Playboy Interview: Kenny Rogers

No one would linger outside a Fargo, North Dakota, hotel side entrance on a frigid April morning, clutching an Inslamatic, without a very good reason. The same can be said of the group huddling at the edge of a snow-swept Duluth runway, waiting for the passengers in a private jet named Marianne to disembark. And of the two coeds in a Porsche whose relentless pursuit of a singer's limousine forced the man to pull over and hand out passes for his show that night.

If you're thinking the singer was Bowie or Jagger, forget it. The unlikely but compelling reason in each case was a middle-aged, middle-of-the-road balladeer, Kenny Rogers.

And here's why: Each evening, dressed in one of his many three-piece suits, Rogers circumnavigates his octagonal stage in the center of a sellout crowd and sings 90 minutes of hit after hit. You can name them in your sleep: "Lucille," "The Gambler," "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town," "Coward of the County," "Love Lifted Me," "Love Will Turn You Around," "Through the Years," "Lady" and more.

Between songs, Rogers' folksy, familiar patter makes the audience feel as if they're in his living room for a cozy get-together. He even shows home movies featuring his wife, Marianne, and a year in the life—from birth to first steps—of their son, Christopher Cody. Meanwhile, silhouetted in the dark, Dad softly croons "You Are So Beautiful" and means it. If Christopher happens to be at the show, he's handed onstage for a bow. It may be too sentimental for some, but it's undeniable that out there in the crowd, couples are intertwining fingers and family members are getting misty-eyed, sharing in Kenny Rogers' version of the good life.

After a 25-year-long roller-coaster ride, Rogers, 45, has come to a full slop atop the music business' highest peak. He's rich, successful, a, model citizen and, yes, loved. And he did it his way. For three years in a row, Rogers was voted top male musical performer in the People's Choice Awards, which are based on a Gallup-conducled survey. Even pop critics who once reviled his huge common-denominator appeal have begun to recant, undone by the overwhelming fact of his music's popularity. And of its profits.

Since 1977, Rogers has sold nearly $250,000,000 worth of records. His "Greatest Hits" package is one of the top ten best-selling albums in history. On its strength, he recently signed a five-year pact with a new label, RCA Records, for more than $20,000,000. He has done three network TV specials and two TV movies. One, "The Gambler," was the highest-rated TV movie of the 1979-1980 season. "The Gambler II," co starring Linda Evans and Bruce Boxleilner, is due on the tube this month.

Rogers' substantial income, which was more than $20,000,000 last year, is plowed mostly into real estate. He owns a 1200-acre farm in Georgia, where he breeds Arabian horses and cattle. He has bought and is remodeling adjacent office buildings on L.A.'s Sunset Strip that will become the Rogers Entertainment Center. He also has a house in Malibu, one in Bel Air and one in Beverly Hills, the former Dino De Laurentiis residence, which had a price tag of $14,500,000, not including the current redesigning costs. Rogers also boasts his own recording studio in L.A., called, appropriately, Lion Share. Two hundred employees—from lour personnel to architects, construction crews and security teams—are needed to run Mr. Rogers neighborhood.

Rogers was born, decidedly without a silver spoon, on August 21, 1938, in Houston. His father was a carpenter and a shipyard worker, his mother a housewife and a sometime practical nurse. He was the second son and the fourth of eight children. For a time, the family lived in a $35-a-month Federal housing-project apartment in Houston Heights.

Rogers was musically gifted as a child. For singing "You Are My Sunshine" to the old folks at a local nursing home, he got 25 cents and a pat on the head. In high school, he formed a band called The Scholars, which played local dales and dances. He then recorded a couple of singles produced by his brother Lelan. One, "That Crazy Feeling," sold well enough to earn Rogers an appearance on "American Bandstand." But he had nothing with which to follow his single and his solo career stalled.

Yet he remained committed to music: He hung out at Houston bars and night clubs and eventually joined the jazzy Bobby Doyle Trio as an upright-bass player. The trio became an acclaimed local attraction and recorded an album. Six and a half years later, Rogers was playing the Las Vegas lounges with another group, The Kirby Stone Four. He credits Stone with sparking his interest in photography (Rogers has done several album covers and shoots models regularly) and with teaching him that "there was more to this business than wet towels and naked girls."

Eager to stay out of Houston, Rogers soon joined The New Christy Minstrels. But by 1967, their folk sound was already outdated, so he and three other members defected to form The First Edition. They scored with their second single, the pseudo-psychedelic "Just Dropped in (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)." Their other hits include "Reuben James," "Something's Burning," "Heed the Call" and "Ruby." Released under the name of Kenny Rogers and The First Edition, "Ruby" set the stage for Rogers as a lead singer and a front man, and money increased accordingly, with Rogers taking home $125,000 a year at the band's height. But the group finally disbanded in financial disarray, leaving him $65,000 in debt.

It wasn't his only problem. His third marriage was on the rocks, sacrificed, he says, to an insatiable drive for success and acceptance—as his first two marriages had been. He persisted in his career, doing TV ads for mail-order guitar lessons, co-authoring a how-to book titled "Making It with Music," then going to Nashville, where he established his pop-flavored country style and built a grass-roots following that is still loyal today. Soon, he signed a record deal as a solo artist with United Artists Records, hired a band and had a respectable hit with "Love Lifted Me." In June 1977, "Lucille" reached the number-five spot on "Billboard's" Hot 100 chart, and Rogers' career has been sailing ever since. He has recorded duets with Kim Carnes, Dottie West, Sheena Easton and Dolly Parton and has worked with such notable writer-producers as Lionel Richie, Jr., and Barry Gibb.

Rogers was also luckier in love the fourth time around. In 1977, he married actress ("Hee Haw") and model Marianne Gordon. He cites their compatibility and stability as a major contribution to his current fortunes. All told, he was well on his way to fulfilling a promise he had made to his band during their first, everyone-in-one-rental-car tour: "Stick with me, please, and I promise that next time, we'll be able to afford two rental cars." Today, Rogers could own his own car-rental company and attracts almost as much attention for his wealth and his spending habits as he does for his music.

