Like the daughter in “Taken” – I was pulled from comfort and confusion and placed in a shipping crate on my way to China (Sorry, didn’t exactly watch the movie, I’m guessing).
A night of Joan Osborne singing Bob Dylan songs.
She had me from the first G cord in “Spanish Harlem Incident” – She was singing for me — and maybe a few others at Troy Savings Bank Music Hall.
But mostly me.
Acoustic guitar – words of lavender and steel —– very intimate – it pulls you in – takes you away.
I was taken.
“Surround me so I can tell if I’m really real” It resonated – with power — the glory of being.
It’s just music — ok — if that’s all it is —- sometimes music is the background and sometimes the universe itself.
This was the second kind – spellbound – transfixed and transmitted — I was gone.
A little back story: My old music friend texted me to see if I like Joan Osborne – “she’s ok” I texted back [that opinion is vastly upgraded!] – I only knew the “one of us” song – which I like — I always feel like a stranger on the bus.
He had an extra ticket because his wife had a dog show/agility thing. So here I am, in the front row, — all awestruck and stuff – Thinking: how did I miss this artist? – how come my knowledge of Dylan music is so weak? – this is amazing.
I didn’t want to wait in line to get a record signed — I regret that – I didn’t buy any merchandise — I regret it because a week later this night of music still has a hold on me — not letting go. It won’t let go — it’s in my soul stirring things around – rearranging the furniture.
Joan Osborne was a bit upset with all the phones coming out to record and tweet – she asked people to just stop and enjoy a moment of connection – a moment in time that isn’t coming back —— she is right – we can experience a moment or we can destroy making it look like we are in the moment, pretending a better moment than all our friends – I didn’t take my phone out – nobody enjoyed the show more than me.
It’s not possible.
Thank you Joan Osborne, and thanks to scheduling conflicts with dog shows.
Martin Sexton was the headliner on this bill – the talent and technical ability completely off the charts — imagine Jimi Hendrix with a ukulele trapped in a Norman Rockwell painting. Dripping with nostalgia and finding salvation in the ordinary. Which I should love — but instead, couldn’t understand – I couldn’t come back to earth — Joan ruined me – I was ripped apart, I couldn’t put myself back together for coffee and peach pie (sorry, don’t remember if peach was one of the pie references – seemed like there were a few, with ice cream and all the other down home fixin’s). People ate this stuff up – it was a triumph of a performance – for all the rest of the place — but not me.
Like I don’t get Martin Sexton, I also don’t understand dog agility shows —- but I get passion for living – I get following your bliss to wherever it goes. Chasing a dog through a tube or singing about finding glory through perfectly toasted flapjacks — I respect the passion – And somehow, they played a part in a confluence of events the lead me to my own “Spanish Harlem Incident “.
Notes:
In defense of my tepid review of Marin Sexton —- his opening rendition of “America the Beautiful” (no mic) —- absolutely killer – and there were moments that he almost pulled me back to the ground – – a force of Americana ~ “Captain Americana?”
Cheers from the front row! — A new respect for Dylan and a Joan Osborne fan is born.
Driving to my open mic – doubt, fear, dread and all their little cousins are creeping in——– The stark realization that I may indeed suck – I may crash and burn – I may be a pathetic individual.
Living is the “doing of life” – it would be magical if every picture – every song – every word was pure inspiration — It’s not like that.
Cave of Fame 