I remember that night clear as day in the early ’80s, cool air settling over the freshly turned dirt as I sat behind the wheel of a 9600 Ford tractor, working a field for David Stokes. The steady hum of that big diesel mixed with the sound of Solid Country Gold coming through the tractor’s speakers. That was my kind of peace, a man, a field, and a good tune to keep him company.
Then a song came on I hadn’t heard before. The first few notes caught my ear, soft, easy, and smooth. The singer had a voice that could melt the edge off a hard day. I thought, Now that’s gotta be Conway Twitty. When it ended, the DJ said, “That was ‘Feels So Right,’ from a group called Alabama.” I remember thinking, Whoever they are, they’re gonna be big. That song just had something special, a mix of country heart and southern soul that made you stop and listen.
A few years later, I found myself at the Hopkinsville Fair, shoulder to shoulder with a packed crowd, when those same voices I’d heard from the tractor radio came to life right in front of me. Alabama, with Randy Owen leading the way, Teddy Gentry thumping the bass, Jeff Cook tearing into the lead guitar, and Mark Herndon keeping it steady on the drums. They had the crowd in the palm of their hand. I stood there, dust on my boots, thinking how wild it was that a song I first heard while working a lonely field now echoed through the night sky of Hopkinsville.
I never dreamed that one day I’d meet them face to face.
Years later, one of our Knight & Hale pro staffers, an elk outfitter from Montana named Chad, called me up and said, “Hey, you wanna go to Fort Payne, Alabama, and film Jeff Cook on a turkey hunt?” I laughed and said, “Heck yeah! Who’d turn that down?” Chad was also a fishing guide out in Montana, and that’s how he’d got to know Jeff and his wife.
A few weeks later, I was rolling south with him, talking hunting stories and country music as the miles went by. When we turned into Jeff Cook’s driveway, my jaw about hit the floor. It wasn’t a driveway so much as an entrance to a small kingdom. His house looked more like a castle, with stone walls, massive iron gates, and a voice on the intercom that turned out to be his wife, kindly telling us to come on in. When the gates swung open, it felt like we were driving into another world.
Inside, his wife Lisa, greeted us with a smile and told us she was fixing spaghetti for supper. “Y’all head upstairs and visit with Jeff,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.” We stepped through a living room the size of Todd Central’s gym, no exaggeration, with walls full of gold records, photos, and glass cases gleaming with awards. Then we went up the stairs and found Jeff sitting in the TV room, eyes glued to Star Trek.
Now, I’m sorry, but there are two kinds of folks in this world: Star Trekkies and the rest of us normal people. Jeff was definitely the captain of the Trekkies. He had planets hanging from the ceiling on fishing line, the Starship Enterprise floating like it was mid-flight through outer space. I thought to myself, Well, this fella’s got a hobby.
We talked a little, but he seemed more interested in his show than in us. After about thirty minutes, the intercom buzzed. “Supper’s ready,” his wife said. We went down, but Jeff stayed upstairs to finish the episode. Lisa couldn’t have been any nicer, just a genuine, sweet lady. Over spaghetti and bread, she told us stories about the band, and afterward she said I could take a look around the living room.
I walked along those trophy cases, reading the plaques: CMA Entertainer of the Year, Song of the Year, Top Vocal Group. It was all there. I thought about how far they’d come from that song I’d first heard bouncing off the walls of my tractor cab. Jeff never did come down that night, but his Lisa gave us directions to their cabin down the road. It was a nice, rustic place, cozy enough that we slept like logs.
Before daylight the next morning, Jeff showed up ready to hunt. He had a bad knee and moved a little slow, but that didn’t bother me none. The woods were quiet, no gobbling, no action, just the wind whispering through the pines. Around lunchtime, Jeff said we needed to swing by Randy Owen’s place to borrow another shotgun. I said, “Randy Owen? That Randy Owen?” He nodded like it was no big deal.
When we pulled up, Randy came out to greet us, and I swear, it was like shaking hands with a piece of country music history. He was just as down-to-earth and kind as a man could be, the kind that’d look you in the eye and make you feel like you’d known him your whole life. Standing there, I suddenly felt like I’d stepped back in time, back to that night on the tractor, the soft glow of the dash lights on the field dust, that same voice drifting through the speakers. It hit me right then how life has a funny way of coming full circle.
That afternoon and the next morning, the turkeys still didn’t want to cooperate. By lunchtime the second day, Jeff decided he was done hunting. To be honest, I didn’t mind. Over the years, I’ve read about a lot of bands that broke up because they couldn’t get along, and as I listened to Jeff talk, I could see how that kind of thing happens. He didn’t have much good to say about Randy and the band, and that rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn’t help thinking, Man, you wouldn’t have all this without them.
Still, every time I hear “Feels So Right,” I go right back to that night in the tractor, before the castles, the gates, and the trophies. Just me, the rumble of the tractor, the smell of the earth, and that song by a new band called Alabama playing through the night.
