The Concert of a Lifetime
Let me preface this post by stating that this was directly inspired by Matthew Ebel's blog entry over here. The concept is his, but I liked his version so much that I couldn't stop thinking about what my own would look like. It's a writing exercise for my own enjoyment more than anything, and it's probably of interest to no one else besides me. But if you're curious about my musical interests, or even just bored, then go ahead and read below the cut. And thanks. :)
I was very young, so I can't say for sure when the show began... it seemed like it had always been. I don't remember exactly when I arrived, as time has dulled the details in my mind. I don't think I even paid real attention to the performers on stage at first; I was too distracted by everything else going on around. What I remember clearly was when the music first caught my attention.
The whole venue went dark, and a hush fell over the crowd until there was silence. Then a single spotlight appeared, and Billy Joel stepped through the curtain, smoking a cigarette and wearing oversized '80s glasses. Then five more spotlights appeared, to back up the first, and an a cappella quintet emerged and began to sing. The Piano Man lacked his usual instrument, but he joined in to sing with them anyway, and I was enraptured. I had no idea then the seed that was being sown.
As their voices faded and the six spotlights exited the stage, the curtain pulled back to find Stevie Wonder at his synthesizer, and he sang a song through the telephone. Then somehow Billy was back with his piano, and the duo dueled at their respective keyboards. Four British ghosts of a band from the past filled the spaces between with songs about yesterday and season's change.
Before too long, Billy and Stevie yielded the spotlight, and a new keyboardist emerged. Michael W. Smith spun songs about God and love and life as a whole, and I sang along as soon as I learned the words. The rap movement interrupted and three boys from D.C. named Toby, Mike and Kevin stormed the stage, but their urban beat got broken up before they had barely begun. A cappella music filled the speakers again, with a quartet of guys chasing Carmen Sandiego, but the chase was lost and they were soon gone. So Smitty returned for a while, until he picked Chris Rice, a fellow not unlike me, from the crowd. Chris' lyrics were true poetry set to music, and his talent captured my imagination even more than his mentor's had.
Suddenly I realized that a decade or more had passed, and I was nearly grown. I had changed, and so the music changed with me; the keyboard was shoved to one side, and the sound of rock guitars ripped through the air. Peter Furler jumped down from his rotating drum platform, stepped up to the mic and brought thunder from Down Under. Jars of Clay crossed the stage straight onto MTV, and Toby - the D.C. rapper from earlier in the evening - rediscovered his hip hop groove, much to my delight. Kevin returned from D.C., too, belting out songs he found in Europe. Caedmon's Call followed me from Houston, picked up Rich Mullins along the way, and brought to the show a more folkish flair.
Then, in an instant, the music died. Video screens showed the Twin Towers collapse. Everyone, even on stage, was stunned; the silence reigned for days, and no one knew if the song would ever start again. Finally John Ondrasik surfaced in New York with a piano of his own, and he sang a shattered song about a Superman with clipped wings. Rufus Wainwright, Loudon's son, followed with a broken benediction from Leonard Cohen, and God granted us all the strength to go on.
The Rockapella guys, now five strong, shed their sleuth coats and returned to help me find my voice. Then Creed stole the show and literally set the stage on fire. They played a song I'd never heard before, a song of doubt and hope, and nothing was the same thereafter.
Scott Stapp crucified himself on fame and drove his band away, so Jason Wade and Lifehouse stepped up to take their place. Switchfoot impressed my ears and eyes with their three-headed guitar attack, bringing Diego Rock to the fore. Relient K followed soon after, melding clever lyrics with musical maturity, and they held the stage, and my attention, for a long while.
Then Bono cast off his '90s costumes and auctioned a lemon-shaped spaceship on eBay to recapture the world's imagination, and mine along with it. Somehow it felt like he had always been there, and with him the British ghosts also returned. In their wake, a wave of other bands from the British Isles marched to the stage, including Snow Patrol, Coldplay and Keane. Daniel Bedingfield recorded a song in his Union Jack boxers, and America exiled him back across the pond, but his story encouraged me to try writing my own.
My attention was drawn from the stage when a girl in the crowd caught my eye, and before I realized what was happening, I had fallen in love right there at the show. Performers that had been on stage before seemed to take notice, and Chris Rice, Jason Wade and Matt Thiessen wrote songs just for us. Gary Lightbody sang about chasing cars as she walked towards me, and all the music took on a new meaning.
Then Mika came over from France with fun and Freddy Mercury. Kris Allen went on television and Dan Smith came from nowhere to give me pride in my new Arkansas home. Jared Leto formed a band from Mars that defied all of my conventions. And Adam Young inspired me with songs about sleep from his parents' Minnesota basement, then he closed with a hymn as the house darkened until only the single spotlight remained. Adam stepped down silently and left an empty mic standing there, and the spotlight turned to me.
