The Concert that Changed My Life
I’m not sure what year it was, but everybody was young. The crowd was… well, let’s say the crowd was just one person. Me. I was front and center with a bag of popcorn, close enough to the footlights to feel the heat. The concert that changed my life was about to begin and all I knew was that I wanted to hear some music. House lights down, the curtain parted, somewhere in the building an idiot complained about the wrong-sized bread.
The opening acts were a classic rock revue- not the shit that classic rock stations play now. Van Halen is not classic rock; Eddie learned his moves from these guys. Steppenwolf, The Who, and The Guess Who played back-to-back short sets, reminding all that you can still rock without auto-tune or makeup. I was in high school, but these guys wrote these songs decades earlier. Once the drums had exploded, the roadies dragged them offstage and brought out the evening’s first headlining act.
Like a curveball nailing a batter smack in the ear, the concert shifted to Contemporary Christian music. I shit you not, Jars of Clay started off with that one song that got played everywhere. At this point I was in college and the popcorn was already half empty. Dan said thank you and made his exit, just as the man himself walked on with a guitar. He was three feet tall and smiling like some kind of weird celtic punk-folk pixie. The rest of the band took their places and Caedmon’s Call started their set.
They didn’t just play a few songs, they performed a strange drama right in front of me. The beginning of the set did something Christian music’s not supposed to do: it made me think. And it made me dance (I must have looked weird, all alone in that front row). The band realized their mistake, I guess, and started playing the typical praise-and-worship crap. Only the diminutive one seemed as disappointed as I by the change in mood. By the end of their set, the house was silent and unmoving. The band quietly disassembled their gear and walked off stage right, but Derek Webb exited alone, stage left. He’d be back later.
For a long time there was nothing. It was as though the stage manager realized they’d booked the wrong lineup and was scrambling to put together another show right then and there. When finally the stage lights went up again there was a tall skinny guy like me standing at the mic. Train played three whole albums worth of material while I watched. I didn’t mind, I was out of college and hated my job; I had nothing better to do. With Pat’s voice still ringing out in the theater, they performed a no-huddle play and switched to Jason Mraz. I got out a notepad so I could keep on top of the linguistic swordplay.
Then the strangest thing happened. Usually the independent acts are the first on stage so the real performers can make you forget all about them. At this show, though, the indies made up the heart of the event. Laura Clapp banged out a white-hot rendition of Joplin’s Bobby McGee. In a surprise twist The Peter Moon Band called me up on stage with them. The set was like a roller coaster off its tracks: fast, exhilarating, but probably going to kill me in the end.
Two men jumped up to save me: Kevin Reeves and Geoff Smith. Surrounding me with a defensive wall of pianos, they got me on my feet and back in the front row to enjoy the closers. By this time I was running my own business, so I didn’t have money for another bag of popcorn. As promised, Derek came back and played a single song without his old band. It made sense and reminded me why I loved his writing, but I had already moved on. All that remained was the final set as the weather got colder outside.
Two pianos appeared under hot lights, one real and one purple with flowers on it. The last two performers both played keys, just like me, and both hit the stage at the same time. Ben Folds stationed himself at a rickety old upright while Amanda Palmer perched behind her Kurtweil PC88. They were like the SWAT team of piano music- fast, efficient, and effective to the point of knocking me over backwards. My jaw wouldn’t close, nor would my ears. They played dueling pianos in front of me like two pirate ships trading volleys of cannon fire. Each song tried to out-wow the last.
Then Amanda died and no one could figure out who did it.
Their set ended at that point while the police crowded the stage. The house lights still haven’t come up yet, though. I’m still in that seat waiting to see who’s on next. Maybe by the end of the night I’ll play a set of my own tunes and someone else will be front-and-center, staring at me.
(If you hadn’t already noticed, every one of these links is an affiliate link to iTunes. If you want to hear the music that made me who I am, buy some of it and I’ll get a teeny-tiny kickback from the fruit company.)
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