Miles to Go Read online

  I don’t know what to say about Tony Bennett, but what I do know is that I wasn’t a bit afraid of the stage. I was with my daddy, I dug the music, and I felt like I belonged there—as if the stage was a puzzle, and I was a missing piece that fit right in. Or maybe I was the puzzle, and being onstage was a missing piece of me. Okay, let’s just say I felt a lot more comfortable being up onstage than I do now trying to make up analogies!

  Hunting Rabbits

  My earliest music memories aren’t all on stage. As early as I can remember, music was part of my everyday life. Pappy’s father, my great-grandfather (E. L. Cyrus), was a Pentecostal preacher. On top of being a legislator for the state of Kentucky, Pappy (Ronald Ray Cyrus) sang with the Crownsmen for a time and always had a gospel quartet. My dad’s mother (Ruthie Cyrus) was also musical. She sang and played piano by ear. And when it came to our house, Dad’s guitar was always out. He, my uncle, and my Pappy would sing “Little Red Caboose” or “Silent Night.” Especially around Christmas, the house was full of carols.

  When I was growing up, Dad brought home lots of his musician friends. I sat on Waylon Jennings’s lap while he sang “Good-Hearted Woman.” When I was ten or eleven, Ed King (The Lynyrd Skynyrd guitarist. How cool is that?) showed me the chords for “Sweet Home Alabama” on my first guitar.

  Music is the love of my life. It’s a total escape from reality. Music transports you to another place, someplace unexpected and meaningful.

  One day Johnny Neel (a former keyboardist for the Allman Brothers) came to visit. Daddy and I took a walk with him up to the top of a hill near our house. Johnny was blind, so we walked carefully. He used a cane while I held his other hand. When we sat down at the top, Johnny said, “It must be so beautiful up here. I wish I could see how beautiful it is.” This happened before I can remember, but according to Dad, I said, “Just listen to the wind. You can hear God’s voice in the wind.” And when Johnny Neel just sat there quietly, I said, “Put your head down close to the grass so you can hear it.” (Dad = wrapped around my finger.) He got down on all fours, put his ear to the ground, and said, “You’re right, baby.”

  My dad tells all these stories about me and his musician friends. But my favorite is the one about Carl Perkins. (The great rockabilly pioneer. You know, "Blue Suede Shoes.") Carl Perkins brought his rabbit hunting dogs over from Memphis to walk around the farm with Dad. Dad and Carl weren’t really hunting. They just liked to watch the dogs trail the rabbits. I was six years old, but I went with them. I always went with them.

  So Carl’s dogs were walking through the field, they caught the scent of a rabbit, and they took off into the hollow. Carl looked down at me and said, “Now, honey, I want you to remember this day. Me and your dad, we ain’t carrying no guns, but we love rabbit hunting. Always remember that rabbit hunting is just like the music business.” That made no sense to me. “What do you mean?” I asked. He said, “It’s not about killing the rabbit. It’s about enjoying the chase.” Daddy says that the dogs were howling, and we were standing there—him, me, and Carl Perkins, and he remembers that moment like it was yesterday. I’m not sure I remember it quite that clearly, but I know that day is still with me.

  No single one of those encounters made me who I am. Not one of them convinced me to be an actor or a musician. But our hours and days add up. Little moments attach themselves to other little moments and collect into big dreams. A sunset, a walk, a few small words of wisdom. We become what we experience.

  Hannah and Lilly

  Maybe my childhood experiences did have a little something to do with getting the part on Hannah Montana, but none of my dad’s friends gave me any nuggets of wisdom about life on the set with my costars. If a TV show is like its own little world, then, in the beginning, the kids on our show were like an entire junior high school class. There was jealousy. There were fights. There was friendship. There was love. The only thing that was different: there were only three of us.

  Emily, Mitchell, and I are all close in age. Three is never a good number. At any given point, someone’s going to feel like a third wheel—that’s just the way threes work. Mitchell and I were sort of insta-best friends. We’re both crazy, silly, fun, high-energy, joking around with no real filters on what we say or do. We even had a little case of puppy love for a while there. It was sweet.