I'm not saying that I deserve to be included in the conversation with any of those that came before - I don't. But this is the concert that I've heard, the road that I've traveled, and it's led me to this now. Everyone has their own show, their own inspirations, be they musical or otherwise. It's a gift to you. What are you going to do with it?
I was very young, so I can't say for sure when the show began... it seemed like it had always been. I don't remember exactly when I arrived, as time has dulled the details in my mind. I don't think I even paid real attention to the performers on stage at first; I was too distracted by everything else going on around. What I remember clearly was when the music first caught my attention.
The whole venue went dark, and a hush fell over the crowd until there was silence. Then a single spotlight appeared, and Billy Joel stepped through the curtain, smoking a cigarette and wearing oversized '80s glasses. Then five more spotlights appeared, to back up the first, and an a cappella quintet emerged and began to sing. The Piano Man lacked his usual instrument, but he joined in to sing with them anyway, and I was enraptured. I had no idea then the seed that was being sown.
As their voices faded and the six spotlights exited the stage, the curtain pulled back to find Stevie Wonder at his synthesizer, and he sang a song through the telephone. Then somehow Billy was back with his piano, and the duo dueled at their respective keyboards. Four British ghosts of a band from the past filled the spaces between with songs about yesterday and season's change.
Before too long, Billy and Stevie yielded the spotlight, and a new keyboardist emerged. Michael W. Smith spun songs about God and love and life as a whole, and I sang along as soon as I learned the words. The rap movement interrupted and three boys from D.C. named Toby, Mike and Kevin stormed the stage, but their urban beat got broken up before they had barely begun. A cappella music filled the speakers again, with a quartet of guys chasing Carmen Sandiego, but the chase was lost and they were soon gone. So Smitty returned for a while, until he picked Chris Rice, a fellow not unlike me, from the crowd. Chris' lyrics were true poetry set to music, and his talent captured my imagination even more than his mentor's had.
Suddenly I realized that a decade or more had passed, and I was nearly grown. I had changed, and so the music changed with me; the keyboard was shoved to one side, and the sound of rock guitars ripped through the air. Peter Furler jumped down from his rotating drum platform, stepped up to the mic and brought thunder from Down Under. Jars of Clay crossed the stage straight onto MTV, and Toby - the D.C. rapper from earlier in the evening - rediscovered his hip hop groove, much to my delight. Kevin returned from D.C., too, belting out songs he found in Europe. Caedmon's Call followed me from Houston, picked up Rich Mullins along the way, and brought to the show a more folkish flair.
Then, in an instant, the music died. Video screens showed the Twin Towers collapse. Everyone, even on stage, was stunned; the silence reigned for days, and no one knew if the song would ever start again. Finally John Ondrasik surfaced in New York with a piano of his own, and he sang a shattered song about a Superman with clipped wings. Rufus Wainwright, Loudon's son, followed with a broken benediction from Leonard Cohen, and God granted us all the strength to go on.
The Rockapella guys, now five strong, shed their sleuth coats and returned to help me find my voice. Then Creed stole the show and literally set the stage on fire. They played a song I'd never heard before, a song of doubt and hope, and nothing was the same thereafter.
Scott Stapp crucified himself on fame and drove his band away, so Jason Wade and Lifehouse stepped up to take their place. Switchfoot impressed my ears and eyes with their three-headed guitar attack, bringing Diego Rock to the fore. Relient K followed soon after, melding clever lyrics with musical maturity, and they held the stage, and my attention, for a long while.
Then Bono cast off his '90s costumes and auctioned a lemon-shaped spaceship on eBay to recapture the world's imagination, and mine along with it. Somehow it felt like he had always been there, and with him the British ghosts also returned. In their wake, a wave of other bands from the British Isles marched to the stage, including Snow Patrol, Coldplay and Keane. Daniel Bedingfield recorded a song in his Union Jack boxers, and America exiled him back across the pond, but his story encouraged me to try writing my own.
My attention was drawn from the stage when a girl in the crowd caught my eye, and before I realized what was happening, I had fallen in love right there at the show. Performers that had been on stage before seemed to take notice, and Chris Rice, Jason Wade and Matt Thiessen wrote songs just for us. Gary Lightbody sang about chasing cars as she walked towards me, and all the music took on a new meaning.
Then Mika came over from France with fun and Freddy Mercury. Kris Allen went on television and Dan Smith came from nowhere to give me pride in my new Arkansas home. Jared Leto formed a band from Mars that defied all of my conventions. And Adam Young inspired me with songs about sleep from his parents' Minnesota basement, then he closed with a hymn as the house darkened until only the single spotlight remained. Adam stepped down silently and left an empty mic standing there, and the spotlight turned to me.
I'm not saying that I deserve to be included in the conversation with any of those that came before - I don't. But this is the concert that I've heard, the road that I've traveled, and it's led me to this now. Everyone has their own show, their own inspirations, be they musical or otherwise. It's a gift to you. What are you going to do with it?