Walt Wilkins and Johnny Nicholas- -the guys everyone's talking about

The 307th show of Walt Wilkins & the Mystiqueros had the Saxon pub packed. I heard the house was always packed for Walt- -especially if Johnny Nicholas was around too.

Walt Wilkins sings at the Saxon 

Right away, I got the message. I was about to hear a legend or two, this evening.

Inside the set, I heard a little bit of country, a little bit of soul, a little bit of rebel rock and a little bit of God in every beat. The messages in the songs unwrapped deeper meaning with twists of hard knock and safety and the rugged journey of the in-between.

It was the mess that made the story worth telling.

There was The Trains I Missed song (written by Walt, Gilles Godard and Nicole Witt) a hefty song that got me in the doors, but then every other song wouldn't let me leave my seat.

Johnny Nicholas and Walt Wilkins

Walt sang, "And I pushed on every chance. I searched far and wide trying to crawl out of God's hands. There were stones I didn't throw and hearts I did not break. And a little hope that I held onto with each silver shining thread of faith."

The rugged lyrics spoke of a spiritual journey and a realization that there was something bigger in control- -that sense of surrender after the fight. Walt sang, "Here's to the things that I believe - -Bigger than me and the moments I find myself right where I wanna be."

The lyrics were a validation of life and love and the pursuit of forgiving and having the courage to shake it off.

The performance was a country rock-n-roll amen.

And, every other song in the set hit me about the same way.

We were lucky last night, another gig wasn't scheduled so Walt just kept playing.

And, the cake for the evening was when Johnny Nicholas shared the stage for a bit.  Johnny was just as cool as everyone had said he was. "We just will never be that cool . . ." Walt said as he serenaded Johnny's exit with an emotional bow.

A few months ago, I had minor surgery. The anesthesiologist talked a lot about music. For him, patient care was about connecting through music. He didn't mention Elvis, or even Willie. He said Walt was his hometown music hero.

I left the Saxon glad that I had seen the show- -somehow reborn.

I saw what the doctor and everyone else had been talking about. I was a little late, but for me, it was right on time.

Walt Wilkins & the Mystiqueros includes Ray Rodriguez, Bill Small, Corby Schaub, Jimmy Daddy, Ron Flynt, Bart de Win and Tina Wilkins (not all pictured here).

Tomar & the FCs Light up the Night

Tomar Williams

Tomar and the FCs were nothing short of fabulous Saturday night at Threadgill's World Headquarters.

Tomar, opening up the gig dressed to the nines, was all-in. Dancing like a rocket across the floor, he tore up the 90 degree Austin evening stage- -moving as if the floor was on fire.

Midway, he ditched his dazzling duds and glasses and showed some muscle.  Leading the pack with grooving moves, Tomar was as animated as Mick Jagger and as soulful as Otis- -The King of Soul himself.

The FCs grooved with the grip and grit of a Southern church choir. It was the kind of music that sticks with the soul- -nourishing and pow-fully surprising.  The lyrics were rich, and the music was laced with James Brown get-on-up-ness.

Between whirlwind moves, and the band's pow, Tomar connected with hand shakes and messages of hope. He said, "We all have those days . .  .  at work, with the boss . . ." He had audiences nodding and amen-ing. As he reached for us, we reached right back.

There was something else about his spirit too- -he carried an unbending faith in his song. While he was all-in, we were drawn in too. The music, the message, the groove, all in that moment, we were part of his story as he was a part of our's.

An inspired musician friend of mine described the performance, "He's hitting it!"

He was right. Tomar and the FCs nailed every note.

Tomar & the FCs light up Threadgill's
Tomar Williams-Vocals
David Earl-Organ
Mitch Fischels-Bass
Andy Tenberg-Guitar
Paul Kresowik-Drums

Bruce Robison--a Back Porch conversation

About five minutes into Hayes Carll's show, Bruce Robison, walked onto the Saxon Pub stage. Robison was Hayes' guest. And, his entrance was more than memorable.

Laughing about his "Mister Rogers' entrance," Robison's cowboy hat, with just a few inches of door headroom left, it looked more like a cowboy saloon entrance.