We sent Contributing Editor David Rensin (his last "Playboy Interview" was with Larry "J. R. Ewing" Hagman, in November 1980) to talk with Rogers during a two-week concert lour of the Midwest. He reports:

"Kenny Rogers is fond of saying that perhaps his best quality is that he is who he presents himself to be and that he will answer any questions put to him, because he has nothing to hide. You find out it's true—when you finally get to him. Rogers is a difficult man to pin down. His time is carefully budgeted between work and family, and. the sheer hours required for the 'Playboy Interview' seemed to involve an unusually drastic commitment for him. So even though he was available to me constantly and invited me to fly between cities on his private jet, I found securing our agreed-upon time a frustrating exercise. His time on the plane was reserved for solitary tlought and naps. After shows, when most performers are too wired to sleep, Rogers watched tennis matches, called his wife or dozed—if he stayed out at all. Most nights, he was out of the arena before the applause stopped, in his limousine, speeding to the airport and on his plane, flying home.

"Despite Rogers' elusiveness, when we were together he concentrated on answering every question fearlessly. But after a few sessions, even though we had warmed to each other, it seemed that he was responding to each query carefully, treading a narrow emotional corridor. Although he presumably didn't feel the same way about his estranged son and a new record deal, he talked in the same tone about both. That provided the central theme of our conversation.

"Mostly, he was the perfect host. Besides being offered the fun of flying with him on his jet (outfitted in green velour, wood and brass, like a railroad gambling car), I was invited back to his Georgia farm with the band after one concert and woke up the next morning with horses grazing outside my window. When that evening's show was canceled because of snow, everyone got to relax under clear skies and indulge in the many escapist activities the farm offered: His six-bedroom guest house had a home computer with an array of games; the refrigerator and the cabinets were always fully stocked. And, as a special treat, I look advantage of Rogers' collection of four-wheel Honda gocarts, spinning around the red-clay track circling the farm. The environment is so impressive that some band members call the place Six Flags over Kenny Rogers. Rogers himself is referred to, fondly, as King Faisal al-Kenny.

"When I jirst met him, backstage at a concert in Fargo, North Dakota, he was playing a card game called UNO with drummer Bobby Daniels and, much to Daniels' chagrin, was winning. 'That's because I make up the rules and can change them any lime I want,' said Rogers with a sly grin before returning, poker-faced, to the slaughter. The scene provided the appropriate opening hand for our first session."

[Q] Playboy: Once and for all: When do you hold 'em and when do you fold 'em?

[A] Rogers: [Laughs] I've never really been asked that question before. But I've played enough cards in Vegas to know that you follow the trend. When you're winning, hold 'em. When you're losing, fold 'em. Believe it or not, any gambler will tell you that cards do run in streaks.

[Q] Playboy: Your luck has certainly been holding these past few years. Since 1977, you've sold 35,000,000 albums. In 1982, you did 140 shows and earned in excess of $20,000,000. What are you doing right?

[A] Rogers: It's probably easier to analyze failure. When you're dealing with the arts, when your success depends completely on someone else's taste, there are no absolutes. I'm not a great singer or a vocal technician, like Barbra Streisand or Kenny Loggins or Kenny Rankin. I probably sing better than I give myself credit for, but actually, my talent is sort of unobvious. I'm a stylist. An entertainer. I have a familiar voice with a certain honesty and distinction. The trademark helps. But beyond that, I have nothing specific to offer except professionalism and commerciality.

[Q] Playboy: Those are not unique qualities, nor do they alone guarantee success. What do you think you have that's special?

[A] Rogers: Well, I guess people relate to what I'm saying in my songs and to me as an individual. I deal with the man on the street. We all share an emotional common denominator. We all want someone to care for us. We all fear rejection. We'd all like to think that love lasts forever. I've always believed that if I could touch on those emotional issues—personally, socially, in whatever way—I'd be successful. I'm also consistent and mainstream. I'm not fadoriented or into subculture stuff. But I'm not out of touch, either. I like groups such as Duran Duran, the Go-Go's, lots of Top 40 stuff. There's absolutely a place for all of the new music. It's just not what I do.

I also believe it's crucial not to be a follower. Lots of artists say, "What's out there that the people like that I can improve upon?" I say, "What's not out there?" Consequently, whenever I've had a major hit, like Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town or Lucille, it's come when there was nothing else like it out there at the time. Both were country songs. Ruby came in the midst of acid rock, Lucille in the midst of everything but country.

[Q] Playboy: You spent six and a half years in a Houston jazz group, changed to folk, then to rock, then to country and ended up, at least for now, right in the middle of the road. Why all the leapfrogging?

[A] Rogers: The minute I become predictable, my time at the top is limited. As soon as people know I'm going to do another ballad and another and another, it's over. Each album I've done has been different from the one before. Yet there are common denominators I try to maintain, because there are an automatic 750,000 to 1,000,000 people who buy my albums the moment they're released. I want to keep that audience. Any other people I'd like to buy my records, I have to sell to. So I try different stuff, things unusual for me. If I get lucky with the new material and have a hit, it opens up new areas. If I don't get lucky, it doesn't hurt, because most people tend not to remember songs they don't like. You just have to know when to stick your neck out and when to pull it back. My thing is controlled experimentation.

[Q] Playboy: What are some examples?

[A] Rogers: Well, Lionel Richie wouldn't accept the way I originally wanted to sing his song Lady. So I had to learn it his way, line by line. Then I sang it my way, keeping his directions in mind. The final product was 80 percent Lionel; it was also one of my best vocals ever. More recently, with Barry Gibb, I thought contrasting my voice with the Bee Gees' type of track would be magic. But I told him I'd also have to have some country songs to satisfy my main audience. Beyond that, he could do calypsos if he wanted to.

[Q] Playboy: How did that project develop?

[A] Rogers: It was my idea. A couple of years ago, I was going to make an album on which I would sing duets with several people: Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, Barry Gibb, and others. But it never panned out. When my project with Richie was done and I was looking around for new collaborators, I remembered a song Barry had sent me that turned out to be a decent country hit for him. So I called him.

[Q] Playboy: Whom will you be calling next?

[A] Rogers: Well ... I've not even approached the man, so if I'm rejected, I'm leaving myself wide-open, but I'm planning to talk with Paul McCartney. Most likely, he won't be interested. He may have heard Ruby, but he probably doesn't know me from Adam.

[Q] Playboy: Does getting respect from him concern you?

