Author Article: Meet Garth Brooks…

Of all the times I met with Garth Brooks over the years, two stand out as definitive. They were years apart, at wildly different times in his career, yet absolutely in tune with what this artist is about as a personality – strikingly unassuming and possessing a wry humor. The first revelation happened when I met Garth. Capitol Records wanted a biography written to accompany the release of his second album, No Fences. I was given an advance tape and a time to meet with him at his manager’s office. As much as I had loved his self-titled debut album, I was not prepared for No Fences. I thought it was stunningly good. I had just started working for Capitol’s public relations arm, and the only thing I really knew about Garth was that he was intense about his music and he stood on the threshold of colossal fame. I hoped he wasn’t taking himself too seriously.

When I got to Doyle/Lewis Management, the place appeared empty. “Is anyone here?” I called out.

“Sorry! Back here,” the voice answered.

I went down the hall to an office where I found Garth Brooks, wearing a Ricky Skaggs ball cap and a sweat suit. He was on the telephone taking a message.

“Everybody’s at lunch so I’m filling in,” he said apologetically, as he hung up the telephone.

And so, for the first thirty minutes we talked about No Fences between phone calls and message-taking. Indeed, he was passionate about his music. But no, he didn’t take himself inordinately serious. I loved him to death for it.

The second “Garth Moment” came after the release of Sevens, the album he wisely withheld until Capitol had its ducks in a row. In the ensuing years he had, of course, become the biggest music star in the world. 

I’d been there during some of the recordings, so it was interesting to get his take on the finished product. I no longer worked for Capitol, and was concentrating on books. I had finished Tanya Tucker’s autobiography, Nickel Dreams, and was beginning a music history with Ralph Emery. But Garth wanted me to continue to write for him, and I wanted to do it. I waited until he finished a series of television, magazine and newspaper interviews, then we sat down and talked about the new album. When we finally wrapped up our talks about his new music, it was dusk in Nashville. I had parked in the back lot of a publishing company a few blocks away.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said when we left the building.

“No, I’m fine,” I answered, because his truck sat right in front of us. But he wouldn’t hear of it, especially because it was getting dark. Despite my protests, he came along, talking now about music in general and Capitol acts in particular. He was especially impressed with Deana Carter’s debut album. People started slowing down and shouting, “Garth! Garth!” When we turned down the alley that led to where I’d parked, there were a few questionable looking characters loitering about. I said, “You’re the one who shouldn’t be out here wandering around in back alleys.”

He grinned, rolled his eyes, and said: “Oh, okay. How about if we get jumped, I let you fight.”