Rock On! - A Concert-Going Memoir

Despite the fact that it has been awhile since I have posted anything, and the fact that right now I have a hundred different thoughts all doing a rain dance inside my head, I want to go in a different direct on this post. Besides, most of my thoughts right now are so muddled and jumbled and un-fleshed out that to spill them onto the blog would just be one big, wonderful mess. We'll save that for later...

Last weekend, I attended the Appetite for Construction Concert Tour, which featured Switchfoot and Relient K. All in all, I had a very good time, even if I had purchased 12 tickets in plans of taking a group of youth only to find myself there with my wife, sister-in-law, and her friend, and no youth. But it got me thinking: What are the best concerts I have ever attended? ... and What have been the worst? Join me as we take a stroll down Vernon's Memory Lane...

The Best

#5 - Pierce Pettis (Eric Peters)

A very good, very laid-back, stripped-down concert in the basement of a church in Dallas, TX. I was only newly introduced to Pierce by my friend, Josh (who, you'll find, is an influence in a few of these selections), and I was not disappointed by Pierce's deep, soulful folk voice that blends so finely with his stark yet beautiful guitar playing. Eric Peters opened, and did a great job by himself as well, even when his guitar string snapped halfway through one of his best songs - he took about five minutes to change and tune it, then returned to the song as if he had never stopped. I got a chance to talk to Pierce for a moment during the intermission in which he told me a great story about how he came to write one of his songs. And it was his playing of "Song of Songs" that has stayed with me so long, and why I sang it to Leigh at our wedding reception.

#4 - Behold the Lamb of God with Andrew Peterson & guests

Saw this one in Clear Lake, TX with my buddy, Grayson. An amazing concert. You'll notice that I like a lot of folk music, and like it even better in concert when it is laid-back and showcases just an artist and his or her guitar. The first half was just Peterson and his friends (Sandra McCracken, Derek Webb, Jill Phillips, Andy Gullahorn, Andrew Osenga, and Randall Goodgame) all playing a couple of their own songs. After intermission, they all came back out and collaborated, playing through Peterson's entire Christmas concert. Phenomenal talent and beautiful music, and even though Jill and Sandra are married (as well as me, I might add), all rolled up, this was one of the few concerts I felt privileged to be at, like I was in on a secret.
***I got my tickets for this year's show in Sugarland - Nov. 30th - the evening of my birthday -
along with a few extras, in case anyone is interested.***

#3 - dc Talk w/ Christafari and Grits

Not that I could forget the (then very new) group, Grits', audience-participation "Let Me See Your Head Bob" song, or the strange woman who came out of nowhere and started dancing some African/islander-inspired dance during Christafari's reggae-rock, but the most memorable thing about #3 is the energy and craziness incited by dc Talk's set. This concert was pre-Jesus Freak album, post-Jesus Freak single, so their image was still transforming from goofy rap hooks to a melding of grunge and alternative pop ... I don't know if this was the recipe for awesome, but it sure did the trick. For the first time in my life, I moshed, crowd-surfed, pushed and shoved my way to the front of the stage, and left with my entire T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Now, some of you might chuckle at the lameness of said moshing, crowd-surfing, and such that might have been at a dc Talk concert, but you must remember that I was an innocent sixteen year old kid in a youth group, and the sweat-soaked shirt was one of those ridiculous Christian tees (the only one I miss wearing, I might add). But, c'mon, when Toby climbed up the twelve foot speaker, pointed at us, and then jumped off, how could this gig not make the list?

#2 - David Wilcox

What can I say about this one? It's not like me to become a huge fan of an artist just by going to hear him play live. Normally, I'm more of a studio album fan - I've been bored at many a concert because the music just doesn't sound as good live as it does on the album, or it doesn't move me the way the album version does. Certainly not the case with Wilcox. I've seen him three times in the same place (McDavid Studio in Ft. Worth, TX), one year after the other. It was the first song (and subsequent story) that sold me on every ticket and album I later purchased. I still remember the little girl in the front with her parents who, after she requested one of his hit songs right at the beginning, received his answer, "What? Okay, sure. I was gonna save that one for the end, but you might be asleep." At the end of the show, before he could walk out, she ran up and gave a him a big hug. And why wouldn't she? Wilcox is an amazing guitar player and songwriter, but it is his stories that keep you coming back to his concerts. In explaining a metaphor around which he crafts a song, Wilcox will go into wonderful and whimsical detail before playing many of them, all while strumming and tuning. His metaphor on theodicy using golf was extraordinary. Once again, I must give props to my friend, Josh, for inviting me to that first concert and turning me on to this amazing artist. The concert atmosphere is best captured on Wilcox's two live albums, East Asheville Hardware and Live Songs and Stories, and, I promise, unless you despise folk music in its entirety, you'll never feel more alive than when you listen and laugh at his work. If you do hate folk music, I'm pretty sure that is proof you are already dead anyway.

