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.)

Why should I get jealous when I see a good show? I know those two have worked their asses off to get to the stage they’re at, nobody just handed them enough fans to fill the Wilbur Theater. They earned them. Still, here I am: Working my ass off trying to put on the best show I possibly can. I can’t afford to hire the kind of crew that Train or Amanda Palmer have working with them, I’m doing most of this myself. And yet I haven’t quite reached that goal of playing the big rooms with my name on the marquee.

The Dresden Dolls show reminded me of what I don’t have.

Does this make me a bad person? I don’t think so. It makes me a person. One of my heroes summed it up best in August:

The guy I really let get to me was John Mayer. Man, I wanted what that guy was achieving and now that I’ve had a chance to hang with him and see how great he is at what he does, I truly only want great things for him because he really is a crazy talented musician and an ultra smart dude. Yea, there may be one or two others that I still need to love instead of envy but I’m trying AND learning. Happy to be where I am right now. That other place is way lonelier.
- Pat Monahan

I will get there someday. I don’t know how the hell I’ll do it, but I’m going to succeed or burn out trying. The only way it’s going to happen, though, is if I stop coveting the success of others and just enjoy the shows they produce. Turning envy into inspiration is not easy, but it’s the only way to keep it from eating you alive.

There are a certain number of acts, however, that throughout my development have made me want to play better, write better, entertain better, and be better. They are the ones that made me ask, “why can’t I do that?” And then I asked, “what can I do to be like that?” It’s the line between influence and inspiration, and there’s 7 on my list that cross that line.

Of course, to read the list you’re going to need to travel around the net a little. I’m posting one inspiring act here, but the rest are elsewhere. Here’s where you’ll find them:

1. Ben Folds – Facebook
2. Pat Monihan/Train – MySpace
3. Jason Mraz – iLike
4. Pink Floyd – Last.fm
5. Billy Joel – Stereofame
6. Dave Matthews Band – PMN
7. Derek Webb – Here!

Derek Webb
Once a lead singer for Caedmon’s Call, he’s got to be the single most inspiring songwriter I encountered during my formative years. I never heard of him until I interned at his record label in 2000. They handed me a pre-master copy of “Long Line Of Leavers” (the best album that band ever made) and I heard the song “What You Want”. Good God, everything was right about that song. The lyrics were heart-wrenching, honest, and somehow still inspiring. The melody was simple and powerful. The production- holy cow, the production. It started out at a slow, easy pace but added one layer at a time until it reached a mighty crescendo with the bridge section.. but it still let you down easy at the end.

It’s at that point, when every aspect of a song is working together, that it’s no longer about the construction or execution of music. This was art, a language of emotion. Everything I loved about Caedmon’s Call was due entirely to Derek’s input, though tragically his latest solo works haven’t lit the fire in me the way he used to. I hold out great hope, though, for he is still trying to work outside the Nashville formula and speak directly to people’s hearts.

For the rest of the artists, just click on one of the links above!