In striking contrast to his heroic entrance, Robison's humble and down-to-earth demeanor didn't give away that he'd roped in hit songs for the Dixie Chicks, George Strait, and Tim McGraw, to name a few.

Bruce Robison

When Robison talked about his love for songwriting and getting great songs to the right people, it sounded like woodworking for hours and then finding a way to get the unique creation to the perfect parent.

Robison said he originally didn't intend on singing his songs; it was a way to get the songs out.

Though, when he sang, it was much more than presenting a song.

Every word was dripping with emotional relevance. Every detail was carved just right. Nothing was wasted.

His songwriting voice was the kind of feeling where things last because they were made the right way from the get-go.

His voice was a hug from a friend from a long time ago.

Before his set, he wondered out loud about calling his music "country." He discussed the changes in music today. In a world where many musicians were going for over-the-top, he was reaching toward a more simple strum.

Carll said Robison's new "Back Porch Band" album was true to that simple feeling. He said the album was that simple joy of friends coming together to do what they love.

From the few songs Robison shared in the set, I felt immediately connected to that front porch friend gathering.

And, when Robison left the stage, it was the same let-down feeling felt when Mister Rogers' guests leave. I wanted to call out, "Wait! . . . Wait . . . too soon. Don't go yet!"

And, I was really glad Bruce was invited to our neighborhood.

Shawn Pander: Everything good about music

After hearing Shawn Pander on Sun Radio, I felt the tug to hear more. I was curious if seeing him live would be worth the drive. It was.

Pushed is the word that comes to mind. Every word is pow- -lyrically smooth, radiantly emotional.

Shawn wasn't much for stories between songs. But, the stories weaved inside were wildly willing.

His eyes under shade, I got the feeling he was pulling the words from a vault deep inside.

Shawn Pander

Around the middle of his set, he let go a little more. He bowed just slightly. It was more than physical.

Lacing lyrics with emotional serenade, Pander's words pushed details captured mostly in candid filmstrips.

Like the story in a bridal hemline dusted with dirt after the first dance, his lyrics exhaled subtle imprints not soon forgotten.

His reconstruction of a Nine Inch Nails song was a beautiful rich blast. Now, like an "animal," I want that song.

His lyrics were refreshingly relatable. He sang, "Smiling like a kid just out of school (What a Beautiful Life)."

He sang, "You deserve a much smoother ride . . . . .  every single star that it holds shines in the night. . . . every little piece of me, loves every little single thing about you" (Just to Be With You).

In a world where more and more musicians seem packaged, very few ring true. Shawn was not at all like these. He was, in fact, everything good about good music.

Every lyric. Every note. Every strum. I loved "Every little single thing."

Langhorne Slim. The best since Otis Redding.

Langhorne Slim

Langhorne Slim, he's a different kind of artist soul. Charcoal graveled cheeks, crooked hat, dark brooding eyes and tattoo-covered arms, I think he might be the most recklessly brave musician I have ever encountered.

With Slim, it isn't just a performance, it's a diary sung from the gut.

He's the best since Otis Redding. 

I've seen him at Luck and in Austin this week, big crowds or intimate affair, the pulse was the same: Very little breathing room. Audiences anchored in his space. Hearts tangled up wildly inside his lyrical maze.

His lyrics grieved change, spill-over worries and pain. No word left his lips without a hard shake. When he sung, he took off all the layers. Completely vulnerable, he infused lyrics with life. He made rocks orgasmic.

I wondered why he wasn't ragged from leaving it all on stage. But, then, I saw him smile and I understood.

After Austin's show, he said that he may not be a rich man, but in doing what he loves, he "is rich in many ways."

He left us feeling pretty rich too.

The Resentments: unpolished perfection

Miles Zuniga 

Every time I've watched The Resentments, it's the same feeling that reflects from that Saxon Pub wooden plated stage. 

It's a feeling of stepping into the living room space of a long-time friend. It's this feeling that I just have to pull up a chair and hang out for awhile.