#1 - Rick Elias Remembers Rich Mullins

The Celebrate Freedom concert at Southfork Ranch in Dallas, TX, back in the summer of 1998, shows up several more times on this list, but mostly in the "bad" section. However, there was one shining moment that redeemed the whole experience for me that hot-rainy-hot-rainy July day. Several artists passing through Dallas who were not on the bill showed up at Southfork that afternoon. One was Ragamuffin Band member, Rick Elias. Despite continual warnings all afternoon about lightning, and a sky that was threatening, and soon unleashed, a downpour of rain during his brief set, Rick Elias squeezed into the schedule and stepped out onto the stage. He plugged in his acoustic guitar and said, "As many of you are aware, my friend Rich tragically passed away last September. This was a song he really liked." He proceeded to play "Man of No Reputation," a song, it has been told, Rich wanted to record on the album he was working on at the time of his death, but had not yet been able to get through his cover of it without breaking down crying. It seemed Rick was almost as choked up when he transitioned into his only other song, "My Deliverer," which was out on the radio at that time. As he played and we all began to sing along, the rain began to pour from the gray-green sky, and as stagehands began motioning for him to pack it up because of lightning, Rick stopped singing after repeating the last refrain, stood listening to us continue on for a few moments, and then quietly unplugged his guitar and walked off stage. Never has a concert experience equaled the power of those two, simple songs.

Honorable Mentions

Switchfoot / Relient K - Houston, TX (last weekend)

Third Day Worship Concert - Worcester, MA

Burlap to Cashmere - Celebrate Freedom 1998 (while still unknown)

Reba McEntire - Austin, TX 1996

Funky Brass Factory - Austin, TX - Halloween Concert @ The Oasis 2001

That's my buddy, Michael, in the non-black shirt. Check out his music at www.myspace.com/justmike88

That's all for this post. Check back soon for part two, in which I list the five worst concerts I have ever been to, as well as the three artists/bands I must see before I die.

In the meantime, what are your top five concerts? Comment and let me know ... I'm always looking for a good show.

Return of the Writer

The following confession and resolved resolution can most closely be considered the blog equivalent of a long, deep sigh...

Over the weekend, I became more familiar with a writer that I had known about for some time - had even passed several times in the narrow corridors of Flowers Hall, the English building back at Southwest Texas State. As I finished what is arguably his greatest work to date, I felt a bit guilty.

The writer, Tim O'Brien, had become a guest instructor in the graduate-level creative writing program back at SWT, and though I did not end up applying for the program (which was one of the reasons I enrolled there as an undergrad) and therefore never sat in one of Mr. O'Brien's classes, it was hard to avoid his literary work. Besides giving many public readings, back in 2000 he was a celebrated, yet still burgeoning, writer producing some wonderful pieces of contemporary literature and my professors spoke well of his skill in crafting stories and novels. His most famous short story, "The Things They Carried," (which is also the title of his Pulitzer Prize-nominated novel and the lead chapter within it), was quoted and/or assigned in many a literature or writing class.

Did I read The Things They Carried? No, not at the time. It wasn't because it was a daunting, thick-bound book heavy to carry and even heavier to read. Actually, O'Brien's books are quite succinct, and astonishingly gripping and readable given his choice of themes and subject matter. And it wasn't because The Things They Carried was about Vietnam and was heavily autobiographical. As much as I was not interested in that war-before-my-time, it turns out that I avoided O'Brien's work simply because I was already overwhelmed with a host of writers and titles newly-introduced to me. It was around the same time that my jaw dropped, as if weighted with an anvil, when I read E. Annie Proulx's "Brokeback Mountain" for an assignment, and I realized I was a long way from the neat n' tidy, PG, Christian-genre literature of my middle school and high school days. In short, I was already taken aback by this strange new literary genre - which I was discovering was no actual "genre " at all, but real, real fiction - that swirled around me throughout my pursuit for an English degree.