  Meanwhile, Emily’s more reserved. Also, she’s beautiful and athletic. There was competition between us—girls struggle with that, and we were no exception. I didn’t do much to fix it. I mean, I wanted to, but I had no idea how to go about fixing it. I never got along with girls as well as I did with guys. Hadn’t I just endured Operation Make Miley Miserable, which was an all-girl campaign, for a year?

  Emily and I tried to be friends, we really did, but it always ended in a fight. We’re just so different. She’s from L.A.—I’m from the South. She’s opinionated. I’m not opinionated . . . but I’m so not opinionated that I’m opinionated about not being opinionated. She’s supersmart. I felt dumb. Once in our classroom on set we got into a huge yelling argument after the teacher left. It was so bad, and we were so upset, that we each went home and told our parents. Both families all sat down together and tried to work it out. After those peace talks, we tiptoed around each other for a couple of weeks, but it didn’t last. Soon enough we were back at each other’s throats.

  Usually on set everyone’s mellow if someone flubs a line. Not us. We’d be, like, “Gosh,” and roll our eyes in exasperation if the other one messed up. As soon as a take was over, I’d say, “Are we done with this scene now?” or she’d say, “Can we go?” There was no warmth, no chemistry. We were playing BFs, and neither of us wanted to be there. Finally the producers said, “You two have to pull it together.” I think sometimes people forget how old we are. They wonder why we’re behaving the way we do. The pettiness. The drama. The acne depression—I’ll get to that later. We’re teenagers! Our job is to fight. That’s gotta be the downside of making a TV show about teenagers. You have to work with teenagers. On the upside . . . hmm. Maybe there isn’t an upside.

  I really wanted to be best friends with Emily. My dad was playing my dad. Jason Earles, who plays Jackson, was like a big brother to me. The show felt real to me, and I wanted my relationship with Lilly to feel real too. I knew it didn’t have to—show business is show business—but I was disappointed. There were times when I didn’t think we could ever be friends. We just couldn’t figure out how to get along.

  Time went on, and the three of us—me, Mitchell, and Emily—were stuck together. So we stuck together. And over time we found ways to genuinely bond. There was a narrow wooden catwalk up above the set. We called it the “C.A.D.” room. (C.A.D. = inside joke) Getting up to the C.A.D. room was precarious. It was several stories high! You had to hang on to a bar or you’d fall down to certain death. The producers must have been glad to have us out of their hair. They didn’t care where we went: “We don’t see anything. We don’t know anything. This isn’t on us,” was their attitude.

  We’d sneak up there for lunch, and for an hour it felt like we were hiding out in a treehouse, high above our jobs and homework and parents. We were all in the same situation—we had a great opportunity. It meant working like grown-ups, but it wasn’t always easy to behave like grown-ups. Witness my spats with Emily. But up in the C.A.D. room we got to be normal, mischievous kids for a change. The pressure was off, and there were even hints of fondness between Emily and me. Our characters got along so well. Why couldn’t we act the same in real life? For all our troubles, deep down I think know we loved each other, even then. But we had a long way to go before we’d really be friends.

  Daddy’s Little Buddy

  Meanwhile, Dad and I were working really well together. Every teenager and father have some of the same problems. You want a new phone, but your dad doesn’t want to give you the money to buy it. Your dad won’t let you go to a movie because you need to stay home and study. You get jealous when your dad starts writing songs w
ith the Jonas Brothers. (Okay, maybe that last one isn’t exactly universal.)

  The Hannah Montana writers were coming up with stories about stuff that made sense in my relationship with my dad because they were normal teenager/parent struggles. But as they watched us, they picked up on our dynamic and used that to make the characters even more like us. Like Dad calling me “Bud” on the show. He always calls me “Little Buddy” and “Bud” in real life. And some of that real Southern stuff comes straight from my dad’s mouth, like “Dang flabbit.” That is so Dad.

  They also found ways to use some of my dad’s songs in the show. “Ready, Set, Don’t Go” is a song that Dad wrote when I first got the Hannah part. He hadn’t been cast yet. The family had packed up and was heading to Los Angeles. He watched us drive away and felt happy to see my dreams coming true and sad at the idea of me going so far away—and growing up. What Dad doesn’t have that bittersweet moment?

