“I am going to throw my clothes onstage,” I told Julia.
“Race you,” she said.
“I think I love him,” I told her.
“I’ll bet he’ll travel the world with you,” she said.
“I’ll bet he’s a fantastic campfire cook, too” I pointed out.
The gentleman in our crowd studiously avoided hearing any of this exchange.
I did not, in fact, remove any clothes, or rush the stage. I won’t even change clothes in public at yoga. I am not actually big on “naked” in public. I did swoon, though, more than once, at Dawes tonight. I hadn’t managed to listen to Dawes before the show; I even avoided it for the last week or so, on purpose. So many people had informed me lately that I would love Dawes that I knew it would be good, and I wanted to be surprised.
It was good.
I kind of needed it to be good. There are a couple of wide swaths of my life about which I don’t write much. This isn’t because I’m one to hold back a good story; it’s because some stories are not about me, and it’s not my place to tell them. One of those swaths is family, and the other one is work, and if I ever end up next to you at a cocktail party, I will tell you alllll about those things. The internet is not the place for that. And this comes from a girl who just discussed throwing her clothes onstage. All of this is to say, there were implosions this week, and explosions this week, and none of them were about me; they are more or less contained, and I am fundamentally unscathed, but I am exhausted.
In the best of situations, I’m not really that much fun at a concert. I want to be, but if the band is good, I become entranced, and I forget everything else that is happening around me, and I am lost in the music. Tonight, that was perfect, and I felt waves of music both lifting me up, and washing over me, and that was all that mattered.
It’s hard even to pick a favorite, because each song was better than the last, although I did love this one in particular:
The encore was a jaw-dropping, gorgeous, out-of-left field cover: Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes. I did not see that coming. My knees buckled. My weary soul turned itself liquid, and gently puddled on the floor of Cat’s Cradle, and then the music soothed it, and gathered it back up again, and put it all back where it belonged.