It took me years to fall in love with the real stuff, but I'm so glad that I have, and the times when, in talking about other genre fiction, I seem like a snob, it is only because this real fiction has become my Juliet, and those genres that came before were merely my Rosalyn's. I am now completely smitten by another.

This past weekend, I read The Things They Carried. I embraced the book, knowing hardly anything about Vietnam, and coming away feeling as if, while still not understanding the reasons or strategies of that war, I have come face-to-face with the heartbeat of the 'Nam soldier, and the angst of all that went before his tour and pummeled him after he returned.

In the same vein, I have been reminded of my own passion to write. On my computer both here at work as well as on my personal laptop, there sits fragments of stories, and chapters of two different novels. Beside me now, in my filing cabinet, there is a whole drawer full of stories, novel excerpts, and vignettes from my college years up until now. In two different cardboard boxes at home, there are stacks of older writing pages, from second grade (when I first found my life's dream) through high school.

Moving, marrying, and making a home has kept me quite busy, but today, I hear those pages calling. I cannot avoid them, and I will not ignore them any longer.

Let the stories return to me, and let them roll on...

An Unveiling

I have started up a new blog address in addition to this one. It is called Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture. For some time I have been trying to decide if I should separate some of my blog entries that concern pop culture, politics, and/or entertainment from those that are centered more on biblical, spiritual, and/or missional matters. Because this blog has gotten large enough (this will be the 85th post) and does not appear to be tapering off (despite when I'm laid up with either the flu or wedding plans), I've decided a spin-off blog might be interesting. Will it be a Frasier, or a Joey? I suppose only time will tell.

I do hope you will make an effort to visit this new blog while still maintaining your perusal of this one as well. You will begin to notice that the sidebar of this blog will contain both a link to Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture as well as a notice when a new entry appears on it.

Please also remember that this blog, Wonderstuff, has a Xanga counterpart if you are more of a Xanga reader than a Blogger. A link will soon be posted in the sidebar for that site as well.

Okay, enough shameless plugging. Now that everything is getting more organized, I can get back to the original spirit of this blog. And now it has a friend!

You can read Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture, including the inaugural post, by going to this address:
www.wonderstuffreviews.blogspot.com

Grace and peace to you, my readers.

Photographs of God

This short limbo in which I find myself not currently taking a class is drawing to a close. Another semester of seminary will begin next week, and tomorrow I "officially" start my new job in the Student Services office. These transitions have me racing to tie up loose ends I have left dangling free throughout the past few months. Tonight I straightened my desk and filed and put away gatherings of papers and such that have accumulated right under my nose. I like a clean desk - makes me want to write. Makes me feel like I have the ability to accomplish things.

Tonight I spent a significant amount of time sorting through photographs that have been strewn about my bedroom for days to weeks, for weeks to months. Some were new, some were old, some I do not ever remember taking or posing for, but almost all summoned these little, flash-quick memories to jump into my mind. I find this a slightly odd phenomenon - that a single, still image can spur the mind to recall a detailed memory, in all its motion and emotion. I remember how hot it was that day ... That was when he was telling that stupid joke but still had us gasping for air ... Look how thin I was there - what in the world have I been eating since then? ... Wow, she has always been gorgeous, and this is a great example ... Oh, that was the day he got that job ... Oh, that was taken right around the time I found out she died ...

Video cameras and those new DVD recorders and all those other ridiculously advanced, technological gizmos are all well and good ... but there is nothing like a snapshot. There's nothing like a photograph. Though you are gazing into a single, motionless rendering of a mere nanosecond in a time passed, your mind is suddenly awakened with the most vivid of memories, possibly even many years since that particular camera shuttered on that particular scene. It is you and you alone who sees this memory, and the cherishment you feel is personal and beautiful and all your own. No one can view a photograph the same way.

From a single image comes, to our minds, a flood of actions.