And, all around me are audiences packed elbow to elbow, yet there always seems to be room to make more room, and, of course, more room to dance.

And, I believe this group can play anything. They write their own music together and apart. They cover covers with a sense of special blessing twists. But, the thing that captivates me- -floors me actually, is how they weave their talents together.

When The Resentments hit their stride, it's like approaching a sky full of stars and knowing you'll never be able to grab them all at once.

 Bruce Hughes, Scrappy Jud Newcomb, John Chipman, Miles Zuniga & Jeff Plankenhorn

Radiating from the stage, there’s this sort of respectful musical bow. Individually, the musicians are talented. Together, these musicians glide. Bound by their work, they are intertwined by this common cosmic creative force. 

And, this musical magic spills downstage too- -blurring the lines between performer and observer. 

The most obvious observation thrill comes in watching the audience in full-gear tuned-in wrapped up in contagious joy.

Bruce Hughes

And, every time I leave a performance, I remember- -plated in my head- -the strength that comes from doing what you love- -together.  

And, despite my die-hard white-girl-don't-dance inhibitions, I leave knowing, I've lost a few calories dusting up the dirt on those unpolished Saxon Pub concrete floors. 

And, I leave knowing, I'll be back. 

For the Love of Willie

Willie Nelson sings at Luck's Revival stage

Willie's Luck Reunion was a rejuvenating optimistic world- -a delightful time warp of rustic retro fashion with characters that claimed the stage and my heart at the same time.

The messages the musicians told between the lyrics were gripping. Seeing musicians like The Wild Reeds perform blasted me with a take-no-crap kind-of ammunition.

Boot waltzing into Luck's gravel road led me along the courts of The Texas Gentlemen, Langhorne Slim, Paul Thorn & the McCrary Sisters, Aaron Lee Tasjan, Andrew Combs and many more rings of talent.

The Wild Reeds

With a variety of acts to see at Luck Reunion, there seemed to be as much diversity intwined as there was a sense of celebrated soul. At Luck, it was less about the flair and more about the lyrics spilling out on stage.

The most engaging part about Luck Reunion were these stripped down rawly real performances.

Langhorne Slim on the chapel stage was uniquely unscripted. Just a man and his guitar was enough. He sang about his grandfather's legacy. He sang about love.

Slim's words were as inviting as a wooden pier welcoming a sunset's boast.

Langhorne Slim

Of course, there was some dazzle. When Aaron Lee Tasjan's star-stamped suit took the stage, he was a live wire. And audiences appreciated the glare for sure. His daringly daunting confidence weaved through his music with charismatic flair.

But, nothing compared to the moment when Willie Nelson took the stage.

First, Trigger made his entrance. From that point on, the audience's hearts started to thump loudly.

And, when Willie began to sing, audiences reacted in instant glee confetti.

Everyone wanted to be as close to Willie as possible. At one point the lady behind me pushed me in so hard that it felt a little like the WWF.

I reminded myself to keep a sense of humor and remembered she'd lost her wits mostly due to her love for Willie.

Along the row of the Bourbon lounge, there were rivers of authentic and homemade trinkets. Luck was a place not overrun with capital glam. Shirts were made of hand-pressed ink. Rings were hammered out by sweat and smiles. And the food trucks included every kind of local taste imaginable.

The Slab BBQ was so good that I wanted to talk to the sandwich. And, the people behind the counter were equally enchanted with their work.

There were free drinks at Luck, perhaps that may have been a draw, but the free water was a pretty big gift too.

Willie and Trigger

Hiding away on the stairs behind the saloon, I met the water vendor. His pride to serve Willie was obvious. He, like the rest of the service crew, may have been serving long days, but his joy in being on Willie's grounds was untamed.

I thanked him for bringing the water. I told him it had kept me strong as I served too with all of my heart.

He asked if he could share my bench. He was a stranger, but it felt like we were already friends.

I said, "I have to tell you this terribly embarrassing story. I was standing on a staircase in the saloon. And as I tried to step down, my boots stuck to the stairs. I fell down hard.

"An older gentleman caught me and I am pretty sure he thought I had had too much to drink.