  A year later, we would make an episode around that song. It was the highest rated of all the episodes that had aired so far, and “Ready, Set, Don’t Go” became a hit song for us both. Of course, Dad wasn’t thinking about any of that when he wrote the song. He was living his life, and he processes his emotions through music, just like me.

  As time went on our lives overlapped more and more with our characters and vice versa. And that was fine by me.

  On with the Show

  I sort of expected to be nervous at my new job, but taping the show wasn’t nearly as terrifying as auditioning had been. On set nobody was judging me. I wasn’t standing in front of a group of people who would determine my future. Best of all, it wasn’t live. If something didn’t work, we could try again. There was always more tape. Sure, it still made me anxious sometimes. But this was where I wanted to be. I was working with a team, trying to make the best show we could.

  From the beginning there were some surreal moments. For example, it was a little weird having people pick out boyfriends for me. I had nothing to do with the auditioning, so I’d just show up to work on Monday and be introduced to my new boyfriend. Oh, hi, there. The kissing scenes—you’d think that would be awkward, kissing someone you barely know—but they just don’t feel real. Neither person means it. It’s the job. I just kiss the same way I’d pretend to sleepwalk or to gag at the sight of Jackson’s closet. It’s a stunt. Though I have to admit I was a little excited when I saw that Miley was going to kiss Jake. I thought Cody Linley was dreamy. And of course I loved it in season two when Jesse McCartney guest starred. I’ve been a fan of his forever.

  Toward the end of that first season, superstars like Dolly Parton, Brooke Shields, and Vicki Lawrence came in to guest star. Maybe I should have been intimidated, but it was our show. They were visiting a place where my costars and I spent our lives. It was my comfort zone. Most of the time. Except when Miley Stewart had to parasail wearing a chicken costume. And later when I had to wear a Sumo wrestler fatsuit, I completely freaked out. I thought wearing a wig was bad, but those huge costumes gave me new respect for the people who wear Mickey Mouse suits at Disneyland. I could not handle that. I guess I get claustrophobic. I’m usually fine, but for those scenes I wanted my mom right there.

  I got superlucky with Hannah Montana. From the very beginning, I felt like I was her. I didn’t really have to do anything to get into character or to try to feel what Hannah felt. Those are skills that I developed later, but in the beginning, I just felt as though the part was written perfectly for me. Even learning lines was easy. I’m a freak of nature. I can read a scene twice and get it. Before I got the part, I never worried about my memorization skills (in hindsight I probably should have!), but it turned out I didn’t need to. Sure, I still messed up a few times, but that was part of the learning process.

  I was kind of the same way about rehearsing. Run lines? Practice? Not my favorite. My favorite days of the work week are the days when we actually film the show. I think of it as the real day, the real deal. Rehearsals feel like slow motion, molasses, compared to the adrenaline rush of performing.

  All that aside, I wouldn’t trade any of it, slow times and all. And in the very beginning, everything was so new that nothing felt remotely slow. I remember the first time I really got gussied up for the red carpet was for the premiere of Chicken Little. It was a Disney movie and I wanted to see it, so I asked for tickets to the premiere. Mom and I went shopping for a fancy dress at Charlotte Russe. I remember saying, “Mom, can’t I tell them I have a premiere?” I thought they’d give me extra help or bring me a glass of sparkling water or something. Mom said, “No one’s going to believe you. Do you know how many people in L.A. come into stores and say that?”

  I ended up wearing a black blazer with a cross on it. I thought I was cute—but compared to what I get to wear these days . . . When we went to the movie I walked down the red carpet, toward all the flashing cameras and photographers yelling stars’ names. “Zach! Joan! Steve!” When I strolled by, the cameras were lowered. There was silence. They had no idea who I was. So much for my red-carpet fantasy.

  When the movie was over, Mom and I went to the after-party. Everyone was talking and mingling and everyone seemed to know each other. We got our plates of food and looked for a place to sit. All the tables were full of people who had obviously been in the business a lot longer than me. There was no place to sit. So we plopped down on the floor to eat. Nobody noticed us. We were the biggest losers in history. It was pretty humbling.

