It was a Thursday night in mid-October 1971, as I recall. And while I may be wrong about the date, I still remember the exciting opportunity I had: I was about to interview Neil Diamond. A friend of mine, who was a top-40 deejay, was the host of a history of rock and roll called "Retro Rock," on ABC Radio's American Contemporary Radio Network, and he needed some quotes for a feature we were going to do about Neil's music. Thanks to my friend, I had become a writer and researcher for "Retro Rock." And while ABC radio wouldn't let me on the air (girls were still a rarity on top-40 radio), it was fun to hear what I wrote getting put to good use.
Back then, Neil Diamond was not known for mellow pop music; he did some really good top-40 rock songs and he had a number of hits. I loved some of those songs, especially "Solitary Man" and "Kentucky Woman." I also liked some of his more introspective songs like "Brooklyn Roads" and "Shilo." And now, I was going backstage to meet him.
I'll admit it: I was really, really nervous. I mean, I had spent three years in college radio, but I didn't meet any famous people. Neil Diamond was larger than life to me. I didn't want to make a fool of myself, especially when my friend had worked so hard to help me get an interview. I wanted to make a good impression, and I wanted to get the information for the episode of "Retro Rock."
I don't recall much about the interview itself; I must have gotten the right quotes, because the episode about Neil's work did get on the air. But something else happened. We were talking, and he asked me about myself-- and for some reason, I told him. I said it was a very frustrating time for me, career-wise. While being an anonymous writer was okay, what I really wanted to do was be on the air; but because I was female, nobody would give me a chance. And other than my friend, few people in radio took me seriously. It was probably unprofessional for me to talk about myself. But it was a moment, and I felt like he genuinely wanted to know, so I told him.
What happened next was a surprise. He gave me a hug and said something encouraging, telling me not to give up. And he signed the tour book I brought with me, with a very heart-felt autograph next to the lyrics of "I Am... I Said." He wrote: "She was... she said. And no-one heard at all... except me."
Years later, I still have that tour book. I doubt Neil Diamond remembers that evening, and unless he reads my blog (which I also doubt), he has no way of knowing that although it took another couple of years, I finally did get on the air and I ended up having the career I always wanted-- including meeting a large number of famous (and nearly famous) people, discovering a certain Canadian rock band, and doing all kinds of interviews with all kinds of entertainers.
I tell you this story because I remember Neil Diamond's kindness even though it was nearly fifty years ago. There's a message here, and it's worth keeping in mind: sometimes, when you least expect it, someone will reach out and say what you need to hear; or someone will show you compassion where there hadn't been much before. It may not be somebody famous, but that's not the point. These random acts of kindness can make a difference. In fact, maybe you'll be that someone. Maybe you'll be the one to reach out and encourage a person who needs a kind word. And when it seems like nobody cares, maybe you'll be the one to let someone know that's not true, the way a famous singer did when he reached out to a young and inexperienced writer one evening in 1971.