[A] Rogers: It would be easy to accept the fact that he didn't respect my music. Anyone can say, "I don't like it." But it would be hard to accept the fact that he didn't respect my success. That would give me a certain credibility going in. But if McCartney said no, that we were into totally different things and he wouldn't know where to begin, I'd just say, "Thanks, anyway."

[Q] Playboy: What some of your fans may not know is that in the Sixties and the Seventies, you were friends with many of today's hipper stars, including former Eagles drummer Don Henley. How did you meet?

[A] Rogers: I discovered a group in Texas called Felicity. Henley was in it. I took him to California, and he lived with me for about six months. And I produced an album for the group.

[Q] Playboy: How did it turn out?

[A] Rogers: It was a horrible album. In fact, Don has said it was the worst album he's ever done, and he tried to buy all the masters back. That really hurt my feelings, because he failed to mention that it was their first album and the first one I'd ever produced. I didn't know what I was doing. I guess it hurt because when I was so down, he was getting so big. And one of the things I held on to when the Eagles were the biggest thing in this business was that I helped this kid. I used to sing Henley's Desperado in Las Vegas lounges and say, "A friend of mine wrote this." But then, when he got superhip acceptance by Rolling Stane, for example, he started cutting me down. He didn't want to associate with me, though it's gotten OK since then. It's the same thing Michael Murphey did to me. That's always been a real sore spot, people I help who then feel I'm not hip enough to associate with.

[Q] Playboy: Despite experimentation with different styles, you go to great lengths to identify yourself as a country singer. Why?

[A] Rogers: Because I am basically a country singer who's capable of doing other things. I've had a lot of influences, but I can't lose my Texas twang. Country people are very real to me. I'll always cater to them first.

[Q] Playboy: That's not necessarily what the country-music organizations think, is it?

[A] Rogers: One year, some of the groups said the reason I hadn't won more country awards was that I wasn't really a country singer. What's funny is that two months later, when they published the amount of money country music had made that year, they decided to include my income in their figures. I made well over 50 percent of that total.

[Q] Playboy: But you've never won the Country Music Association's Entertainer of the Year Award.

[A] Rogers: Right.

[Q] Playboy: Are you upset about that?

[A] Rogers: Well, no. But I guess I just don't understand their criteria. I mean, I can play any game they want. If an organization says, "Do this, that and the other and you will be the Entertainer of the Year," then if I do it, I kind of expect the award. I read a few years ago where some country artists claimed that my kind of country music wasn't country anymore. Well, my contention is that country music is what country people buy.

[Q] Playboy: Earlier, you said your success was also based on people's being able to relate to you as an individual. What did you mean?

[A] Rogers: I think people need—and I'm very uncomfortable with this word—heroes. I represent two things. One is the importance of family life. People know that when they see the film I show at my concerts of my wife and our new son. The other thing is that I guess I represent the ability—the possibility—in this country of succeeding from nothing.

[Q] Playboy: Doesn't it still surprise you that your success has been so spectacular?

[A] Rogers: I'm as amazed at the degree of my success as anyone. Success itself doesn't surprise me, because I've learned that I'm a survivor. I could go into another business tomorrow and use the same principles I've applied in this one. I might not reach the same heights, but I'd survive.

[Q] Playboy: Your manager says that you make a career decision by asking yourself what Frank Sinatra would do. Is that true?

[A] Rogers: Not just Sinatra. I respect longevity. I wonder whether or not a move I'm considering is something the Colonel [Tom Parker, Elvis Presley's manager] would have let Elvis do. When you've never been at a particular plateau of success, you have to look to examples of people who've been there before you. My level is largely uncharted, and it's often frightening, because I have no one to lean on.

[Q] Playboy: Is it true that you often negotiate your own record contracts?

[A] Rogers: I've negotiated almost all of my original contracts. I know what I'm willing to give, and I know what I'm willing to live with. I think I'm good at it, because I really want what's fair for both parties. If I make too much from a record company, it's no good. I heard of one particular deal where a major artist is actually suffering because his deal is so good: The more records he sells, the more money the company loses because they offered him bonuses tied to sales; they don't even try to promote him anymore.

[Q] Playboy: You recently signed a long-term contract with RCA, but your original negotiations were with CBS, and a deal there was announced. What happened?

[A] Rogers: I thought I had a deal with CBS. I was dealing directly with CBS Records president Walter Yetnikoff. We sat down one night in New York and talked it over. Negotiating with him was fun. I was buying a helicopter at the time, and I said, half-jokingly, that he'd have to get me one if I signed. He said OK, though I guarantee you he got value for it on the other end. I felt we could agree on the spot without waiting for the attorneys. When we were through, we shook hands. Then all of a sudden, I got calls saying that I'd leaked an agreement I hadn't even known was supposed to be secret, that my deal was now affecting Walter's other deals. Supposedly, Neil Diamond had called and said, "When am I going to get my helicopter?" Later, I talked with Walter, and though it turned out the leak had probably started somewhere in his company, he said that because of the publicity and the problems, he wasn't going to live up to the deal. So we didn't sign the contract.

[Q] Playboy: Is there bad blood between you?

[A] Rogers: No. The episode is history. I was disappointed at the time, but things work out for the best.

[Q] Playboy: Such as a $20,000,000 RCA deal?

[A] Rogers: More than that, really. It was a major deal.

[Q] Playboy: Although you've signed up with RCA for many years and your popularity seems assured, you've been quoted as saying that your success couldn't last more than two or three years. Why the cautious—or negative—attitude?

[A] Rogers: Yeah, one writer called it my "prophylactic pessimism." I'm not so much predicting my demise as talking about career life expectancy. Music runs in cycles. The record-buying-public's taste changes about every three years. So even major artists who have accomplished phenomenal things, who you think will be around forever, just don't last in most cases. That doesn't mean that I've given up. I'd like to believe that I won't be back working the lounges. But I don't expect to stay at this peak for the rest of my life. I'm willing to accept that. It only gets you in trouble to think you're the exception. So I don't. I wouldn't even mind being this successful if it was by my own choosing. What would hurt would be to feel that people didn't care anymore. One thing that drives people in this business is that we never really believe that people care about us. It's easy for me to accept the fact that people like my music and what I stand for, but do they really care about me, Kenny Rogers? When the power and the hit songs are gone, is there going to be someone to care for me? That's what we're all looking for. There's not a person in the world, I'm sure, who wouldn't like to have what I've got. But there's nothing worse than having been someone and then one day not being someone. You have to prepare yourself for that. Those who don't, suffer terribly.

