Meeting My Childhood Musical Hero

Anthony Clark
Aug 8, 2017 · 4 min read

When I worked in Congress, I was given some great privileges: to serve our constituents and our country. To introduce visitors, friends, and family to the Capitol. To play a small role in some important moments.

Every so often, though, I had the opportunity to do something that was meaningful to in a deeply personal way. On May 16, 2012, I had one of those chances.

That evening, in a small auditorium in the Library of Congress, I watched and listened to my very first musical hero perform. He and his daughter and two sons were right there on the stage, singing some of the most iconic songs of my childhood, including one that is, and always will be, incredibly significant to me.

He and his family were there to tell the story of their courageous efforts and share their considerable gifts with Members of Congress — the very people who could help him and the millions of Americans like him who also struggle each day.

It was amazing. It was awesome. I had never seen him in concert, and instead of sitting high up in some arena squinting to pick out which speck on the stage he was, I was sitting fifteen feet away. With Members of Congress from both sides of the aisle and the Administration, all of us acting like teenagers, whooping and cheering and giving him at least seven standing ovations (including the first, for simply walking out onto the stage).

He stumbled with lyrics at times, and used his three discreetly-hidden teleprompters often. He introduced one of his sons a second time, about ten minutes after the first, without realizing he had already done so. And at one point he got a little upset and stopped the show briefly.

But his voice was still there, his charm, his almost bashful sense of wonder that we had come out to see him, and that we would keep getting up and cheering him so loudly.

His guitar playing was undiminished. His solos, his licks — he still had it. He burned through a technically very difficult duet with his daughter like it was a walk in the park (and so did she).

When it was over, when the last of several encores had ended and the stage was cleared, we all just stood there, looking at each other with these “can you believe it?” looks on our faces. It took a while for the auditorium to empty. As we left, we viewed an exhibit of some of his sheet music that the Library of Congress maintains in their permanent collection, starting from before I was born.

The next morning, having been leaked some “top secret” information about his schedule of meetings with Congressional leaders in the Capitol building, I met him outside of the Speaker’s office. As a film crew working on a documentary about him captured the moment, I shook his hand and said to him:

“It’s an honor to meet you. The first song I ever sang in public was one of yours, in a fourth-grade talent show. It would mean a lot to me if you could please sign these items — the same 45 record I used for that show, and part of the costume I wore.”

He smiled broadly, took a step back and said, “Really? That’s great! I’d be happy to sign these.”

And then Glen Campbell autographed my “Rhinestone Cowboy” record, and the small, sparkly vest, both of which I’ve kept in a box for the last several decades

I thanked him for his music, and the concert, and for what he’s doing to raise awareness about Alzheimer’s Disease.

It’s the sixth-leading cause of death in the United States, and the only one of the top ten killers for which there is no cure, no prevention, no way of slowing its deadly progress.

Glen then walked away through the crowd of tourists and staff who had gathered to watch our brief exchange, off to another meeting, to continue sharing his music and his story for as long as he could.

Thank you, Glen. Rest in peace.

Glen Campbell, May 16, 2012, the Library of Congress
Anthony Clark

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My book on the politics of presidential libraries: https://www.amazon.com/Last-Campaign-Presidents-Posterity-Enshrine/dp/1508409749/

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