At a time of nihilism and unfettered cynicism, here was someone prepared to stand up with a straight face and deliver an unapologetically upbeat message. His imagery was so simple, so elementally American-hat, guitar, mama’s boy, a touch of evil-that in no time Garth had become America’s you-get-what-you-pay-for hero, our national Eagle Scout-at-Large.
He read the Bible, thanked his mother, and, for all appearances, drank his milk as well.
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But like Tom Hanks in the movie of that name, Garth had achieved his status by acting like an innocent kid who accidentally struck it rich. Along the way, he was certified as the bestselling country artist in history, the bestselling artist of any genre in the 1990s, and the bestselling solo artist in North American history, behind only the Beatles in total sales. In the span of half a decade, Garth Brooks sold an astonishing 60 million albums-one for every household in America and more than Michael Jackson, Madonna, Billy Joel, even Elvis Presley. His songs, many of them self-written, were an irresistible fusion of James Taylor-esque you’vegot-a-friend-in-me bear hugs and John Mellencamp-like let’s-get-rowdy anthems that had people all across the nation saying, “Hmm, I didn’t know country could be cool.” His shows were an eye-popping mixture of honky-tonk raucousness and arena rock pyrotechnics that coaxed even die-hard country music haters to call their friends and declare, “If he’s the captain, I’m playing on his team.” And play they did. In a little over six years, the thirty-three-yearold former college javelin thrower from Tulsa, Oklahoma, had captivated America with his modern-day version of an old-fashioned singing cowboy-Gene Autry with a social conscience. Having already claimed two awards that night-Favorite Country Album and Favorite Male Country Artist-he was having another banner evening, coming off another record-breaking year, and climaxing what had been the fastest rise to stardom of any artist in American history. Represent the wide range of music, and they are: Hootie and the Blowfish, TLC, Green Day, Boyz II Men, and Garth Brooks…” As the cameras panned the faces of the nominees, Garth Brooks, sitting spread-eagled on the front row, bowed his head and clutched the arm of his wife Sandy. “It’s my privilege to present the final award of the evening, Favorite Artist of the Year. “Thank you so very much,” said the onetime pop idol who himself had just cut an album in Nashville in an effort to capitalize on the exploding interest in all things country. “And now, to present the award for Favorite Artist of the Year, please welcome, once again, superstar Neil Diamond…” The tuxedoed crowd in the red velvet seats of the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles applauded politely as Neil Diamond stepped to the Lucite podium fondling the trademark triangular envelope of the American Music Awards. I’m not a sex god.’”) All together, with his puffy eyes, his chipmunk cheeks, and his dumpling chin, he looked a bit like a high school football coach who had gotten all dressed up to help chaperon the prom.
That way we all know straight out of the box: ‘Don’t worry, guys, I don’t have a hangup about how I look. (“Truth is,” he told me, “I don’t mind making fun of my body. As usual, his black Wranglers were three sizes too small-the better, he confessed, to conceal his often unruly weight. He was wearing his black Stetson that evening and his lace-up ropers as well-the signature accessories of American myth. T what should have been a crowning moment in his career, Garth Brooks made a rare misstep. Bob McDill, “Gone Country”Ībout the Author Praise Other Books by Bruce Feiler Cover Copyright About the Publisher I hear down there it’s changed you see They’re not as backward as they used to be. May the circle be unbroken For the memory of George Alan Abeshouse and Ellen Abeshouse Garfinkle DREAMING OUT LOUD GARTH BROOKS, WYNONNA JUDD, WADE HAYES, AND THE CHANGING FACE OF NASHVILLE