[Q] Playboy: It sounds as if you know something about that.

[A] Rogers: In a way. I think having my group, The First Edition, crumble beneath me when I was counting on it to take me through my whole life really made me aware of how temporary success is. It can just go. You're never safe. [Pauses] I remember a day when The First Edition was still together. We'd had our sixth hit in a row and I thought we'd stumbled onto a magic success formula. I figured that day that our success would last forever. Five years later, after the group had disbanded and I was $65,000 in debt, I relived that moment and wondered where I had gone wrong. I've since learned that my attitude was unrealistic. This business is like mountain climbing. You don't just stay on the top. But if it's been fun, you've got a reason to keep trying. That's what most people need.

[Q] Playboy: What did success mean to you when you started?

[A] Rogers: I wanted peer approval. When I was with The Bobby Doyle Trio, I wanted to impress members of other jazz groups. When I went national with The New Christy Minstrels, I joined because they were an accepted group and so I'd be accepted, too. The same with The First Edition. Ironically, peer approval mattered more to me than public acceptance.

[Q] Playboy: Why ironically?

[A] Rogers: As I began to realize that I wasn't going to be artistically accepted, that it wasn't my strength or calling, I realized that the public was more important than anything. That's why today, even though I've won lots of awards, I'm most gratified at getting the People's Choice Award. Today, public acclaim is first, peer approval is second and critical acceptance, though nice to have, is third.

[Q] Playboy: Aren't you really saying that when your creative musical abilities weren't appreciated either by critics or by your peers, you saw public acceptance as your answer?

[A] Rogers: Not just that. Public successes last longer than critical successes. And I still feel I am a creative person. I just use the term loosely, because I also feel that I've sold my creativity short and allowed my commerciality to carry the weight.

[Q] Playboy: Does that bother you?

[A] Rogers: It bothers me that I don't have the discipline. But I've just never taken my talent that seriously. I've always been so lucky and successful, kind of joking my way through, half-singing. I have a decent voice. At one time, I had a three- and- a-half-octave range and sang the high parts in the jazz group. But now I don't use it, because I don't have to. If Muhammad Ali and Larry Holmes can beat anyone without training fully, why train?

[Q] Playboy: You can probably answer that.

[A] Rogers: Of course. It saddens me to see myself taking the short cut. It bothers me that I'm not using my full potential.

[Q] Playboy: So why don't you?

[A] Rogers: I enjoy my personal life so much that I had to ask whether or not forfeiting it—which I did for many years to become successful—was still worth it. How much did I need for my ego?

[Q] Playboy: And the envelope, please?

[A] Rogers: OK. At this point, I'm not willing to give up my personal life to satisfy my ego. That's one reason it was so hard for me to stop and take the time to do this interview. I know it's important, but committing the time was a tough decision.

[Q] Playboy: We're glad you saw it our way.

[A] Rogers: But, truthfully, I'd rather be out taking pictures or playing tennis. I enjoy my life so much. If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, I've had a great life.

[Q] Playboy: Despite your rationale, a lot of critics dismiss you for failing to challenge the current limits of pop. It's almost as if they want to wish your success on someone they consider more deserving. How do you react to that?

[A] Rogers: It's not as if what you're saying is a big surprise. I'm not thinking, You mean, not everyone out there loves me? But I feel I have a choice. I can succumb to those pressures and try to please the critics or I can be honest about who I am and what I present. What I present is who I am. Pleasing critics is not why I got in this business in the first place! I know I'm not a purist in anything, and that offends most critics. I've also always said that this is a business, and that seems to take some of the magic out of it. If anything, I'm beyond the pain of pop criticism. But that's OK with me. Yet critics seem to resent me for not really having to work too hard for my commercial success. And to tell you the truth, I don't put that great an effort into it. I don't have the problems of most entertainers. I probably don't spend more than 25 nights a year away from home. I fly home from almost every show.

[Q] Playboy: On your private jet.

[A] Rogers: Right. I had only one tour this year when I couldn't be back on the farm in Georgia every night.

[Q] Playboy: To judge from your press, it would seem you're better known for your material success than for your music.

[A] Rogers: What else is there to write about me? The press needs sensational topics. I don't run around on my wife. I don't drink or do drugs. I know I have at times fed information about my money and possessions to the press in order to get their attention. And I know that I can't expect to be upset when their writing about me is no longer in my interest. I don't necessarily like it, but I live with it. Yet even papers like The Star and the National Enquirer have been very nice to me. I've seen only one or two situations where they've put just enough truth in a story so it could be twisted to the point that I asked, "Why did you do that?"

[Q] Playboy: For instance?

[A] Rogers: The ex-husband of my wife, Marianne, is a close friend. He runs my movie-production company. It's to our credit that we can all be friends, under the circumstances. But some papers have made a big, dirty deal out of nothing.

[Q] Playboy:> So clear it up. What really goes on?

[A] Rogers: [Laughs] That's exactly what the papers said. We have a guesthouse on our property in Los Angeles. Marianne's ex is building his own place and staing in our guesthouse until it's complete. Simple. But the headlines were "Mariannes ex-Husband Moves In!" Who needs all those rumors?

[Q] Playboy: Care to try a few more for size?

[A] Rogers: Go ahead.

[Q] Playboy: It's been said that during The First Edition's last days, the band had to play Las Vegas for free because of gambling debts you had incurred.

[A] Rogers: Oh, no! The most I've ever lost gambling was $2500, and I almost had a heart attack. I'm not a gambler, but I gamble within my means. And I defy anyone to come forth with information confirming that rumor.

[Q] Playboy: Here's another: Kenny Rogers had a big hit with The First Edition's acid-rock song Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In). Therefore, Kenny Rogers must do drugs.

[A] Rogers: I have not done any drugs in ten years. None whatsoever. And what I did before was nominal. I probably smoked marijuana ten times. And those were very controlled situations. When I was with The Bobby Doyle Trio, I sometimes took a Dexedrine or something. But that was because I was into golf! We used to work until three in the morning, and the golf course was so crowded that the only time I could play was at six A.M. Since I had rehearsal at 11 A.M., I'd take half a Dexamyl and run around the course—bam, bam, bam. I did it for three months. I think my teeth are ground down a quarter inch from all that. As for alcohol, I don't drink, either. I've never had Scotch in my body. It's not a moral thing. There are very few things I frown on. I just don't like abuse. Being able to control what you do is crucial.

