guitar and talk with fans to break the quiet. Right up to those last four recordings in April 2009 before he entered a Nashville hospital for the final time, the studio microphone remained the only companion Vern Gosdin never pushed away, keeping the confessions he could only ever sing.