He laughed and said, "You're gonna feel that tomorrow!"

I said "Yeah, and I think I came pretty close to feeling more of the stranger than I wanted too . . . you can't unfeel that memory!"

The Texas Gentlemen

After nearly tearful laughs, we left each other's presence rejuvenated.

At the close of the Lucky adventure, I saw that I had walked nine miles in two days. I had taken more than 600 photos. And, it's not that the grounds were large, it's that under every branch, there was something new to discover.

Moving pews from the chapel

This year's Luck adventure felt deeper too because I had the honor to serve as part of the crew. I got to watch talented people weave together every detail.

I learned there were more than 400 people who contributed. And, a central crew of 100 worked all year to put things together piece by piece.

Among those who planned the details were local heroes like EMS, police crew, a variety of creative people, vendors and music enthusiasts.

Luck, Texas

The most poignant realization was that no one ever said, "That's not my job." Volunteers helped direct traffic. Volunteers ran food to the musicians. Volunteers helped to keep the grounds clean.

One of the Lucky residents

Leaving Luck, I realized that the people, the family, the crew, the love behind-the-scenes- - had engulfed me.  I was contagiously happy.

I left rich with bark-filled boots dusted in authentic music memories.

With so much unrest in the world these days, Luck Reunion had reminded me about the power of unity, the healing impact of music, and the exquisite kindness of a horse's smile.

A few Luck memories

Jackie Venson: a woman in love with her guitar

Jackie Venson rocks Threadgill's

All smiles, Jackie Venson's giddy joy radiated across Threadgill's Friday night.

Venson's performance was a delightful power-packed engaging experience with inspired charisma.

Her music, with an almost-jazz-meets-blues feel, was laced with a rock-in-roll guitar engine.  And, Venson, clearly,  was charged on her own terms.

She said she tries to date, but then the men in her life get jealous.

She explained she spends a lot of time with her first love- -her guitar.

She smiled widely, looked up, and hugged her instrument even closer to her body.

Venson, 27, said she had a love for learning her craft and keeping the way clear for women.

Venson joyfully celebrated that things had changed. She said her grandmother, now 93, lived in a different world. Her grandmother, when she was young, had trouble finding a job because of "these things!" Venson laughed and pointed to her breasts and other lady parts.

Venson paused triumphantly, smiled and said, "But . . . Look at me now!!!" Then, she rocked the stage with a magical guitar melody.

Venson had a way of creating the kind of peaceful music melody that brought audiences together. She sang how we were all one; she said her troubles were our troubles. And, in troubled times we could all walk as one.

Rocking the stage, Venson grabbed our hearts, challenged us and faithfully kept our attention.

Words Come to Life

Last year, I helped craft a book with Robert Schneider. The book celebrates what it was like to raise a rock star- -Bob Jr. He also details living life as an entertainer.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/bob-schneider-sr/father-of-a-rockstar/paperback/product-23034186.html

For about a year, he mentioned wanting to write a book. And, I bugged him about it enough too. He had an idea, and he was working on it. But, it wasn't complete. He mentioned it a time or two after teaching my son music on Tuesday nights.

Michael & Bob

Bob was good with my son. My son is stubborn. One evening, my son sang a Beatles' song with Bob and then he had the audacity to tell Bob, "You're not singing it right." Bob smirked and said, "I've been singing this song for forty years!" Then, my son straightened up and went back to strumming.

Michael and Bob got along well like this. Both of them had their own ways of doing things. Their stubborn tendencies seemed to complement each other well.

Bob lived two streets away from our house. It was fun to watch him park on our hill. Then, he'd grab his guitar and he couldn't wait to begin playing. He'd serenade Michael and I as we waited for him on our front porch. The music lesson would begin there.

Sometimes, we'd end up at the piano. I'd play a bit. Bob would strum the guitar. Michael would play and we'd end up singing a bit. Less me singing and more Bob and Michael.

My favorite song to hear them sing together was "Stand by Me."

First Impressions
Once Bob mentioned he was working on a book. Since I love bios, my ears perked up. He said he'd been working on it. And, knowing I'm a writer, he asked if I'd take a look at it.

