Connie Bradley: The Best Friend A Dreamer Ever Had

Connie Bradley shone brighter than 4th of July fireworks. Part of it is simple: she was so dang pretty. Blond hair, eyes like a fox that twinkled, the turned-up nose, the mouth that was also always perfectly lipsticked.

And she knew how to put those outfits together. Bright colors. Mixed fabrics and textures. Sweatshirts and jeans. Cocktail clothes and ball gowns. All of it always set off with the most perfect accessories, just that one touch that made you look and made you smile.

But that really wasn’t the deal about why and how the woman who got her start as a receptionist at WLAC-TV mattered. Sure, she worked at a couple labels, spent more thirty years at ASCAP before rising to the head of the Nashville office. Really what stands out was Connie Bradley and her acute curiosity, which drew people, especially songwriters and artists, to her.

She was a magnet for the creative types, who could tell by the way she listened, she “got” it, she understood their gift and their humanity. And even when she didn’t, she knew who was vulnerable and who needed a little shove when it came time to respond.

Because what Connie Bradley wanted, more than anything, was for people to win. Nothing delighted her more than seeing a young artist or writer have that first #1. Few things excited her like hearing a great song; a demo, a kid with a guitar or a final master recording, she didn’t care. Bring it on: more music, more life, more heart, more emotion.

She wasn’t a snob, either. She loved great big gooey hits, as much as she loved the deepest songs from Rodney Crowell or Emmylou Harris. To her, every song was the writer’s child – and every record was the artist’s face to the world.

So when you walked up the red carpet at the Nashville ASCAP Awards and Connie saw you, she’d light up, throw her arms around you, know everything about not just your song, but your journey to that moment. She had great writers’ reps, whom she empowered, so it wasn’t some kind of overcompensation. No, she just loved writers and their stories that much.

While Connie was the queen – head, or EVP feels too mundane – of the Nashville ASCAP office forever, trying to remember when that happened is fuzzy. To me, she had always been there, had always been that force of song, of magic, of propulsion for artists.

I can’t think of a time when Connie wasn’t there. Like the sun coming up, Connie Bradley – who married into a behemoth Music City music family when she married legendary producer Owen Bradley’s son Jerry, who would help Chet Atkins make RCA the home of country music’s first platinum album Wanted: The Outlaws – defined creative life for legends, newcomers, breakouts and superstars.

She came of age as an executive when women actually ran Nashville. Jo Walker-Meador at the Country Music Association. Frances Preston at BMI. Maggie Cavender at the Nashville Songwriters International Association. Helen Farmer, also at the CMA. Donna Hilley at Tree, which was purchased for huge dollars by Sony.

Not only did these women matter, these women broke ground for artists they believed in. They created opportunities, blazed trails and often fought behind the scenes to change fates and outcomes. They’d look at you if anything was said about what they’d done, as if they had no idea what you were talking about; but they did massive career-changing things. Over and over again.

To them, that was what mattered: music, artists, songwriters, people.

Though when I think of Connie, I think of the most amazing laugh, the flashing smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw you – waved you over, patted the seat next to her, put her ear near your mouth for some delicious bit of news. Welcoming isn’t a strong enough word, nor is inviting. Perhaps, most plainly put, it was inspiring – you to be the best you, the most you, the Connie-est you you could be.

And the only thing richer than Connie was Connie with her best friend Donna Hilley, or Conna as they were collectively known. Together, they could warp speed, make gravity loosen and hard hearts melt. Always laughing, always up to some great adventure – even if it was just a trip to the Dollar General Store or lunch at some white table cloth restaurant or local dive joint.

They got each other, celebrated each other, lifted each other, amused each other. To morph Scarlett O’Hara and Aunt Mame, they lived to prove that if life were a banquet where most poor such’n’so’s were starving, they were never going to go hungry again.

Laughter was their currency. Brilliance and instinct were their blood. They knew publishing, creativity, reality. They could shuffle their decks, build people up, high five when the music mattered – or connected.

When Donna Hilley suddenly died, a pall fell over the myriad people who loved her. My first thought ran to Connie. What do you say? Do? Offer? I send cards all the time. But what good is a card when half your boisterous spirit has gone to heaven?
One day, a few weeks after the news settled and people had gone back to work, my assistant said, “Connie Bradley on 1.”

I couldn’t imagine. I was close to Donna, who I’d helped get on Entertainment Weekly’s Nashville Power List at either #2 or #4, having explained both the dollar amount of the publishing revenue she stewarded or the careers she touched, legacies she ensured. I mostly knew Connie through Donna. But maybe I’d said, “If you need to talk...” in my card; maybe she was curious about my relationship with her friend.

“Hello,” I said quietly, figuring I’d let her lead.

We had a twenty-minute conversation... about me. Of all things. “I just want you to know that I know this is a tough business for women, and I watch you. I know you always stand up for the right things, you speak up when it matters and when it’s hard. I see that, and it matters and makes a difference. Don’t stop.

