Epilogue

I had a lovely afternoon on the balcony. Witness:

Dorian enjoyed himself, too. Here’s me enjoying it:

Why, yes, I did get my hair cut. Thanks.

P.S. Those are chocolate chip cookies and sweet tea. My two weeks of sugar-free-ness ended yesterday and I was allowed some indulgences today. Unfortunately, I didn’t completely enjoy them, as my body apparently is now used to not having certain types of junk in it and is not at all sure it likes it being re-introduced. Back to self-discipline tomorrow.

P.P.S. I also enjoyed a nice long nap after reading for a while. Today was a near-perfect day. Ah, spring.

Trying to Enjoy All the Fruits of My Labors

Oh, my lovelies! Last night was so great. Lucinda was–dare I say it?–cute, and happy, and her voice was just amazing. She sang almost everything I wanted to hear. She ended with a cover of one of the coolest songs ever, “Ode to Billie Joe,” and we all walked out with our faces sufficiently rocked. Nicole and Rachel and I ended the evening at Cafe Coco, on the patio under the moon and the tree branches with our coffee and residual adrenaline. I won’t say any more than that, simply because today is too beautiful to be a reviewer or critic of anything.

In fact, today is too beautiful to be anywhere but outside. So, leaving the cat boxes unscooped, the laundry piled in the corner, and the sheets on the bed unchanged, I and my cat and a book will be out on the balcony if you need us.

I Love This Nun; and, I’m Simply Mad About Lucinda

Go here for a special Friday treat. I found this by way of Miss Foxy’s blog and have been laughing at it all morning. I’ve always been fascinated by Catholicism, and in equal measure concerned by some aspects of it, to be honest. My theology and hers don’t exactly line up, but I’m finding myself very enlightened by Sister Mary Martha’s matter-of-fact and humor-laced explanations of different tenets of her faith. I finally started to “get” the whole saint-making process after reading this.

I don’t know if she’s for real, or if those who share her belief system would be proud of how she’s representing it. I haven’t read or researched enough to tell. And, again I say, I’m not condoning Catholicism. From what I can tell, though, from what little reading I’ve done today, the lady is very consistent and anchored in her beliefs, even the “weird” ones, and she expresses her faith with candid charm. I could stand to be more like her in that way.

***

I’m going to see Lucinda tonight! A while back I talked about being a poser for not owning all her albums. I still don’t own them all, but I’m not going to beat myself up about it. I simply think “Car Wheels on a Gravel Road” is one of the best albums to listen to in your car when the sun is shining, and that’s enough for me. Despite the negative press, I also like her new album, “West.”

I’m going to be frank again and say that I don’t always like to listen to her. I think that’s why I haven’t been as obsessive about owning everything she’s ever recorded–her voice is just sometimes too harsh for me. To say the least, it’s an acquired taste. But, it wouldn’t be right for her to sing the words “shoot your love into my vein” or “you’ve got no right to take my joy, I want it back” with anything but her growly twang.

So, yay. Oh, and it’s at the Ryman, one of my favorite places on earth.

***

In other news, I booked a flight to go see my best friend Erin next weekend in D.C. I miss that girl. Spring fever’s hitting hard, and I’m hoping for some cherry blossoms.

Okay, kiddos. Everyone have a great weekend, where’er it takes you.

Surprisingly, This One’s About Music and Stuff

But just some tidbits.

Okay, first off, I visited Ryan Adams’s official website for the first time in several days this morning. It’s been a pretty trippy place to visit of late, what with his crazy freestyling old-school raps and the such like. Now, though, there are falling bananas. Just…falling bananas. A nod to monkeys? The Velvet Underground? Who ever knows.

Point being, I was elated to find that clicking on one of said bananas led me to tour dates…of all three shows he’s apparently playing this spring. One in New York state, one in Pennsylvania, one in the UK.

Ryan, you torture me. I will drive for you–I will go somewhere besides the Ryman–just, please, come see me. Make it soon. I’ve heard Tennessee sucks in the summer.

***

Last week, as my faithful readers will remember, I dog-sat for a friend. I thought I was doing it for free, and the payoff was that I got to pretend I had my own house, complete with yard and dog, for a week. It was a majestic week. Tuesday, I went over to hang out with said friend, who as I was leaving gave me my “thank you” present–a substantial gift certificate to the best little indie music store EVAR. Yesterday, I could not wait to get off work to use it, or at least part of it.