[Q] Playboy: But you did take LSD, didn't you, around the time the band had that hit?

[A] Rogers: It was mescaline. It was an interesting experience. We took too much. Maybe it was a good thing we did, because I can see how people can get involved with the stuff. The first eight hours were unbelievable. I remember listening to Cat Stevens singing Sad Lisa, and I was hearing all kinds of things I'd never heard on a record before! The next eight hours were very frightening. Looking back, I'm glad I did it. Now I have a certain expertise to talk with my children about it. And the effects scared me away from doing more.

[Q] Playboy: Having disposed of the rumors, shall we go back to what the papers love to write about—your money?

[A] Rogers: As I said, there's not much else to write about. I've put restrictions on the subject in interviews, but it invariably comes up.

[Q] Playboy: Would you rather not discuss it?

[A] Rogers: I have nothing to hide. It's just that I'd like to believe that there's more to me than that. I mean, I know there is, but I guess I haven't yet found a way to bring it to the surface. Management has always told me to play down the subject of money. But if I do talk about it, it's not to brag; I just want to share a genuine enthusiasm for a country that provides me—and everyone else—with the opportunity to make it. I'm not a flag waver. It's just important that people know what's happened to me in the past seven years. They don't need all the details, just a sense of what's possible. And that I've done it without stepping on people. I defy you to name one person I've done that to.

[Q] Playboy: All right. Wejust happen to——

[A] Rogers: Have a list of people? They're not ex-wives, are they?

[Q] Playboy: Just kidding. But will you reveal how much money you make?

[A] Rogers: How much money I make is not what's crucial. It's only a way of guging success. My concern is not how much I can make in a year, anyway. I t's how many years I can survive. But half the fun of all this is trying to make more.

[Q] Playboy: Is that why you've branched out into selling Western clothes?

[A] Rogers: I'm trying to follow Arnold Palmer's lead. He makes a tremendous living because he's got such good endorsements. People pay attention to value. So as long as I associate myself with quality goods, my name keeps its value.

[Q] Playboy: Have you been asked to endorse any interesting schlock?

[A] Rogers: I cannot tell you how many things I could have gotten into: key chains, match-books, earrings with my face on them. Some of the stuff has been incredible.

[Q] Playboy: What was the first thing you bought when you had enough money to buy anything you wanted?

[A] Rogers: A house. I enjoy investing in land. I guess it's because my parents never owned any. My father once told me that if he had made note payments instead of rent payments, he could have owned the entire block we lived on in Houston. It was very depressing to him.

[Q] Playboy: The De Laurentiis house in Beverly Hills cost you $14,500,000 and has been called the most expensive residential purchase ever. What was its attraction?

[A] Rogers: I like it. I thought it would be a great investment. By the way, it's called the Knoll. I figure since I paid that much, I don't have to call it the De Laurentiis house anymore.

[Q] Playboy: Do you get asked for handouts?

[A] Rogers: Yeah. A lot of people write to me and say, "I'm having a lot of trouble. If you'll just loan me $100,000, I'll pay you back and give you five percent interest. I can get it, Mr. Rogers." One lady asked me to buy her a house and have it decorated. A moderately priced, say $200,000, home in Los Angeles would have been sufficient for her. She wrote with what seemed like honest intent and expectation, as if she really thought I might consider doing it. That amazes me. I would never, ever consider asking that of anyone.

[Q] Playboy: What about your employees, who depend on you for their living—do you ever feel financially used by them?

[A] Rogers: It would be foolish and naïve not to assume that they say, "As long as he's healthy, I've got a job." But that's not unreasonable. I may be a money machine, but I don't feel like one. In fact, my relationship with my employees is kind of patriarchal. I enjoy it. They care about me because I care about them. I often sit down with individuals in the organization who are having personal problems and counsel them.

[Q] Playboy: To wrap up the subject of money, would you say that having it is worth what you've had to do for it?

[A] Rogers: There are lots of pressures. I have 200 people to support, a residential crisis to eliminate, critics, etc. Still, it's worth it. I have brought happiness into lots of people's lives. But what's more important is that some of my happiest times were when I was absolutely broke and Marianne and I didn't know what we were going to do for money. A $50 rent increase was traumatic. But we lived from day to day, and I learned that money and success were not the most important ingredients for happiness. Instead, it was having a relationship that was willing to give back to me as much as I was willing to put in.

[Q] Playboy: What if you lost it all?

[A] Rogers: It could be harder than Marianne or I realize if all of a sudden it were gone. But I know we'd adjust. That's a strong point of my marriage. Marianne was with me when I had nothing. She's with me for the right reasons. She could never have anticipated anything like this happening. When we met, my hair was down to my shoulders; I wore a gold earring and bronzed sunglasses. On that day, I was wearing a Levi's jacket with mink tails hanging off the sleeves. She couldn't have known.

[Q] Playboy: What do you get from Marianne that is so important?

[A] Rogers: What I look for, and what she offers, is consistency. It's the single word that sums me up. I hate turmoil and conflict. I do everything in my power to avoid them. I like to know that when I get up in the morning, if I haven't done anything to bring on trouble, I will get a smile; I will start my day off properly. And if I don't do anything wrong that day, I'm not going to go through any garbage, OK? When Marianne gets up in the morning, she's in a good mood. She doesn't put me through any hassles unless I deserve them. And as long as I do the things I tell her I will and give to her what I say I will, she has no right to bitch. She agrees. That's what I like.

[Q] Playboy: Are you neata around the house?

[A] Rogers: I'm the Felix Unger of The Odd Couple. I drop my clothes on the floor—but I have to pick them up sooner or later. In fact, I go around behind guests, picking up napkins they don't use, wiping off the tables, throwing stuff in the garbage.

[Q] Playboy: What went wrong with your three previous attempts at matrimony?

