Elixir

Music Moves Mountains(Non-fiction)

“Music is moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.” - Plato

Before a concert at Red Rocks in Golden, Colorado one evening, my wife and I met a young lady from Austin, Texas. While talking with her, she casually let us in on a secret. She told us she was convinced Red Rock’s Park was magical.

Within minutes, a light rain began to fall and a deep, dark, vibrant double-rainbow appeared out of nowhere. Our new friend walked over, tugged my arm and said, “See, I told you.”

She was right. The concert that evening by Trevor Hall was all kinds of magical.

It happened to be Father’s Day, and I was over thirteen hundred miles away from my only son who was in college at the time.

Mr. Hall brought his father out for the last song of the evening to play percussion. Standing between two mammoth boulders, watching a father and son play music together in one of the most ethereal venues on the planet went to work on my heart and my soul.

It took me right back to my front yard and my little boy.

One day, when my son was only a wee lad, I was riding my mower around snipping off a couple of inches or so of the weeds I refer to as grass, when the song, Harmony, by Corey Smith cycled through my headphones.

I remember stopping the mower under an old water oak to listen. I had heard the song on numerous occasions, but this time, with a view of my son playing on the porch in the background, it hit differently. He wasn’t even sure what music was at the time, but for some reason, the song struck me like a runaway freight train that day.

The line that mentions being born to play music, was resonating deeply. I kept looking back to my son. Hearing that song, at that time, had a profound affect on me. I just could not get over the part about music as destiny

The song also talks about jotting down notes on everything the writer sees for song ideas later on.

Oddly enough, I notice something interesting and worthy of transcribing in almost everything I do these days.

My adult son is a musician now, too. Music was his destiny. I could just feel it in my bones on that day so long ago.

That is magical.

Music imitating life. Life imitating music. How cool is that.

Music is life’s elixir.

It has the power to change lives, heal, bring peace, spark romance and even make animals dance.

It has been a part of my life from the very beginning. It is an influencer. It is my muse.

Music is so closely tied to my emotions that it can influence my moods, my demeanor. One song at the right time, can move my day in an entirely new direction. Music and my emotions are tight. They are best buds. They go together like, coffee and scones, sand and shells, smiles and happy and New Orleans and second lines.

I rarely listen to the music of my youth these days, but old songs like Elton John’s, Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me, Harry Chapin’s searing, Cats in the Cradle, and Fleetwood Mac’s poignant, Landslide, have always been utter soul stingers. They are all hauntingly pertinent now. The lyrics of those classic songs used to absolutely hammer my young soul. Now, they hammer the old one.

My family listens to music in some form or fashion every single day. Music, is what we do.

We have attended live shows from coast to coast. From, Jannus Live in St. Petersburg to The Tabernacle in Atlanta to B.B.King’s Blues club in Memphis to Denver’s Bluebird Theater to the Santa Barbara Bowl.

I have noticed lately, something new happening at the events I attend. My status seems to have been severely upgraded. Maybe it’s the gray in the beard, or the wrinkles in the skin, or the clothes on my back. I’m not really sure, but I am shown so much respect.

“You go ahead.” “No, you go ahead.”

“You were first.” “No, you were first.”

“Thank you.” “No, thank you.”

The deference boggles the mind.

And, the questions…

“Do you know if they have a lost and found?”

“Will they just cancel if it rains?”

“Are there any good restaurants around here?”

And, the always ubiquitous,“Do you happen to know where the restrooms are?”

Usually answered in the affirmative with, “Well, I should, I’ve been three times in the last hour.”

I’ve witnessed society change in so many ways over the course of my life. With apologies to Jerry Garcia, my sixty-two years on this planet really have been a long and very strange trip.

From Jackson Highway to The Jackson Five to Jack Black to Jack White.

From George Wallace to Barack Obama.

From Donald Duck to Donald Trump.

From water fountains to water bottles.

From pay phones to cell phones.

From fast-food to fast-casual.

From aspirin to CBD.

From alcohol dry counties to statewide legalized marijuana.

From hand-written letters to texting and E-mail.

From erasers to white-out to the delete key.

From show-and-tell to Facebook.

From old-school maps to Global Positioning Systems.

From county fairs to axe throwing, paint spewing and crash rooms.

From handshakes to high fives to fist bumps to chest bumps.

From plain old calisthenics to petting baby goats while hanging upside down yoga.

The times… they have most assuredly, been a changin’.

My wife Jodie, studied opera in college and she loves to sing. And, dance. She’s not hard to find at a show. She’s the one dancing… and, singing.

While we are momentarily on the topic of busting a move, I must admit, at times, my compatriots confuse me. By compatriots, I mean people of a similar age. By confusing, I mean, after observing my people at concerts over the years, it seems to me as if most of them dance like they are at absolute war with the rhythm.

Their groove is not very smooth. Their crunk is junk. They juke like they’ve had one too many joints.

I realize you lose some of your balance as you age, but you also lose some of your prior inhibitions. It’s great that you dance like you just don’t care, but please, for the sake of all of us, take the time to watch some videos or at least ask a kid to show you a few moves. It’s for the common good.