My first purchase was Fallen Angel: Gram Parsons. I don’t buy many DVDs, and I wouldn’t have bought this one otherwise–I do love the capriciousness gift certificates afford. To be honest, this is probably not documentary at its finest. However, it’s priceless for many reasons, not the least of which is simply the heart that went into its research and execution.

I first saw it at the Belcourt (I’m a linkin’ fool today) at a special screening last summer. The director, Gandulf Hennig, was there to answer questions afterwards. Also in attendance were members of the Parsons family and the guy who stole Gram’s body and burned it. (You’re intrigued now, aren’t you? I don’t have room to tell the story. Go here.)

It was such a surreal Nashville night, and I was very new in town. My favorite little pieces of personal trivia surrounding this film and my watching of it: I met my gift-certificate-giving friend at the Belcourt the night I saw it; I bought it for another friend last fall, and when I asked for it, the girl helping me said she’d actually been the director’s roommate at one point; I figured out in the theater that night that, right then, I was almost exactly the same age Gram was when he died.

My favorite part of the film, hands down: the footage of Gram and Emmylou singing together. There’s a voice-over of him talking about how beautiful her singing, and singing with him, is. Chill-inducing, that is.

***

My little tribute to “Jolene” from a couple of days ago was supposed to be the first half of a two-part posting entitled “Now Playing in Holly’s Head: Heartache and Debauchery.” The “debauchery” part was to come from these guys. As those of you who are probably still reading it know, I ran out of space and time.

That morning, I had to pop in Ray just to hear that one song. I couldn’t stay in that mood, though, so I chose the Kings of Leon to snap me out of it. They always do the trick.

I LUV the Kings of Leon. I will be writing more about them soon, as their new album drops next week. I saved part of my gift certificate and everything.

Doing My Rita Skeeter Impresson…

This just in…

But what does it all mean?????

Now Playing in Holly’s Head: Ray LaMontagne’s "Jolene"

It’s a hard one for me this morning, folks. I woke up with Ray LaMontagne singing “Jolene” to me, and long story short, I knew I was going to have to think about lots of stuff I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

(Side note–interestingly, two of my best blog-friends have just written about songs, too–Mat’s weekly Random Shuffle and the song going through Emily’s head, a song that means a lot to me as well. Check ‘em out.)

First, the lyrics, and yeah, there’s drugs and stuff in it:

“Jolene” ~ Ray LaMontagne

Cocaine flame in my bloodstream
Sold my coat when I hit Spokane
Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes in the early morning rain
Lately my hands they don’t feel like mine
My eyes been stung with dust, I’m blind
Held you in my arms one time
Lost you just the same
Jolene
I ain’t about to go straight
It’s too late
I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze on my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
in the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don’t know what love means
Still don’t know what love means
Jolene
Ah, La, La, La, La, La
Jolene
Been so long since I seen your face
or felt a part of this human race
I’ve been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do
Jolene
I ain’t about to go straight
It’s too late
I found myself face down in the ditch
Booze in my hair
Blood on my lips
A picture of you, holding a picture of me
In the pocket of my blue jeans
Still don’t know what love means
Still don’t know what love means
Jolene
La, La, La, La, La, La, La
Jolene
La, La, La, La, La, La, La
Jolene

Artist:
Oh, Ray. For a while there, under “About Me” on my MySpace, I simply had the words “Whatev. I’m going to marry Ray LaMontagne.” I told this to one of my (Starbucks) coworkers once, who replied with, “and live in the woods as you both spiral further into madness?” My response? A very enthusiastic “yeah!” Of course, he’s already married and most likely emotionally unavailable even if he weren’t, but I always seem to pick the dark brooding tortured ones. He’s known for this instability–last year, he opened for Guster at the Ryman and had a meltdown, slinging some pretty hardcore insults at the audience and cutting his set short.

He, though, manages to avoid emo-bleeding-onto-the-page-ness in his songwriting, instead turning his inner turmoil into sometimes spare and often painfully beautiful poetry. I’ve known about him for a year and a half or so, but his first album, “Trouble” was released in (I think) 2004 or 2005. Once I bought it a year ago, I knew I’d be buying anything else he cared to offer. And I have.

