This is a true story about the stupidest decision I ever made while I worked in radio.

The event in question took place in the late '80's, or maybe around 1990, when I was the "Music Director" at a local small-time radio station. My title of "Music Director" was a dubious one, since I did a little of everything at the station, but nothing without the manager's approval. I was just one more 20-something kid at one more small town radio station where I wrote and produced advertisements, had a daily on-air slot, worked weekends and rotated music in and out of our on-air library. Sine I really was doing a lot, and for little money, the manager decided to indulge me by giving me the title "Music Director" instead of just calling me, more accurately, "Busy Kid." I was the "Music Director," and I made minimum wage, and sometimes I had to clean the toilets. There was just nothing like small town radio in the 80's.

In the late '80's there was one of those regular, mercurial surges in the popularity of country music, and a number of record labels signed a glut of country music acts and sent these new artists out to promote their debut albums in small towns all over America. If there was anything like a concert venue in any given small town, then the touring artist might perform a set, usually for free. If the small town in question did not have a concert venue (and this small town did not), then the artist would set up at a local discount department store and spend a few hours signing autographs and shaking hands. The record labels all hoped that under those kinds of circumstances there'd be a local radio station that would help with the promotion by doing an on-air interview, playing a few songs, and just generally making a big deal because "Such-And-Such Record Label's new artist, Joe Cowboy, is in town…"

My manager found out that Capital Records was sending one of their new recruits through our area and that he'd be spending a few hours at the local K-Mart one day, signing autographs and stuff. So he asked me if I'd be willing to go down to K-Mart, interview the guy on air, play a few of his songs, the whole shootin' match. After all, I was the "Music Director," so who'd be better for that job?

My gut reaction was "hell, no." And, really, why would I want to? I worked for minimum wage and doing a live broadcast was a lot of work. I'd have to haul the equipment down by myself and then spend a few hours hanging out with some current-and-future nobody … asking him the usual mundane questions and playing his songs … and then haul the equipment back and put it all away, and it just sounded like a lot of bother.

Besides, as I assured my manager, I'd listened to this guys new single and it sucked. It was boring. He was just one more also-ran in a big field of "hat acts" and there was no point in bothering with him. He'd never take off. My manager acquiesced and I forgot about it.

So the day of the big appearance came and went with little fanfare. The local newspaper showed up at K-Mart and took the guy's picture for the weekend edition, but beyond that, nobody noticed. I heard later that the guy had shown up at K-Mart alone, tired and hungry in an old station wagon. He'd had a flat tire, which he'd changed himself, and he then spent a couple of hours signing autographs for kids and shaking hands with grease on his shirt. He left and, I suppose, continued his small-town tour and I didn't think about him again.

Until he started having hits. Big hits. And lots of them.

The artist in question was Garth Brooks.

As you probably know, Garth Brooks was the biggest selling country music artist of the '90's and one of the biggest selling recording artists from any genre of all time. He is, in fact, America's second best selling solo artist of the entire twentieth century, just behind Elvis. Really.

And I now work a low-level job at a paper mill. I think they call that "karma."

Now, the whole reason I mentioned this is because Bucky Covington is coming to town to do a concert this month. We now have a concert venue in town … and the name of our town is "Covington," so the idea of Bucky Covington comin' to Covington just delights everyone with the wonderful serendipity of it all. It's like if Hannah Montana played a concert in Montana! Or if VH1's New York did an appearance in New York! Or if Hillary Clinton did a campaign stop in Hell, Michigan!

Who the hell is Bucky Covington? I had to ask that myself. Well, it turns out that he's a country music singer who didn't win American Idol and got a record deal to do country albums anyway. You know, a nobody. Right? Well, given my history with branding the wrong people "nobodies," maybe I should think about that.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to the Bucky Covington concert. His kind of music isn't what I enjoy. But, honestly, I wish him the best of everything and all the success in the world. Bucky, if you're out there, when you hit the big time, say hi to Garth for me.

Tell him ol' Darrell always knew he'd make it.

Labels: Entertainment, Personal