I thought it sounded like fun. I love to hear stories. And, I knew he'd traveled the world. From the looks of his music room where Michael had his first music lesson, I could see he had performed all over the place. The photos of him playing different characters intrigued me.

Bob & Michael waking up the neighbors

My first impression of Bob was that he was a little rough around the edges. I liked that. He was passionate about his music. And, he was stubborn about his craft. I liked that too.

I liked that all of the pictures on the walls were not hung up in expensive frames. They were simply let's-remember-this-moment frames. After the first lesson, I asked about the stories hanging on the walls. Bob shared each story as if it had happened the day before.

Weeks passed, and when I'd share about my son's music lesson, the neighbors all knew Bob. Of course, they'd first mention that he was "Bob Schneider's dad." I asked, "Who?" Then, they'd laugh at me.

It turned out the "Bobby" Bob mentioned on our first visit was this big deal Austin musician. I didn't think too much of it.

Bob jr. not holding back

A few music lessons later, I looked up and noticed pictures on Bob's walls showing a timeline of growing grandchildren and beautiful pictures of his son growing up. These memories were inches away from his performance picture trophies.

Becoming a fan
Watching Bob's eyes light up when he talked about his son, and hearing all this stuff from fans, got to me. I finally see a show.  I think he's not bad. And, about three shows later, I realize I had become a major fan.

While looking at the newspaper clips framed on Bob's walls, I feel like I should confess. I get what everyone is talking about now.

I say, "Hey, so I saw your son play for the first time a few months ago . . . I liked him."

Bob looks up, smiles, and continues with the music lesson.

Bob Schneider jr. at the Saxon Pub

Not wanting our relationship to change, I was trapped between feeling major enthusiasm for his son's work and just realizing who I was hanging out with on Tuesday nights. This rugged music teacher with so many around-the-world music stories, was now also the father of my favorite musician.

Let's do this
Months pass and I mention the book to Bob again. He said, "Yeah, I've done a draft or two. I'll send you a draft." Three months pass. He says, "Yeah, I'll send you a draft. We'll work on it."

Six months pass and then, before he leaves one day, I just tell him boldly on my front porch,  "Hey. So I know I need to move. I have to move. But, I've been dragging my feet to move because I want to finish this book with you. Let's finish this book!"

He stops. He looks down. He looks back up. He says, "I'll send it to you."

He sends me the work. And we work on it through email. I remember my husband telling me, "Let's go to dinner . . . kids are waiting." And, I'd be editing Bob's work. And, I'd have to be dragged away from my computer.

But, then what a real joy for me to have the first drafts of something. I can say I was a part of that. I read the story when it was being created. I saw the pictures first. I encouraged the author to just keep going.  And, he trusted me to help him, which was an honor I grew to appreciate too.

And, through that experience, I grew to learn about my favorite Austin musician as well.

The book comes to life
Last summer, the book was published. The book celebrates what it was like to raise a rock star- -Bob Jr. He also details living life as an entertainer.

I heard stories about his family, the loss of his mother, and the moment he met his wife. The story details his wedding, their musical lives, traveling and moments striving to pay the rent and living in very close quarters to make life work. It wasn't easy.

He wanted to follow his dream, and that dream came with a cost. It didn't always mean success, but when there was success, the open doors were celebrated.

Celebration might mean that the whole family stood cheering on his bride while she powered through a German typing test to support the family. Or, when the family got the call that they'd have a way to entertain overseas. And, it wasn't too long when his own music inspired his son's journey too.

And, he admits he wasn't perfect. His adventures detail honest reflection and triumph; he writes about being sober since 1999 and shares he wasn't always the husband or father he needed to be.

Sometimes life brings strange connections. I found as I was listening to Bob's story, he was changing mine.

Last night, I dreamed that I was with Bob and we were driving along a high winding road stories tall. I looked over and saw the ground was more than 100 feet below us. I saw the winding roads and I was scared, much like the way I felt like last night coming home in fog so dense I got lost near a corn field a mile from my house.