I do not know where this thought came from or where it is going, but it seems to me we are not much different from photographs in the eyes of God. However, I believe God views us in the opposite way that we view a photograph. God, in his unfathomable ways, looks upon all of our actions and motions and emotions all at once - the Creator sees all of us, past and present. But in seeing this, it is all bound up before him like a single photograph. From a lifetime comes, to his mind, a single image. His beloved creation. Each one of us is like this to him, and what is drawn forth, summoned from his heart, is one thing ... Love.

And in this Love he cradles us gently, gazes into every bit of us, and smiles with a desperate yearning. Because, though the scenes in our photographs are only receding further into the past, our Creator rejoices that we are progressing ever closer to him.

Two Paintings

There are two expensive prints of paintings in my house. I mustn't claim they are paintings, but prints of paintings, even though to simply state they are paintings makes me come across a bit more cultured. However, though they are prints, they are of fine quality, matted with accentuating colors, and encased in carefully selected frames. Both are gifts from my mother, both at Christmases, and both are special.

The first painting is by Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son. It is quite large and enclosed in a very expensive maroon and black, marble-like frame, and it hangs perfectly in the space above the small, thin fireplace mantle in living room. The painting is rather dark, ragged, even shadowy, and were it not for the image at its center - and the wonder of a story on which it is based - it might draw out distinct feelings of melancholy. But because of the two main figures upon which Rembrandt chose only to shed significant light, what is viewed is compassion verbed out in human forms, a father with a heart stricken with sudden joy clutching his dirty and despicable son's head to his chest. Love like has never been viewed before. Love far beyond degree ...

The second painting is a smaller print, encased in a rustic wooden frame that could be pine, or mesquite, or western oak (I really don't know much about the wood of trees). It is a painting called, The Circuit Rider, by southwestern contemporary artist, Kenneth Wyatt. Looking into this painting is like looking out a window into a windswept, snowy roll of hills, spotted with thrush and sage. In the center stands a man who cannot be clothed warmly enough for the darkening winter eve, despite his cowboy duster and his wide-brimmed hat. He stands beside his patient horse, staring down into a yawning, stretching valley. Behind his back, not in shame but in anticipation, he clutches a worn Bible in his left hand. He is still, pensive, and solemnly eager to move on into the valley. For in the far distance, at the base of a rising hill enclosing the valley into a sloping canyon, sits a simple, isolated house. A trail of smoke meanders upward into the chilled air, and even though it is nothing but a speck, this home appears very inviting, especially for a tired messenger of the Gospel, who seems unwilling to cease his duty of riding across the countryside, visiting those who dwell in the wild, and sharing with them a truth he holds onto tighter than the reigns on his horse ...

These two paintings are a reality that I desire for my life - this is why I write about them tonight (also because, though it is past 1 AM, I cannot coax myself into bed yet). They are a reality that I have not yet fully achieved, and I speak this on as physical a spiritual level as can be. If I had to dartboard my position within the scope of the lifestory these two paintings communicate, I would assume I am somewhere in the middle of them - somewhere between returning broken, poor, and needy to my recklessly loving Father, and stepping out in calm, faithful resolve to tell the world the euangelion, the good news, of Christ.

However, there are times when I feel I have not even come to a point that the lowdown and dirty son has in Rembrandt's masterpiece. If I were the prodigal son, a more accurate parable would have included me returning to the distant country and squandering a hundred - a thousand, a million - different inheritances, and returning shamefully to the father every time. Would the father still run to me and reveal himself undignified, hold me and render himself unclean, and kiss me and render himself a fool?

So much more is my fear that not only have I not found myself as confidently resolute as the circuit rider, but that I shall never finish such a path to becoming like him - I shall never be the servant God wants - does God need? - me to be.

And yet, these two paintings (prints, of course) hang in my house, and day after day my eyes glance past them. Rarely do I look - really give them the attention they most certainly deserve. But, gifts as they were, perhaps they were meant for more than a possession I can one day pass on to my own children (if I am so blessed). Perhaps they were meant for moments like this, late into the night, when I am desperate for an assuring voice from heaven approving my current lifewalk - when I am starving for a soothing gust of wonder. Maybe they are meant to remind me simply that whatever road I find myself on, whether it be facing a familiar home of grace or an unfamiliar destination of purpose, the only right move is to head in their direction.