[A] Rogers: Looking back, I think the failures were 85 percent my fault. If success—and I'm not talking about dollars but about professional acceptance—had been less important, if I'd been willing to give to Janice, Jean and Margo what I'm willing to give to Marianne, I could probably have stayed with any of the three others. But success was more important than my marriages. I wanted to get out of Houston and stop beingjust a local musician. When I was married to Margo, I went on a solid nine-month tour with The New Christy Minstrels because I'd be playing on a national level. It was a crucial move for me. Margo didn't want me to go, and being away that long was unfair.

[Q] Playboy: But you went anyway.

[A] Rogers: I thought it was wrong for any wife to keep her husband from doing what he had to do in his job to his full capacity. I've always believed that whatever I earn is half my wife's. I just don't want my ability to earn to be hampered. Unfortunately, some women test relationships. They say, "I don't want you to do this." And if you do it anyway, it's because you don't love them, not because it's right or wrong. I hate that. A wife who really cares will try to help her man reach his full potential as long as he understands that he can't totally ignore her needs.

I don't think there's any question that my job broke up all three marriages. I know I didn't beat my wives; they didn't hit me. They were all good people. They had to be special for me to marry them. I just wasn't willing to give myself in the way I am now. I can't blame anyone else for my lack of ability.

[Q] Playboy: What do you think you've found this time around?

[A] Rogers: What Marianne and I have that I lacked with my three other wives—and, again, it's partly my fault—is communication. We've talked things over for hours. We've probably raised our voices at each other maybe five times in eight years, and that may be overstating the case.

When I met Marianne, I had just gone through a transformation. I was becoming more comfortable with myself. I remember I wrote a song when The First Edition broke up called Sweet Music Man. Barbi Benton had asked me to write it for her, and it was done from a woman's point of view. The last verse is, "You try to stay young, but the songs you've sung to so many people have begun to come back on you." Writing that was like a purging. I realized exactly what had been wrong with my life. I was trying to be something I could never be. I was trying to be young forever. The next morning, I took the earring out of my ear. I took off all my leather clothes. I went from a fabricated situation into which I was trying to fit to one in which I was comfortable being myself. I realized that if I couldn't be myself, it wasn't worth it anymore. I stopped grasping.

[Q] Playboy: For a guy whose image involves family and traditional values, it's surprising that you've been married four times.

[A] Rogers: Yeah. Maybe it goes back to my parents, who taught me a sense of responsibility and that for every act—including sex—there are repercussions. That was always my problem, in a way. I could never really get involved with someone without marrying her. Consequently, I'm on my fourth marriage. My whole sexual thing in junior high and high school was the build-up, the build-up, the build-up. I enjoyed the petting, the conversation, the seeing if I could, and then, when I knew I could, the teasing. But I could never bring myself to go all the way. I loved the romance, but I was worried about the repercussions, the pregnancy. Well, maybe not worried, but I felt a moral obligation to stop short.

My first wife, Janice, was my first affair. I remember when I got married to her, I said to my dad, "Boy, I'll be able to have sex every night!" He said, "Sooner or later, you'll have to get out of bed." It was the hardest thing to understand. Now I realize he was just telling me that sex is important in a marriage only if it's bad. Then it's a major event. If it's good, it takes care of itself.

[Q] Playboy: Would you leave a marriage because the sex was bad?

[A] Rogers: I don't know. I wonder if you have control over those things. Maybe I'm easily satisfied, because it's never been that bad. I feel like Woody Allen: The worst I ever had was wonderful. [Laughs]

[Q] Playboy: Did you have groupies as a high school musician?

[A] Rogers: So to speak. That was half the fun. The other half was the social acceptance. But I had the greatest ploy in the world for getting women.

[Q] Playboy: What was that?

[A] Rogers: I was the singer. Every time we'd play at a school, I'd get its yearbook, take it home, look through it and find a girl I liked. Then I would pick out a guy who was popular—they listed those things—and call that girl. I'd say, "Well, this guy is a good friend of mine and he asked me to call you." Now, even if she didn't know him, she knew who he was. It gave me instant credibility. Then, after I'd dated her a few times, I'd say, "I never met that guy before," but it didn't matter, because by then, I was already in the door.

[Q] Playboy: In the door but not in the door.

[A] Rogers: In the door but not locked. I had to have some form of credibility. I couldn't just call up and say, "Hi, I'm Kenny Rogers."

[Q] Playboy: What about recent groupies?

[A] Rogers: At the risk of disappointing you and everyone else, I never got into them. Sex is a very personal thing. I just cannot get sexually involved with someone I don't care about. I've had opportunities, women coming to the door in hotels. One night, Marianne was with me. This was before we started having hotel security. I had been telling her how boring it had been on the road. I said, "I do my show, I go to bed, I get up, I play tennis." Just then, three girls knocked on the door and yelled, "We're coming in whether you like it or not!" So Marianne said, "It sounds very boring out here." Groupies are like anything else. If you're susceptible to them, they're there.

[Q] Playboy: Speaking of family, what was your relationship like with your father?

[A] Rogers: My dad had the greatest sense of humor of anyone I've ever met. I really enjoyed being around him. He was such a sweet, sweet man. Now I feel so sorry that he didn't accomplish the things he would have liked to. But through it all, he kept his sense of humor. Late in his life, the only job he could get was as a watchman. He was 60 and had to wear a gun and it scared him to death. That was about the time The Andy Griffith Show was on TV. Andy's deputy, Barney Fife, would never put bullets in his gun. Well, my dad would go to work and carry his bullets in his pocket. And as he left for work, all the kids would lean up against the window and yell, "Go get 'em, Barney!" We teased him and he took it. It was such a warm thing.

[Q] Playboy: We've read that you did something unusual at his funeral.

[A] Rogers: What made our relationship nice toward the end was that I had the money to indulge the games we played. One game he especially enjoyed was seeing, in a good-natured way, how much money he could get from his kids when they went to visit. Once, my older brother Lelan had flown in from Los Angeles, rented a car and driven 110 miles to see my father. He took my parents out to dinner two or three days in a row. And as he was leaving, my father kind of stuck his hand out, like a maître d'. That burned Lelan. He said, "It's really upsetting to me that all you ever seem to want from me is money. I don't know whether you realize it or not, but it cost me $300 to fly here, I rented a car for a week—I have about S600 invested in this trip. But you want cash. Would you rather I'd just sent the money and didn't come?" My dad stepped back and said, mock-seriously, "Oh, Lelan, please don't make me choose!" It was so great. Lelan died laughing. And that was the moment I really learned to appreciate my dad's humor. He played the game with me, too. I always gave him money, though not ever big amounts. So when he died and was in his casket, I walked up, took a dollar out of my pocket, rolled it up and stuck it in his pocket and said, "This is the last dollar you're ever going to get out of me." It was a very special moment.