  The Spotlight

  September 13, 2006

  This is the beginning and the end. The beginning of a long journey and a new path, and the end of an ordinary lifestyle. I hope I find love, adventure, fun, and excitement.

  Despite my mouthful of humble pie, life kept going—full throttle. I went on tour, opening for The Cheetah Girls’ The Party’s Just Begun tour in the fall of 2006. We were done shooting the first season of Hannah Montana, but only half of it had aired on TV. Before The Cheetah Girls concert, nobody knew if folks would care that I was opening for them. True, Hannah Montana had been an instant success, but that didn’t mean anybody wanted to see me in concert as Hannah. Hannah’s a fictional singer. Maybe all her fame was fictional too. So the concert creators kept it cheap. There was no dramatic curtain, parting slowly to reveal me onstage. Nor did I rise up on a platform like a real rocker. So how did I appear onstage? Two dancers stood holding a plain white bed sheet up to hide me, then dropped it. That’s right—a bed sheet. I had four dancers. (Now I'm up to twelve dancers.) I had a band track instead of an actual band. (Now I have a seven-person band.) Hannah’s costumes were all straight off the rack of Forever 21. (Now all Hannah's clothes are custom-sewn.) But I didn’t care if I was standing in front of a plain black wall. My dad always says that a real musician can make a great show out of anything, no matter how small. I was determined to be a great musician.

  When you’re the opening act, you figure nobody’s there to see you. They come in with their friends; they’re talking, goofing around, and getting psyched for the main act, and they have zero reason to pay any attention to that random girl in a blond wig who thinks she’s a TV star. But this concert mattered a heck of a lot to me. It was my first and possibly only chance to show everyone what I could do as a performer, and I couldn’t afford to mess it up. I was supposed to get the crowd excited. If they weren’t pumped when The Cheetah Girls came onstage, I’d be to blame.

  The shows all sold out, which was a surprise to everyone. I liked a big audience. At least with that many people, I didn’t have to worry that there’d be no applause, just crickets. I could handle the number of people—I hoped.

  I’m never alone backstage. Before the show starts, my dancers and I have a little ritual. We gather in a circle with our hands together in the center and shout, “Pop off!” (It's my show and my ritual. You'd think I'd know why we say "pop off." But I don't.) Then my stage manager, Scottie Dog, a tattooed old-time rock ’n’ roller, shows me where to wait and stays with me until I go on.
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  As I stood backstage on opening night, my blond wig was already itchy, hot, and sweaty. And I had to pee. Badly. But it was too late. (Story of my life— having to pee when it’s too late to go is my body’s code for: you’re nervous and you might mess up!) Scottie Dog signaled me, and I walked out to the microphone. I looked through the sheet at the crowd at KeyArena in downtown Seattle. Over 16,000 people were staring back at me (or at my plain white bed sheet, anyway), waiting for me to perform. I felt really little up there onstage. I was really little! Why should I be up there? How could I ever win over that many people? But cheerleading had taught me to channel my fear into energy. I may have felt little, but I was ready to do everything bigger and better to compensate.

  I took a deep breath, the sheet dropped, and I opened with “I Got Nerve.” I didn’t know if I could keep a crowd of 16,000 from throwing tomatoes at me (or maybe peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches—it was a young crowd). But I did know that I loved to sing, so I started by just focusing on that.

  As soon as I started singing, I relaxed a little. After a while I felt calm enough to take a tiny peek at the audience. So I looked out . . . and I could not believe what I saw. It was a sea of Hannah Montana T-shirts! This audience wasn’t there just for The Cheetah Girls. They knew who I was! (Or they knew who my TV character was when she wasn’t herself. But let’s not be picky.) When I started singing “I’ve Got Nerve,” the crowd actually sang along with me. They knew every single word! Soon I could hear them chanting “Hannah!” and “Miley!” (See? They did know who I was. Or, rather, they knew who my TV character was when she was herself. But again, let’s not be picky.)