In the dream, Bob stopped driving, he pulled over and gave me the wheel. I looked around and saw that he had driven the car around a sharp corner and then, when he didn't see the bridge, he knew when to break and when to accelerate so he could make the jump.

A winding path between Bob Sr.'s house and mine

He said, "Go for it! Stop worrying. Just go for it already!"

Like everything else he strived for, if it didn't work, he just kept trying. When he finished an adventure, he went for another one. If someone blew him off, he just banged on another door.

Like in Bob's story, I learned not to let others' limits limit me.

I learned not to be afraid of what might not happen, but to look for what can happen when the road suddenly appears.

And, when it does, by all means, claim it with unyielding confidence.

Sting, Joe Sumner & The Last Bandoleros take on Austin

Sting finally came back to Austin. I hadn't seen him play since he took the show to Houston. He sang with his buddy Paul Simon. Even in the nose-bleed seats, it was an amazing show. I remember last minute I called a friend, begged to stay on her couch, and I drove three hours. Spent $40.  Completely worth it.

This time, tickets weren't cheap. One ticket cost two days of teacher pay. And, a sitter on top of that. Too much. This meant going alone. So, I was thinking GA seats, but this meant plenty of room to stand, and of course, dance.

The adventure of going alone started with navigating the city, parking meters, and the wonder of taking it all in--alone. 

But, going solo wasn't so bad. The quiet walk alone opened up the story in another way. 

I loved the sound of my boots on the pavement and watching the glow of the silhouetted stick figure lure me across the street.

For a few blocks, the city felt like it was my escort. 

The downtown Austin streets were noisy and wonderful. I turned the corner and found pebble stones of treasure awaiting me. I see the tour buses. They're here - -the troops of musicians. We are sharing the same space. I don't want to be anywhere else.

I see the parked spaces where the roadies have backed up. Roadies are unloading speakers and black boxes with white labels. They don't seem too caught up in the magic. Yet, they are lighting up the night one box at a time.They are creating this sacred place. It all starts with a drive, a few hundred boxes, and lots of muscle.

I think about how I've prepped for the evening's hike. I consulted my music guru. He is my know-it-all music dude. He said with "Sting's crowd" they will come fashionably late. He is referring to the more mature audience.

I get in the door entry line at 4:30. It's two hours before doors open and four hours before the show. When I get there, there's a line of about 20 in front of me. Apparently, I wasn't the only fan to show up with the same plan.

And, I look around me, I'm still one of the youngest fans who's not bringing a teenager to tag along. I'm Joe Sumner's age.

I look at the guests' feet. Lots of New Balance shoes and those who describe themselves as "dressed for comfort." This group came with ponchos, umbrellas, extra crackers and water.

It was interesting too to see the two kinds of people waiting. There were those in GA "cheap seats" and those there for the pricier sound check.

When their line was called, the sparkle sound check kids rose up adjusting their invisible-we-own-this-kingdom-cloaks. They filed in ahead of us while we watched- -some of us pouting.

To soothe myself, I crowded my brain with humor.  I counted the amount of tight leather pants and glowing sparkling boobs.

Then, I got distracted thinking about Ross and how he got stuck in the bathroom in that episode of Friends. Baby powder. How can this generation wear leather pants knowing what happened to Ross?

Time fades into the next hour and I watch the streets.  I watch a ticket scalper looking for bait.

I watch the man in front me with the short wet mullet and tan leather dress shoes sit on the bench. He had propped up his feet showing off his striped brown khaki socks. I think he's looking for an extra ticket. I don't understand his 70s Miami Vice shirt. I am trying to give him credit.

The economics teacher next to me plays Candy Crush and his wife shares their adoption story. She tells me about her son's journey home. And, I hear about new schools in the area and stories about living near downtown Austin.

I also hear the flat tire story on the day they met their son. I hear about their son's life, strengths, and struggles. I hear that he is the most precious part of their lives.

We talk about employment, retirement, high school teaching quirks and Sting concerts we've attended in the past. Economics says he passed up a chance to see Joan Jett way back when. And, he missed The Police. He said he didn't know what he was missing in 1977.