[Q] Playboy: How do you feel about death?

[A] Rogers: I've always been afraid of being old, alone and broke. I don't think that will happen at this point. But premature death ... I don't like to dwell on it. I also am wary because I'm a public figure, and I keep thinking about Mark Chapman. You know, he didn't care about the repercussions. It was his big chance to go down in history. That kind of thing is very frightening to me. It's very real when you're a public figure. If you're in the top 60 and coming up, it doesn't matter, But when you get into the top ten, top 15, top 20, all of a sudden it matters.

[Q] Playboy: Let's talk for a moment about your children. You're often photographed with your new son, Christopher, and you've seen a lot of your daughter, Carole, by your first marriage, to Janice. But there's also a Kenny Rogers, Jr., the son of your marriage to Margo. How is your relationship with him?

[A] Rogers: I understand he lives with Margo at home. I think Margo is more bitter toward me than Janice or Jean. She was with me during the main struggling period of my career, and we sacrificed our marriage so that I could be successful. I know Margo well enough to know that as long as Kenny lives in the same house with her, she will never allow him to see me or have a relationship with me.

[Q] Playboy: Why?

[A] Rogers: For all of her good points, she's a vindictive person. That's the only way she can hurt me. I'm sure she doesn't sit up at night wondering how to hurt me, of course, but I do believe that if she really cared about our son, she would allow him to have a relationship with me. But I know the truth, if only because she has the same attitude about her daughter and her ex-husband. I just have to assume that one day it will instinctively be important for my son to find out what I'm all about.

[Q] Playboy: You mean you haven't spoken to him at all?

[A] Rogers: No.

[Q] Playboy: Well, he must be able to pick up interviews and read how you feel about the situation.

[A] Rogers: Yeah. It's not like he's got a foreign name, either. But I had what I think were 12 good years with him, and I believe it's the first three or four where you lay your foundation. That was even prior to The New Christy Minstrels. So I can't help believing that one day, I'll get a chance to tell my side of the story.

[Q] Playboy: Let's change the subject and talk about your film career. Your opening analogy about cards' running in streaks seems to apply there also. Your first two films, The Gambler and Coward of the County, were big winners on television. The third, Six Pack, didn't fare too well as a theatrical film. Why not?

[A] Rogers: Probably, the truth is that I got too caught up in my moral responsibilities and cut the guts out of it.

[Q] Playboy: What do you mean?

[A] Rogers: I cut the language way back because I felt it was a kids' movie. Six Pack was originally more like The Bud News Bears, maybe even stronger. But I have a responsibility to the people who see my films, so my input probably made it less commercial and, ultimately, less valuable.

[Q] Playboy: Did you lose money?

[A] Rogers: We needed $20,000,000 to break even, and we got it. In that respect, it wasn't a failure. It just didn't have the impact of other things I've done.

[Q] Playboy: Are you going to quit tampering with scripts?

[A] Rogers: No. I like it. I have something to offer. The two directors I've worked with will tell you that. And I do have to make sure that any script I accept doesn't have things in it that blatantly offend or scare me.

[Q] Playboy: Your manager has said that he sees you as having the opportunity to be a sort of John Wayne character in films. Do you agree?

[A] Rogers: As long as I don't get into a flag-waving situation. I'm not good at it and I think it's hypocritical. This is an incredible country, but once someone starts waving the flag and singing America too much, he starts losing credibility. It's the old protest-too-much theory. Frankly, for me to do movies in which I didn't have some weaknesses would be a problem. I like guys who have flaws and somehow overcome them. There's a place for what I do as an actor. I just try not to kid myself about my abilities.

[Q] Playboy: Would you consider a challenging role in a film if it were a meaty character part—one that stretched those acting abilities even if it weren't a starring role?

[A] Rogers: The problem is monetary. I can't afford to take time off to do something that doesn't compensate me as much as what I can make otherwise. And it makes no sense if it takes my career nowhere.

[Q] Playboy: So money is the operative factor?

[A] Rogers: Absolutely.

[Q] Playboy: You place so much emphasis on money that it's almost startling. How did you get so hungry?

[A] Rogers: I'd be kidding you if I didn't say it's really my own ego that need`s acceptance. The money itself means nothing. But I do feel I owe Marianne and my family security down the line. It's depressing to see older people on Social Security who didn't prepare for their future, by choice or accident. I don't know; maybe my hunger came from having three sisters and four brothers. It was always "You kids get outside." Never "Kenny"—or "Kenneth," as I was called until I was 18—"come here." My mother worked nights and my father took extra jobs to get me the money to go to the University of Houston. I was the first person in my family to finish high school, much less go to college. So when I quit college to become a musician, my parents couldn't understand my motivation. To them, musicians were alcoholics who worked in bars playing guitars for quarters and dimes. I was the family's ray of hope. My older brother and my sisters had to quit school to help with the income. So maybe I just put a lot of pressure on myself. Success became inordinately important.

[Q] Playboy: One thing we've noticed in talking with you is that your emotional range rarely fluctuates. You talk about your estranged son and your new record album in the same tone of voice. Why?

[A] Rogers: I've said this from day one: I am basically narrow emotionally. I cut off the highs so I can avoid the lows. It's self-protection. Having those incredible rushes at moments like winning Grammys and Entertainer of the Year awards is not worth the depression I've seen other entertainers go through worrying over them.

[Q] Playboy: Other entertainers? You mean you've never had depressions?

[A] Rogers: I can't tell you when in my life I've ever been depressed. I'm very future oriented. The past doesn't mean anything to me other than a collection of experiences that I can draw on to alter the future. Most people who get depressed are people who live in the past. I'm the eternal optimist. I live in the future.

[Q] Playboy: Come on. Everyone gets depressed.

[A] Rogers: Never. You can ask my mother. I have been ... stymied from time to time, when I didn't know how I was going to move to the next plateau, but I knew I would find a way. It was part of the game; and part of the fun of the game has always been trying to find out what I need to do to get out of stalemates.