“Donna really believed in you, what you do... and I do, too. If you ever need me, I’m here.”

If you ever need me, I’m here...

From a very powerful woman who I could do nothing for. Jaw-dropping.

But that was Connie Bradley.

When a young manager and a big dreamer were trying to get the artist broken, really broken – not just a cascade of stats about #1 hits and albums sold – Connie got out her phone book and made calls. She told people why the kid mattered, why the young manager who was giving it his all should be given a break, should be taken as someone good for “our business.”

She counseled. She schooled. She cajoled. But what she really did that was game-changing was believe.

When people laughed about Kenny Chesney -- hard to believe now, but as the ‘90s became the 21st century, they did -- Connie dug in. She told anyone who’d listen why the young man from East Tennessee mattered, why the young manager – and she believed in Clint Higham, not just Dale Morris the legend who’d broken Alabama – would color outside the lines to realize Chesney’s demi-traditional country take on heartland kids’ experience.

She wouldn’t say it like that, but that’s what she meant.

And when they’d hit a road block, a speed bump, Connie would have Higham to lunch or dinner or drinks, make him laugh, remind him what mattered, send him on his way. Nobody believed like Connie believed, and if she did, how dare you falter?

No one thrilled more seeing good things happen to the young songwriter with his will to rock the kids beyond the media centers than Connie Bradley! She would show up, drink it all in, laugh, clap, dance, have a cocktail, hug all the right people.

As his star collected, his meaning solidified, his vision focused – moving from a young traditionalist to someone drawing on the same essence of rock that grounded Springsteen, Mellencamp, Seeger and Petty in a way kids in rural America could locate themselves – she kept crowing, kept the heat on, kept the industry powers-that-be’s feet to the fire.

Suddenly the kid making music videos with dancing cockatoos, whirling girls from the salsa bottle and John Deere tractors quickened. He was heroic. He was honest. He was real. When the young people of the flyover, coming of age in towns and small cities, saw “Young,” “When the Sun Goes Down,” “Anything But Mine,” they saw themselves – and they saw a “star” who represented their dreams, desires, triumphs and heartaches.
Connie knew. Always.

Because Connie Bradley never let go, never moved on to an easier act with momentum, people paid attention. Sustained focused, faith that didn’t falter is a big witness in show biz. Connie Bradley understood that, and she brought it at 40,000 watts without flicker.

A few years ago, under the guise of interviewing her husband Jerry Bradley for the CMA Board, she was on a stage, doing what she does best: bringing the business piece of country music to life for people who had some idea, but not the essential nuance Connie had.

While she’s doing the glorious hostess thing, charming and enchanting the audience, leading her husband through his unbelievable history, a door to the side opened and a thin, muscular man emerged with his head down. Approaching the stage, the raw charisma pulled all eyes his way, and Connie turned.

Kenny Chesney was there to present the CMA’s highest honor for service, the Irving Waugh Award, to his friend. Shocked, Connie didn’t know what to say, but Chesney did.

“To the best friend a dreamer ever had...”

Connie cried some, laughed more, hugged hard, beamed mightily.

Not that she ever did it for awards, or for honors. She never did anything except make people more, give them chances, offer them help or a hand up.

When I think of Connie, I think of her laughing, telling some story about something that happened to some writer that tickled her to death... I think of her and her girl gang drinking a little too much wine and laughing a little bit too loud... I think of Clint Higham during rough patches coming back so fired up and happy after their lunches... I think of her blessing my desire to hire Michelle Goble when I needed a killer assistant, telling me, “She’s a good one, and she needs to grow” – and taking her back into the ASCAP fold when Goble’s health insurance needed to cover a husband’s pre-existing conditions... I think of her willingness to tell it like it is, even when the news wasn’t what someone wanted to hear; but it was always the clarity that most people never had, a clarity that came from years of watching, challenging, recognizing why things failed and how to make them fly.

I think of her always knowing just what to say, and when to say it. And I think of her complete happiness watching a song come to life, whether it was a stadium of 60,000 singing along or some boy or girl Ralph Murphy had brought into her office, a young person who didn’t even know where to begin.

Those things have nothing to do with the fabulous gowns, the joy she brought to every room she was in, the love she shared with her husband Jerry, even the incredible haircuts that always made you feel like somehow it was easy for her to look glorious. Truth is: it was Earl at Trumps.

They say when you die, you can measure the life by what you leave – not the things, but the moments. If that’s true, Connie Bradley will never truly be gone.

Too many moments with too many people that made too much of a difference makes them impossible to count – and every single one of us will keep her light burning brightly, will hopefully find ways to bring her joy with us where we go. Certainly, that’s what she would’ve wanted and hoped that she left in her wake.

Something tells me, too, she’s watching us. Once she and Donna got caught up on the state of creativity in heaven, they’re probably both lying on their stomachs, legs in the air behind them, laughing and trying to figure out how to help us from up above. No doubt they’re laughing, crying with joy for being back together – and wondering where the next great song is coming from.