To fully celebrate 100 Years of Opry, we must remember DeFord Bailey's injustice

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21-03-2025

On Feb. 23, 1974, the Grand Ole Opry hosted Old Timer's Night. It was a reunion and celebration of the early stars who built the platform that would carry the sound forged in the American South into homes across the globe.
Minnie Pearl was there; so was Roy Acuff. Both were already icons of the format, two names that still come up when discussing the foundation of country music. But perhaps more significant, on that night more than 50 years ago, was the presence of DeFord Bailey.
The diminutive Black man, a master of the harmonica, wasn't just the first Opry star − he was the show's very first performer. His renditions of songs like 'Pan American Blues' and 'Fox Chase' wowed audiences and helped establish the broadcast as an authentic, unpretentious alternative to the buttoned-up, classical fare of other shows.
Yet for his contributions to the Grand Ole Opry − and country music itself − Bailey had been summarily cast aside. At Old Timer's Night, he hadn't been on the Opry stage in more than 30 years. The whats and whys of that reality would be debated for much longer, but in his biography, written by David C. Morton and originally published in 1991, Bailey made the results clear:
The Opry, he said, 'turned me loose to root hog or die.'
Even as a child, Bailey was destined to be a star. While bedridden with a disease that would severely stunt his growth, he was introduced to the instrument that would make him famous. He learned to pick guitar and banjo, but it was the harmonica that captivated him most.
At just 3 or 4 years old, Bailey began making sounds that became music as he mimicked what he heard outside his bedroom. He made his harp moo like the cows and howl like the dogs; he squawked like the chickens pecking around for feed. And he especially loved bending notes to whistle like the locomotives that barreled through the Tennessee countryside.
Once Bailey got on his feet and came of age, he worked a handful of odd jobs before making music his career. That came by way of radio, which arrived in Nashville in 1925.
Bailey debuted on WDAD, the city's first broadcast station, via a harmonica contest. He blew the competition away, but due to the social mores of the time, and the pre-determined subordination of Black people, Bailey was named the second-place finisher.
Soon, he moved to WSM. It may have been the second station to launch in Nashville, but in terms of financial backing and overall reach, it was first by a mile. It also became the home of The Barn Dance, the precursor to the Grand Ole Opry.
DeFord was there at the broadcast's beginning, playing his harp and regaling audiences with his innovative stylings. When the Opry took the show on the road, he was there, too, even when it meant being subjected to the ugliness of Jim Crow segregation. While his white co-stars ate in restaurants after performances, Bailey waited in the car for someone to bring him a sandwich. Since he couldn't sleep in whites-only hotels, he bunked in the homes of Black strangers.
Despite the regular injustices and embarrassments, Bailey knew had one of the best gigs available to Black men in the 1920s − which is likely why he chose to not to protest such affronts.
But even his willingness to 'stay in his place' wouldn't be enough to save him from his ultimate fate.
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A dispute between ASCAP and BMI, the music industry's two new performing rights organizations, meant that the BMI-supported Grand Ole Opry had to either pay licensing fees for the right to play the songs in ASCAP's catalog, or scrap them from the show completely.
Many Opry performers would simply pivot and write new songs. But not Bailey. And though Judge George Hay, the Opry creator and host, argued, in his memoir, that Bailey was "lazy," Bailey had a different explanation.
Less a writer of original songs, Bailey an innovator of existing music. Opry management had long limited his repertoire, preventing him from playing anything other than fan favorites. Then, all of a sudden, they shifted course, leaving Bailey behind.
Moreover, Bailey believed that the copyright fight was merely a ruse. In his mind, the Opry simply didn't want to pay him, a Black man, what he was worth.
Also likely: The Opry, as a critical pillar of the country music industry, understood the need to reinforce the standard of whiteness upon which the genre was built.
The Grand Ole Opry acknowledged as much in February 2023, when Carlos DeFord Bailey, Bailey's grandson, played a Grand Ole Opry in the Harmonica Wizard's honor.
While the younger Bailey sang, a black-and-white photo of his grandfather appeared on a screen above his head. Also during the set, the Opry played a video apologizing for its treatment of DeFord.
From the Opry's official statement: "Neither country music nor the Grand Ole would exist without the impact and influence of diverse artists and multiple cultures. But over the course of nearly 100 years, the Opry has at times been a part of a problem within country music suppressing the contributions of our diverse community.'
Bailey, of course, never got to hear the apology. He died in 1982, nearly penniless, after spending his latter years shining shoes at his 12th Street shop.
For a Black hillbilly musician, one without the industry-wide support of Acuff or Pearl, finding steady work in his field had been all but impossible. It's the reality that no apology can resolve, no matter when it occurs. Remorseful sentiments are nice, but they don't feed families.
Neither do they create lasting change.
If Bailey was alive today, I'm sure he would happily celebrate 100 years of Opry, recognizing the enduring legacy of the institution he helped forged with the breath in his lungs and his beloved harp.
But I think he would also be frustrated. Angry, even.
After logging 29 country No. 1's during a career that peaked in the 1970s, Charley Pride was finally invited to become an Opry member... in 1993.
Thirty years later, in 2023, Darius Rucker received his own overdue invitation.
And along with Bailey, they remain the only Black members in the Grand Ole Opry's 100-year history.
Andrea Williams is an opinion columnist for The Tennessean and curator of the Black Tennessee Voices initiative. She has an extensive background covering country music, sports, race and society. Email her at [e-mail] or follow her on X (formerly known as Twitter) at @AndreaWillWrite and BlueSky at @andreawillwrite.bsky.social.
This article originally appeared on Nashville Tennessean: Grand Ole Opry inducted only 3 Black members in 100 years | Opinion