[Q] Playboy: Are you sure the reason you'll admit only to being occasionally "stymied" isn't that you're simply unwilling to let other people know how you're feeling?

[A] Rogers: Absolutely not. It's not that at all. I've told you more than I've ever told most people. I also know that what I say will be literally transcribed, so the minute I avoid answering a question, it looks worse than if I'd answered it. I've always believed that if you don't hide anything, there's nothing to dig for. So ask me anything you want, with any tone you want, and if you make me mad enough, maybe you'll get an emotion I'm not used to.

[Q] Playboy: Does our persistence on the emotional issue annoy you?

[A] Rogers: No. I know the reasons you're asking. I know what your editors would prefer to have me say. It"s just not me. Unfortunately, I'm a pretty boring, happy guy. That's as honest as I can be. There are lots of people who will say, "He gets up, plays tennis all day, naps, goes to work and sings his songs and goes to sleep. What a boring life. He could be doing drugs and having lots of girls." It's just not something I'm interested in. So I apologize that I'm not Mick Jagger with all these incredible things to expose. I'm just happy, and that's what amazes most people.

[Q] Playboy: What do you think most people find hardest to accept about you?

[A] Rogers: That I'm happy! That I really enjoy every day of my life! People say that even my high moments are guarded; they say, "You've done all these things and still don't get excited?" The truth is, yes, I get excited. Dottie West and I had this same conversation the night before we were up for a Grammy. She said, "My hands are sweating and I'm a nervous wreck. Why aren't you nervous?" I said, "Dottie, if we get real excited about winning and then don't win, it's going to be very depressing. I say, 'Let's go out and see if we win or not and then deal with the emotions.' " Getting the Grammy is a very nice moment; but it's certainly not something worth my sweating over and then having to feign disappointment or elation if I lose or win.

[Q] Playboy: What is worth sweating over?

[A] Rogers: When Christopher was in the hospital, sick, just after he was born, it was very, very upsetting. Even more than that. I know I pretended to be in complete control at all times, because that was my character. But the truth is that I was very nervous. I was with him day and night. And I feel sort of guilty when I say things like this, because it sounds like I don't care about my two other children. But it's not that at all. They're just past that stage of vulnerability. Christopher isn't. When I sit onstage and watch that movie of him that I show each night at my concerts, I can't tell you how frequently those thoughts go through my head. I'm sure it's a typical father attitude. Anyone would say that. But I tell you, if anything happened to that child, because he is such a special, special child, then I don't know how I would handle it. Then you would see the side of me that everybody wants to see. But I would hate to think I had to do that to show that side. Yeah, there are things that touch me, but how much I let them touch me. [Pauses to regain composure] I just don't see any sense in running this incredible range of emotions. I don't need depressions and the highs are so temporary. I feel the way I present myself is what I'm really all about. If that's not exciting enough, then it's not. Truthfully, the reason I have trouble getting major articles done about me is that I'm a pretty boring guy. However, I think that to be as boring as I am and to have done what I've done is pretty incredible. It gives hope to other boring people—it tells them that if they get out there and bust their asses, it can happen to them.

[Q] Playboy: So you're at peace with yourself.

[A] Rogers: Very much. I guess the single thing that bothers me in my life is that everything has been so perfect. I've always been taught that sooner or later, it has to balance out. That scares me. [Pauses] Maybe perfect is the wrong word. I'm just saying that everything has been so good— my marriage, my great son, my monetary situation, my professional standing—that I wonder where the equalizing blow will come from. I look over my shoulder and say, "What will it be?" I look at the film of Christopher and say, "Please, God, not that!" That scares me. That's the thing. My cross to bear is wondering when I'm going to have to pay for all the goodness I've acquired.

[Q] Playboy: OK, change of mood. Here's a key question we almost forgot to ask: Do you sing in the shower?

[A] Rogers: No, I don't. I seldom sing other than onstage or in the studio. Music has been my life for so long, it would be like tennis players' playing a few sets for fun. Well, evidently they do: Bjorn Borg came to my house and hit a few with me for my birthday. It was very nice of him. But I said, "I hope you don't expect me to go to your house and sing for you on your birthday." [Laughs]

I love singing, but I'm pretty used to having my band behind me, so I think I sound pretty sick without them. But there's one interesting incident I do remember. I went to Kentucky governor John Y. Brown's birthday party in L.A. A dozen of us were sitting around a table, and a piano player was playing. I'd had a very bad throat for about two weeks, and I'd had to cancel three shows because of it. Suddenly, the pianist starts playing Lady. So I hum it to myself just to see if my throat is any good. Gradually, I start singing softly, and Phyllis George Brown, who's to my right, starts singing, too. I'm getting more confidence, but with Phyllis singing, I can't quit. Then everybody at the table starts singing. So I do the whole song. Afterward, Phyllis says, "You've got to do She Believes in Me. It's my favorite song." The piano player starts in, and he actually plays the right changes, the way my band does. So I sing it, too. Marianne was stunned. It was so unlike me.

[Q] Playboy: Aside from such surprise inspiration, you seem to be very pragmatic in your approach to your singing and your personal life. But the one thing you haven't really talked about is an emotional connection to the music. What do you feel for the music that apparently moves so many people? What do you feel as you wait to go onstage?

[A] Rogers: It never ceases to excite me. There have been nights when I felt like doing anything but going onstage. But once I start down that aisle, the game has begun. I get an electric charge. When I hit the first steps—boom! There's something about that. I walk up the steps and turn around and everybody's clapping and standing there. For me. And that's what it's all about. Aside from the money. That's why I did it when there was no money. It's tremendously satisfying. It's everything I've ever wanted.

[Q] Playboy: So what do your friends give you—the man who already has everything?

[A] Rogers: I enjoy little gifts. Last year, Marianne was at a loss about what to get me for Christmas. So I said, "I know it's a dumb thing, honey, but for God's sake, get me some ties."

"I'm not a great singer or a vocal technician. I have a familiar voice with a certain honesty and distinction."

"I don't think there's any question that my job broke up all three marriages."

"I am basically narrow emotionally. I cut off the highs so I can avoid the lows. It's self-protection."

I apologize that I'm not Mick Jagger with all these incredible things to expose. I'm just happy, and that's what amazes most people."