Song:
I don’t know what it’s about, and I don’t care (that’s another theme you’ll find in NPHH–I don’t feel the need to know the backstory to any song to appreciate it, though sometimes such can enhance the experience, I will admit). Like most of his songs, though, it’s obvious he’s at least conceptually lived it. Striking are his unexplained details–the blood on his lips, the “picture of you holding a picture of me”–and how, though sort of cryptic, they still evoke the feeling that you’ve been in your own ditch before, face down. Songs like this kill me, but they’re so needed. See further “Come Pick Me Up” by Ryan Adams, another one in the same “I’m wasted and miserable, and you’ve pretty much ruined me and we’ll never be together, but so help me, I love you with whatever is left of this fragment of a heart” vein.

What I Really Want to Say, Whether it Has Anything to Do With the Song or Not:
I had this really lame relationship once that started online (bleah–long story). Honestly, I know you’re not supposed to regret anything, but if I could take that one back, I would–not for any lasting emotional damage, but just to save myself and those who loved me the memory of the overwrought embarrassment of it all. (Shudder.) Anyway, we weren’t together for too long, but it seemed like forever, and the day before I broke it off, I went with a friend to a new coffee shop in town.

The location of this coffee shop had housed another coffee shop haven of ours, so we were skeptical. We walked in and were amazed with what the new owner had done with the place. I meandered to the back as I waited on my coffee press and saw that he’d put bookshelves full of pretty much all my favorite books on the walls. When he brought the coffee back, I asked if the books were his because it looked like my shelves at home. He said yes, that he’d studied religion and literature in (I think) grad school.

Oh, dear.

A while after I’d gone through what simply wasn’t that hard of a breakup, my friend and I went back to the coffee shop so I could grade papers one night. He was there, sitting on a stool in the back room, playing songs on his guitar for whomever wanted to listen. It was mostly background noise to me until something made my ears perk up–Cute Coffee Shop Owner Boy (for we didn’t know his name yet) was playing the beginning of “Red Clay Halo” by Gillian Welch.

Oh, dear.

Here in Nashville, that happens on a nightly basis. In Florence, Alabama, not so much. I grinned goofily and sang along, and later found out that he’d taken notice and was impressed that I knew the song. From then on, we’d chat (if both of us could get over our shyness and/or moodiness) every time I went in for coffee, and he became something of an acquaintance–as the two people who even knew who Gillian Welch was in all of Lauderdale County, we had to stick together. My friend tried to convince me I should do something about it, like leave a note on the table or something. That, as the young’uns say, is not how I roll, though, so I just had to keep my little crush internal.

This guy upped the standards for me–the guy I had previously been dating was not someone I had anything in common with taste-wise, nor was he particularly deep…he was just a nice guy, and after torturing myself over guys I was so “kindred” with before, I thought it would be a nice change. Coffee Shop Boy, though–he reminded me that there were things I really did want in a potential significant other, and that they didn’t have to come at the cost of “nice guy”-ness or vice versa.

Not that I ever really had a chance, and not that he’d even remember my name if he saw me today, and not that if he chanced upon this posting he’d not consider a restraining order, but…I was always thankful for the respite from the norm and drudgery that he and his coffee shop provided.

He ended up, as boys tend to do, making me sad the day I saw the sign on the door that the coffee shop would be closed the next Saturday for his wedding. A couple of weeks before, I’d been at another open mic night where he was playing some of his originals and, as always, covering some of my favorites. He stopped and looked at me and asked if I’d heard any Ray LaMontagne. I replied no, that I’d not even heard of him. He then played a song the lyrics of which just pierced me and never left–”Jolene,” by Ray LaMontagne.

Over the past year, I’ve grown even further enamored of the song as I’ve been able to attach it to other people and situations and feelings. I haven’t even touched on the “stuff” I said I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about at the beginning of this entry. Suffice it to say that it always accompanies a certain mood and certain feelings for me. I had the privilege of seeing Ray himself sing it last December, and by then–though it wasn’t quite a “Sweet Carolina” moment–I had to fight tearing up hearing his earnest vocals.

I don’t think, though, that I will ever hear it without thinking of a cute coffee shop boy in the best coffee shop ever, my naivete making everything hopeful and beautiful, on the eve of such huge changes in my life, singing the same words.