I say I was born in 1977.

I talk about Sting's book and how he was an English teacher. I admit I've tried to weave in imagery from his text in class like a true Sting nerd.

Economics reminds me Sting was an English teacher too.

I said, "Yeah and he hated it."

I want to share my favorite cruise ship part of the book. Sting is young and the crew director makes fun of his shoes. It's as if he's not quite up to professional grade because his shoes don't sparkle. It's an interesting measure of how looks can contrast confidence. Sting was ready. He was doing his thing and then he was being cut down because of his age and an assumed lack of experience.

But, I didn't share that. Instead we talk about Tina Fey.

I meet these amazing ladies next to me. They have driven from San Antonio to be there. We exchange concert stories, travel stories and career lineups. I ask if they are BFF. Misty says they are married. Misty laughs the entire time. I don't know why she thinks everything I say is funny. But their partnership in this adventure keeps me safe. They save my space in line later so I can finally use the ladies' room and get water for our thirsty crew.

Two hours of talks later, we are wanded and led up the tiled staircase to finally get to the floor.

We join the sparkle kids. We are forced to straddle their fan gear and their BBQ sandwiches. They are sitting on the floor with their backs against the edge of the stage claiming their spots. The GA group that has joined them haven't eaten, peed, drank a sip in four hours and the smell of food is a bit like hazing. They eat like kings and queens in front of us. Even as these four take up space enough for eight, we are standing still. We are hungry. Tired. Done. But, just as eager to be there even if we don't have the sparkly red bags and disks tied around our necks.

At least two sparkle kids say aloud, "Well if I get down on the floor, I can't get back up.." And, most sit there for at least an hour.  It's a bit awkward to have them sitting beneath our knees while they sunbathe in the stage light glow.

We wait and wait some more and then the show is being set up. Finally. I see my high school friend. He is looking for me just as I am looking for him and his wife. I just happen to look right. He pushed his way up front to the bouncers to come say hello.

I reached up and said, "Hey friend!" I don't even think about the sparkle bosses. And, JUST as I was about to continue talking, one of the BBQ ladies starts yelling at me. She's wailing on me full force. She's beating me up with her words. She's waving her finger in front of my nose to scold me saying, "NO!" as if I am a child and she's this bossy grouchy bear.  She was suddenly paranoid I was taking her place.

I looked at her and said, "This is my friend. From high school. This is a big moment.  I am JUST saying hello . . . NOT taking your place!!!"  I beg off. Make it a quick hello. I only see the guy once a year or so. But this bear is breathing down my neck. I was hoping if she'd known this was my friend of twenty years, she'd back off. But, no prize.

I find my place back in my old spot about 6 inches away. Bossy bear straightened her nose and unruffled her feathers.

Then, the lights part and the audience exhales. Sting walks up like he's part of the stage crew.

As casually as if he was walking into our kitchens for afternoon English tea, he is there. It was this casual no-ego hello. No grand gestures. No loud lights or drama- -just him and a guitar.

It was this graceful entry gesture bow that made standing for four solid hours feel like no time at all.

Then, he introduced the opening band and gave great props to a musician he'd "known his entire life," his son Joe.

This is my seventh Sting concert. I've seen him with Annie Lennox, The Police, with Jonny Lang and then some, but this show was different.

Sting was more reserved and more the family man. The three bands had their own time to shine, but throughout the show, they were all sharing the stage as one band.

Sting played the tambourine, sang back up, and all performed like a traveling family. It was like we were watching their private get-together music time.

Sting played a few of the older classics, some off his new rock series and kept us dancing and e-oying.

And, he stopped plenty to listen to us sing with him. He reflected on that experience more in this concert. He also shared that it was meaningful that we knew all of the words. He said he didn't take that for granted.

When he sang Walking on the Moon, I thought about how I'd read about Sting being in the hospital after his wife gave birth. One of the attendants was walking down the hall humming this song as a serenade.

