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Nashville is such a city of promise, filled with the allure of fame and fortune. Like Hollywood, without the tan. My understanding was that if you wanted to be a movie star, you move to California. If you want to do music, especially country or Christian, you move to Nashville.
Like the California Gold Rush of the mid-1800s, I heard that there was gold in them there hills of Nashville. Gold records, that is. The adventurer in me knew I needed to pack up my wagon and trek across the country from Minnesota to see what I might uncover, even if it meant that I would simply become an additional anonymous person making the trek, crowding the streets of Music City with another wide-eyed dream.
Heck, I had as good of a chance as anybody, right? I remember thinking a well-intentioned, charismatic, halfway-decent singer like me stood a pretty good shot at a record deal. I had bought records and seen concerts by artists who appeared to be a lot more mediocre than I was. People say the record industry just puts out crap. I say, why can’t they just put out my crap?