With All Longsuffering and Doctrine

This morning, as I listened to my father reference II Corinthians 4:4 in his sermon and how it had been his privilege to preach “the glorious gospel” for thirty-two years, I knew something that only one other person in the audience knew, and that he certainly wasn’t going to tell in any sort of public forum.

It’s his anniversary! On this weekend in March 1975, my father preached his first sermon at his first full-time preaching gig in Paintsville, KY. After pinching pennies for years as Mama put him through Lipscomb, and with the support of a congregation in his hometown, Daddy with Mama by his side set out on the domestic mission field.

My father, to use a cliche, is a still water that runs deep. If I may liken him to fictional characters, I always saw a lot of him in Atticus Finch from To Kill A Mockingbird, or the Jimmy Stewart character (whose name escapes me) in the movie Shenandoah. These are men driven by conscience–men who must fight their peace-loving natures to make stands that they know will disturb, even hurt, some, but that they know are right. That’s my Daddy.

My father, though, is three-dimensional, with skin and bones and a huge heart. I’ve spent most of my life finding ways to rile him up with my “out-there” views, sometimes intentionally, sometimes subconsciously. Sometimes I get the much-deserved eye-roll. Most of the time, though, I get the most sincere and fair judgment in any matter that he knows how to give.

Most who know me well know that I struggle with indecision and doubt about many things. I have very serious questions about things that a lot of people who share my faith–whether by a stronger faith of their own, or a weaker one–take as closed issues. I struggle with the death penalty, with the justness of this war, and with other concerns that even my questioning might divide me from people I respect (and some, of course, whom I don’t). It has been my privilege to bring these things before the one person on this earth whom I know will not judge me, but will take my concerns seriously and help me all he can.

My father, like any true man of God, has been there. I can say I struggle with the justness of war and violence, but he’s the one who had to decide whether or not to register as a conscientious objector back during the Vietnam War. Beyond his own experience, though, he continues to plumb the depth of the Word for his answers and to stress that we can KNOW what we need to know to answer any important questions we have.

I have allowed what I have seen him endure from those who call themselves his brothers in Christ to shake my faith. I have watched him be labeled a flaming liberal and an extremist conservative, and be kicked out of a congregation for (among a few other burning concerns) putting his hands in his pockets while he preaches. I have watched him nearly lose his eyesight from health problems stemming directly from the stress placed upon him by the brotherhood.

His faith, however, remains unshakable. Ironically, these very things are what keep it so. For my father did not answer his calling to preach based upon the chance to be in front of people every week, or for the money (ha!), or for the ability to proselytize the masses to his way of thinking. My father, like the prophet Jeremiah, had a fire in his bones–I still see that fire every time he preaches, every time he comes back from a mission trip and weeps for the children and lost souls, every one of whose faces I know still haunt him. It is, in fact, in spite of his desire to be away from the spotlight that he entered into the ministry.

Ah, but I could type for years about this man (and about the woman who has been with him for the entire thirty-two years plus some). To bring it back around to me, which is of course where this thing always ends up , I can honestly say it is his faith that has, at my darkest times spiritually, been something I could not deny. It is something that I have not always understood because of what he has been through at the hands of those he is trying so diligently to serve…and, like my Daddy, I am just inquisitive enough to want to know why. The answer, of course, is always before me.

I charge thee therefore before God, and the Lord Jesus Christ, who shall judge the quick and the dead at his appearing and his kingdom;
Preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long suffering and doctrine.
For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears;
And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables.
But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.
For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:
Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.

Weekly Wrap-Up

So, to recap:

1. There are lots of concerts I want to see that I should not be attending because I am poor. And, yet, I will be attending most of them. So there.
1a. Emily, a public thank you for taking care of the Patty Griffin tickets. Check’s in the mail. Not really, because I don’t have your address, but will get it to you soon.

2. I have kept a friend’s dog alive for almost an entire week. One more night at her house, and he’s back under her care.
2a. I want my own house.
2b. I still want a dog, but the whole waking you up in the middle of the night to go out thing will have to be negotiated

3. God is good. He has seen two of my aunts (one of whom is actually my cousin, but that’s another story) through major surgeries, treatments, and hospital stays this week. He has also this week seen a good friend of the family through a kidney transplant. Incidentally, the kidney came from his son. If you read this, please say a prayer of thanksgiving, as well as ask that He continue to help them all recover. It would mean a lot to me. Thanks.