Beyond this reflective perspective, I loved watching Sting's son sing with The Last Bandoleros. And, I loved seeing Dominic Miller's son Rufus. Sting laughed and mentioned that with Rufus along, now he had backup in case Dominic leaves. He said, "You never know."

Sharing a mic at times, Joe and The Last Bandoleros sang together laughing like a band of brothers. It didn't feel like a formula performance. It was an all-in-two-way love fest- -audience and performer.

Considering the audience, and the way bossy bear lady treated me, I know I am a generation behind most of Sting's fans. I discovered his music in the early nineties. I was a freshman in high school. And, I couldn't get enough.

But, with the amount of loyalty this sparkle crew took with planting themselves on the floor in strike for spaces, I wonder if they could be more loyal to the musician and the man behind the show.

Maybe it's just me, but I feel like the musician appreciates me too when I put down my phone and bless him back by just listening with my arms down.

There were women watching the show, but not really watching the show. The Liza Minnelli look alike with parachute dress pants flashed the I love you sign every four minutes or so.

That was sweet. But, the thing is, twenty minutes prior, the guards reminded us face-to-face to respect the performer. The guard asked for no flash photos and no recording, but Liza, along with about three others, were on the front row recording more of the show than they were watching.


It made me angry because I came to see the show, not watch the show through their glowing Iphone lenses and triangle arms.

I don't mind the pictures, but recording full songs and eventually three-fourths of the show, just seemed like they were robbing the artist. I mean, if you spent $250 or more to see the person live, why not enjoy the person live?

I thoroughly enjoyed the live show because it felt like an informal family venture. Watching Sting sing his son's original lyrics, and watching him watch his son play was, of course, moving. Sting would sneak away in a careful bow and then sneak back on stage romancing the moment.

True to the last six concerts, he had two encore songs. But, this time, he closed the concert in the same way he started it with just an acoustic guitar and a chair. He told the story about a journalist fighting for the truth and losing his life. He talked about the empty chair, how a family must have grieved, and the bravery of the writing soldier standing up courageously with words. The room quiet, he said he wanted to leave us with something thought-provoking.

He entered back a final time to take a bow with his musical family. It was sweet, rich and relevant.

It felt like it was his first performance on tour. I saw the true warmth in the the eyes of the performers. They were giddy to be there- -as giddy as we were to have them there in our courts.

And the lights went down. The fans scattered. Concrete posts were abandoned- -their beloved spots suddenly worth nothing.

I hung around a bit to say hello to my high school friend and his wife. He was a roadie for Sting a few years back. He was enjoying watching the show from an audience's perspective. It was neat to watch him hugging sound buddies and sharing stories like no time had passed.

Now, the stage lights were off. The boxes were being packed.

I left the room and ran into my San Antonio line lady friends smiling with a copy of the song list. I took a quick picture and headed out the doors. They chimed "Bye! So glad to meet you! Be careful!" Seven hours together standing we'd become like family members too.

I left walking down the stairs in the drizzling rain. I knew we were about to be pounded. In just a few moments the weather radar would scream tornado alerts. Our contractor would lose his roof.

But, for now, it was quiet. just a few drops of rain hit my cheeks. I took a moment to say goodbye to the Willie statue. I looked around at the fans holding hands crossing the streets. Tired and wet, they were racing to their cars.

I passed a fancy hotel. I passed people walking dogs. I lingered near the tour buses snuggled up inside the curbed spaces. The buses looked like they were napping.

I saw the big red trucks loading up equipment just as quickly as they'd unloaded them four hours before. I looked down the lit garage and saw the no-video bouncer. I smiled.

I left alone, yet, I didn't feel alone. I was singing Every Breath You Take and humming a serenade to the roadie troops.  I saluted the muscle men with a smile as they loaded the truck for the next show. I wondered about the next place all of those boxes would land. I thought about the lines of stranger families that would be waiting in the next city.

I took my time to cross that scene. It was a lot of magic to leave behind. I followed the glowing stick figure back to my car. I saw impatient rain drops plopping on the dusty windshield.

I started the car and wondered what concert story Economics would tell his son. I wondered if my lady line friends would make it back to San Antonio safely. . . I hope they do.