The day I met Kenny Rogers

On my first trip to Tamworth in 2011, Kenny had the final gig of the festival. His one and only show was at TRECC, the big concert venue out near the Golden Guitar. I sat towards the rear with a side angle to the stage.

 

He raced through his hits, medley style, pausing occasionally to chat with the audience. It was the exact same show – all the way down to the lighting and scenes from the Coward of the County projected onto the wall behind the band –  that I’d seen in the mid-90s in London when he toured with Tammy Wynette, Glen Campbell and Glen’s daughter Debbie. I still recall Kenny’s massive silhouette as he walked on stage and his hubcap-sized belt buckle straining to hold his stomach in.

 

At Tamworth, Kenny was much thinner and uncertain on his feet. He explained he’d recently had both hips replaced and walking off and on for the encore would be difficult, so, if we didn’t mind, he’d prefer to remain on stage. He’d had far too much work done on his face.

 

He talked about becoming a father again in old age and showed photos of the twins.

 

It wasn’t the best concert ever, by any stretch. It was no Springsteen. If you wanted to be cruel, you could say he dialed it in. But Kenny still had the voice. Breathy without being breathless. Easy. Unmistakable. Reassuring.

 

Show over, I jumped in a cab and raced to the airport for the last flight out for the day.

 

Departure was delayed a few minutes with passengers held in the terminal while a VIP was ushered quickly onto the tarmac and onto the plane. It was Kenny, wife and manager.

 

En route to Sydney, I watched through the seats as his head made involuntary shaking movements, perhaps symptomatic of a medical condition.

 

Upon landing, a few passengers grabbed him for a photo. Not one to approach people, I watched on with jealousy.

 

Kenny sat in the lounge for the connecting flight to Melbourne. I circled like a nervous teenager at the Warrnambool Youth Centre. I accidentally bumped into him in the toilet, thought about it, but thankfully reconsidered.

 

The Melbourne leg was torturous. I was running out of time and opportunities to meet Kenny.

 

Again, I stared at him through the seats. He drank diet coke as his young wife fussed over him.

 

At the carousel, my case came out first. Instead of leaving, I stood like a weirdo a few metres back from Kenny as he and entourage sat waiting for their luggage. My feet were glued to the floor, unable to move. I reminded myself I’d never get this chance again.

 

Suddenly, I was moving towards Kenny and standing over his left shoulder, apologising for interrupting, introducing myself and offering him my concert ticket and pen for his autograph.

 

‘’I’ve been feeling you since Tamworth’, he said with an exaggerated shiver.

 

He held the ticket as tightly as he could to stop his hands from shaking and scribbled his name. Mrs Rogers glared at me.

 

I thanked him, walked backwards still apologising for my impertinence and floated to the taxi queue.

 

Last Saturday night news came through of Kenny’s death. Eloise and I ate pizza and danced in the lounge room in tribute. She allowed me to suspend my Lenten promise to not sing in her presence.

 

Country music is story-telling and even though he was more Days of our Lives sometimes, Kenny was one of the best. As Dolly always said, he had an ear for a hit song.

 

Kenny was The Gambler who saw life as a series of decisions, knowing when to play safe and when to take risks; the Coward, on a never ending search for manhood; the Dreamer, who warned women not to fall in love with him, while offering plenty of come-hither late night dedications if they were inclined.

 

Kenny, thanks for letting me say hello. I hope you got to die in your sleep.

 

 

 

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

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