4. Having my mom, dad, sister, and her husband all in the same town for nearly a week has been a blessing I couldn’t have expected. Mama and Daddy live across town anyway, but Jenny and Walter’s visit was something we all needed.
4a. The campaign went well, and the gospel meeting is going well too. I do not see how my father keeps his fire for the Word going after what he’s been through, but his lessons have been important reminders to me the past couple of nights. Of course, he’s just been the messenger–the real reminders are always there in the Word. I should be there more myself.
4b. My sister and I can still make each other giggle in church. I hope we’re still doing that when we’re in the nursing home.
4c. Among the campaigners were a couple of my former students. It was nice to see them again–all those boys took care of me. I’ve missed their hugs.

5. I can live without sugar.

6. I do love Nashville. It’s being perfect for me today.

7. None of this is what I really and truly want to say to you all today. There’s just so much cooped up in here. I’m sure it will all come out eventually. Stay tuned, and take my love with you this weekend.

NPHH: “Yellow Sun” ~ The Raconteurs

puddle-wonderful, indeed :)

(“in just-” by e.e. cummings)

in Just-spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and
piracies and it’sspring
when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

***

P.S. from the Management: I’m in love with everyone and everything today.

May You One Day Carry Me Home

It has been suggested by my Blog Guru that I expand the “Now Playing in Holly’s Head” feature into an entire blog, so I’ve decided I’ll do that every so often. Today’s NPHH will be a song from a couple of posts back that’s getting some radio play locally and is just catchy enough that it earworms me fairly frequently these days:

“Carolina” by Matt Wertz

Tennessee, January
Everything, ordinary
You’re unlike anything I’ve seen
Is this how I really feel?
Or just another heart to steal?
To fuel the song that’s underneath

Carolina, you will have to forgive me
Carolina, this is just my tendency
Forgive me

I pass another day wasting
Thought on what’s ahead asking
What if and why not and who’s to say?
When all I really know of you
Is you’re just as lonely too
Cause desperate hearts are hearts that need someone

Carolina, you will have to forgive me
Carolina, this is just my tendency

Forgive me I’m careless sometimes
I’m sure that you’ll find
But that’s not how I want to live my life
I want to be sure
But I don’t know how to
How hard I try

Carolina, you will have to forgive me
Carolina, this is just my tendency
Forgive me

Artist:
Matt Wertz is not a dude I know much about. What I do know of him comes more by association–there is this handful of cute boys about town who are all up-and-coming singer/songwriter/musicians and who create a lot of buzz and who all seem to be friends with each other. Wertz is one of the more prominent ones. I was at a CD release party at the Exit/In for another one of them, Andy Davis, a few weeks back. He kicked tail, by the way.

About 3/4 of the way through the show, he started goofing around and launched into this crazy fun version of “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough,” complete with sunglasses and moonwalk. Matt Wertz (whom I didn’t know from Adam at the time, but who was instantly identified by my friend’s whispered exclamation, “oh my gosh, Matt Wertz!”) bounced onstage from the wings and the two of them finished the song together with the awkward energy of two giggling junior high boys.

Song:
My dear reader, you by now, possibly, have picked up on my reluctance to put myself in the position of reviewer. I can tell you nothing of production or lyrical quality–I can’t even always tell each instrument from the other. This will be my all-time disclaimer: anything I say in this portion of NPHH comes from a completely ignorant but experiential standpoint.

I like this song. As far as words, they’re not exactly Dylan or Lennon, but they’re nicely insightful, along the same lines as, perhaps, John Mayer’s quarter-life-crisis-inspired “Room for Squares” stuff. In the end, I may as well just admit that I have a thing for a cute boy with a nice voice saying sweet and sensitive things.

What I Really Want to Say, Whether It Has Anything to Do With the Song or Not:
Another “thing” I have is that I adore songs that mention states and cities. Don’t know why. Being from Tennessee, this one of course is good for that with the first line. Even beyond that, though, for some reason I have a fixation on North Carolina. I’ve only ever been there a handful of times, and it’s usually on the way to somewhere else. Maybe it’s because I was born not terribly far from the NC state line in Virginia, and if we want to take it even further back, my Scots-Irish ancestors actually settled in what is now NC for a while before eventually moving on to Alabama.

The thing about songs about the Carolinas is that you get this cool duality–is it about a chick or is it about the state? Most make it clear–I think this one is about a chick, for instance–but sometimes you don’t know.