Sometimes, live music can maneuver its way so deep down into your soul, it will throw you off your game.

Years back, after attending a steamy concert at Lafayette Square in New Orleans, my wife decided to go on a search for a cold drink. While dawdling and wandering around the park I ran directly into vocalist Maggie Koerner, a singer from Baton Rouge who had just finished performing on stage with the Revivalists.

Maggie was minding her business and pushing her bicycle through the crowd when she looked up to find a strange man standing directly in her way. I must admit, I had a small crush on her at the time and was shocked to not only see her in the flesh but in my face.

I attempted to say, “Hey Maggie! That was a great show, I’m a big fan,” but in my sweat soaked stupor, it came out as a jumbled, undecipherable mess.

She stared at me like I was an alien.

To make matters worse, I then reached out and grabbed her hand and shook it up and down like a shake weight. She never offered the hand to me. I just took it.

As I watched her tiny hand disappear into my sweaty paw, I began to formulate the opinion that she would rather be anywhere else on earth at that moment than in that park staring at me.

Luckily for me, in one of the most perfectly timed arrivals in the history of awkward, my wife appeared out of nowhere and told Maggie, “Yeah, he’s generally harmless. He’s a huge fan of yours.”

Ms. Koerner, smiled at Jo while dropping my hand like a scalding hot potato, hopped on her bike, and pedaled warily off into the sultry New Orleans night.

“Struggling a bit there, weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes I was.”

“I think she could tell.”

My wife also has the ability to keep a calm demeanor in the face of adversity. A trait that escapes me at the worst of times.

We once ventured up into the mountains of North Carolina to attend the Burning Can Music and Bike Fest put on by the fine folks at Oskar Blues Brewing.

Our car’s engine decided to take a break just prior to the trip so we hustled down to the rental car facility. A mini van happened to be the last vehicle on the lot. I said, “No way! I’m not renting a mini van.” Jo said, “We’ll take it.”

The weekend was really rainy. Late in the afternoon of the second day, we were walking toward the parking lot and noticed the festival grounds were absolutely saturated. Numerous cars were getting stuck in the muck and the mire of the fields of grass that lay at the foot of those majestic mountains. The haphazardly strewn hay wasn’t really doing anything to allay the problem.

The van we were headed toward had a ground clearance of about 2 inches and I believe we both knew what was about to happen.

We took off, and made it a whopping 20 yards or so before we experienced a whiplash-inducing halt.

While standing there looking around the muddy parking lot, contemplating our next move, I saw a group of drenched and muddy hippies heading in our direction. The large pack of wet wooks were all smiling and laughing and telling jokes.

I tried to warn the free spirited beatniks of the mess they were about to get themselves into but the head hippie took one look at me and decided it was time to take over.

“No prob’ dude!”

He looked over at Jo and said the following words.

“Look, as soon as we get it moving, hammer down on that gas pedal and don’t let off until you get through the gate!”

I paused.

There were three things that had me worried about his quick, one person conversation.

One, the words, hammer down. Two, the all-of-a-sudden, tiny-looking gate looming in the distance, and three, Jodie’s suddenly huge and strangely sly grin.

Before I could even mount a mini protest, the horde of hippies piled in along the muddy bumper as I grabbed a spot over on the outside edge.

After a loudly shouted, “One-Two-Three” in unison, we pushed. The mud flew and the van rocked. All of a sudden, the tires caught a little earth and Jodie, obeying orders for once, absolutely hammered down.

What followed, for me, was ten seconds of complete anguish and abject fear, watching my wife fishtail through the muck, careening like a mad-woman toward the gate of freedom. A sizable throng of onlookers had even gathered to watch the maddening spectacle.

For a split-second, she was headed toward the gate post, and then seconds later, straight into the crowd of fun-seeking hooligans on the sidelines. My life, along with the life of every one of those rubberneckers, flashed before my very eyes.

Jodie though, playing to the crowd, executed a couple of moves I didn’t think were possible in a mini van and finally and mercifully flew sideways through the gate, throwing hay needles and mud rockets in every direction. The large mob of onlookers even showed their appreciation for her driving skills by shouting out a thundering round of “Hell-Yeah’s!”

After profusely thanking those pushy people, I made my way through the messy lot over to the van, where Jo was still wearing that big goofy grin.

“Damn! That was wild!”

“And, fun,” Jo added. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay… but, I’m driving.”

My wife always seems to be on the move. At times, I totally lose track of her.

I usually find her tending to the things she grows or walking through the woods or doing yoga or sitting in the music room fiddling with the bass.

Last week, during a light summer rain, I was on the hunt when I heard something bouncing. I headed outside to find her playing basketball, with our lab Dudley… in the rain. Watching from the cover of the porch, I was in absolute awe of their joy and also the veracity of my Lab’s rebounding abilities.

Just yesterday, I was sitting on the porch looking out at the world while wondering and pondering where my life was headed and where my wife happened to be, until I glanced up to see her streaming down the street on her bicycle, with her headphones in and her long blonde hair floating on the breeze, and I thought to myself…

What a Wonderful World.