Wood Brothers

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you something," I said, picking up a placard from the middle of the table.

"What? Be quiet?"

I set it down on the table and pointed to the bottom line.

"Please refrain from dancing."

She laughed, shaking her head.

"I don't know. Sometimes the music just gets to me and I have to dance."

I laughed as she frowned at me, raising an eyebrow.

"What? Why are you laughing?"

"Sheer joy at the thought of you dancing."

It's not that she didn't dance. She just said that she didn't dance and had said it for as long as I'd known her. Seven years or was it eight? Nine. Most of my adult life and through many of my very childish moments. She professed that she didn’t dance, but she loved music and I had seen her on a dance floor at least a dozen times. Of course, I'd also gotten her behind a microphone and neither one of us sang karaoke.

As it was, though, for once we followed the rules and refrained from dancing, sitting instead and swaying in our seats, through the opening act, Carsie Blanton. Through the headliners, The Wood Brothers.

Around us, people hooted and hollered. The men to my left shouted out unintelligible words and random nouns.

"One more!" they shouted, well before the end, before the men exited the stage and came back for an encore. "Chocolate!"

Onstage, the brothers grinned and bantered, shot puzzled looks at the crowd, sang the songs that they wanted to sings, songs that I knew without knowing quite when or how I'd learned them. Familiar and comforting. Some were new but not so different that I couldn't or wouldn't grin and sway. Tap my fingers on my knee, tap my foot on the floor, forget about everything for a while.

I would find myself staring at closed eyes and shimmering hair, worn spots on a bass, fingers sliding up and down the neck, over the frets, fingers plucking madly, and shake off the reverie, only to realize seconds later that I was doing it again.

My friend reached for a pen, a napkin, to take notes. Inspired to write by the music, the mood. She tore a page from my notebook and scribbled throughout the show. Mental notes filled my mind. Words overlapped the notes, underpinned the melody, meshed with the tunes and I couldn't really tell where the songs ended and my own thoughts began.

The keys jangling in a hand behind me – that was my thought. Wondering if and when the men to my left would shout "Freebird." That was mine, too. The desire to write came from someplace in between, to create, to photograph and draw, to write. To move. The music inspired me. The closed eyes and quick smiles. The soulful voices. The worn spots on the bass and fingers sliding up and down the neck, over the frets.

I wondered if we'd dance if they let us. If anybody would dance or if they'd just sit in their chairs and sway, hooting and hollering, calling out unintelligible words and random nouns. Jangling keys. I could almost picture it in my crowded mind, the dancing.

"I'm glad we did this," my friend said at the end. After the show. After the encore and the lights came up for real. "I forgot how much I liked them."

In the car, on the way home, we'd listen to Blanton's CD, which I bought between sets, and talk about the music. The show. Our lives.


Tag: Music