Musically, I think the fixation began with “Carolina in My Mind” by James Taylor. I was in high school when I fell in love with JT. This was probably my favorite one of his. I’ve always dreamed of mountains, and “Carolina in My Mind” articulated that dreamy wistfulness for me.

The mother of all Carolina songs, though, and perhaps the mother of all songs of its genre, period (I’m not exaggerating!), is “Oh My Sweet Carolina” by Ryan Adams. To even attempt to express what that song did for me, and what it still does to me every single time I listen to it, would just be profane. Instead, I’ll tell you about the two times I saw him perform it, both times at the Ryman.

The first was October 14, 2002, during the infamous “Summer of ‘69″ fan-ejection concert. This was before the incident, in fact I think it was second or third on his setlist. To begin the show, the lone spotlight had pierced the darkness of the Mother Church to reveal Ryan, Gillian Welch, and Dave Rawlings alone onstage as they quietly murdered our hearts with “Tomorrow” from Ryan’s newly-released album “Demolition.” I remember how everyone was so still–which was a stark contrast to how it was going to be just a half hour or so later–and quiet, and how my little sister had never heard RA before but couldn’t help but utter an astonished “oh” after the line “…and they’re playing Waylon Jennings.”

Back to “Sweet Carolina.” Gently illuminated by Gill’s sublime harmonies in place of Emmylou’s heart-wrenching ones on the studio recording, Ryan’s voice proceeded sincerely with his paean to his home and his tired but accepting lament about the choices of his past. I don’t see how he does it–in fact, he doesn’t sing it live much anymore.

Of course, later in the show, he helped us all avoid despair by doing a version of the same song in a Cookie Monster voice.

Moving along, in August of last year, nearly four years later, I saw the guy again at the Ryman. For old times’ sake, I brought my sister again, as well as a couple of friends, one of whom had been at the ‘02 concert as well (but whom I didn’t know back then). I didn’t even hope for a performance of “Carolina,” as I knew it hadn’t been on recent setlists–in fact, I wasn’t exactly sure what to hope for, as Ryan can be erratic and even a bit ornery in his song choices.

What I got was radically different from the first time I’d seen him, but just as amazing. Backed by the stellar Cardinals, he pretty much ripped all of our faces off with psychedelic Grateful Dead covers, scorching renditions of early favorites such as “Shakedown on 9th Street,” and a seething performance of “Games,” which started off the wearily-beautiful country ballad that it is, but was interrupted by yet another lame frat guy throwing a beer bottle. Ryan started to shred the schmuck, but caught himself and wreaked a musical revenge instead, proceeding with a sneer and a wave as the dolt was escorted away. Perfectly, at that very moment, he reached the lyrics “you ain’t but a telegram nobody’s sending….” I get all shivery just thinking about it.

My highlight, of course, was the surprise of the evening. He’d been uneasy, you could tell, all evening, but then had a surprisingly un-cheeky moment, telling us that the next song was dedicated to his brother’s new baby and was one he’d written about our sister state. I froze as he began the full-band version of “Oh My Sweet Carolina,” which was 180 degrees away from the first time I’d seen him do it live, but again, just as moving. My friend, whom I really didn’t know at the time and whom I’d only met maybe a month before, turned around with wide eyes and a half-smile that said “can you believe this?!”

I’d never cried at a concert before. I thought of where I’d been the first time I’d heard the song. I remembered the friend who’d introduced me to Ryan and how jealous he’d been that I got to go see him in ‘02. I thought of how far away life had taken me from this friend, and how much had happened since that first concert. I thought of friends and family I’d shared the music with through the years. I thought of my star-crossed North Carolinian kindred spirit whom I’d had to let go just months before, who also loved Ryan. I wondered what he was doing and if I’d ever hear from him again. I even thought of Ryan himself, and what a lost soul he is, and as cliche as it sounds, how I wish I could show him meaning amidst the insanity that is his life, though I doubt he’d really want to give up the insanity; I wondered if he had to deal with his demons every time he sang the song or if he went on auto-pilot so as not to have to experience that depth every time.

In short, I wept. And it’s that kind of cleansing, that kind of truth and beauty, that I cannot put pen to, but that keeps me so possessed by music. No, the Matt Wertz song doesn’t do that for me, but it sure was a nice departure point in thinking of some songs that do.