10/20/16
OH. MY. GOD. Thank you, Keith Urban.
On Thursday night, P
am and I saw Keith Urban perform during his Los Angeles stop as part of the Ripcord tour. On the day after the show when my coworkers asked about it, I honestly answered, “It was life changing.”
Pam and I love to see live music, and we are lucky that we have the opportunity to see lots of great shows. All hyperbole aside, Keith Urban’s show Thursday night, including opening acts Maren Morris and Brett Eldredge, was one of the best shows we have ever seen. When the tour was announced, we knew we had to go, each for different reasons. We had seen him in concert once before, a little over six years ago when he performed at the UCLA Tennis Center. At that time, Pam was not really into country, but she loved the show anyway, though it may have had more to do with his arms and overall appearance than his music. I enjoyed that show and enjoyed his performance, but I did not feel a strong emotional connection to his music.
I wanted to see Keith Urban, but my main motivation for going was Maren Morris. I was more than willing to buy the tickets to hear her perform “My Church” live, even if that was the only song I heard the entire show. I connected with that song the first time I heard it. It was love at first hearing. I was coming down Beverly Glen, one of the canyon roads in West Los Angeles, after driving for several hours with my Porsche buddies all over the twisting back roads of Malibu. I noticed that my trip odometer had just hit 100 miles for the day, and I noticed that my thermometer was showing an outside temperature of 100 degrees. Thinking to myself that “100 Miles of Fun, 100 Degrees of Sun” would make a great title for something, I stopped the car on a side street so I could take a picture of my dashboard to document it. Just as I took the shot, “My Church” came on the radio. I loved the overall sound, her voice, and the lyrics, especially the lyrics. There I was sitting in my Porsche after driving 100 miles for fun, and Maren Morris was singing about getting holy redemption when she puts her car in drive. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. She had expressed exactly how I felt on a daily basis. I was hooked.
As usual, Pam bought the tickets. She was a little miffed about the seats, as they were a little worse than we usually get, putting us at the back of the arena on the first level, giving her a less than perfect view of those arms. From the time she bought the seats and through all the shows we saw before Thursday night, she groused about how her view would be less than ideal. By the end of the concert, she had had such a good time that I do not think she cared that she did not have a bird’s eye view of those arms.
The show was great from start to finish. Maren Morris came out and performed very well. We enjoyed listening to all her songs, and she made my night when she strapped on an acoustic guitar for her final song, “My Church.” I loved it, as did Pam. At that time, I felt “My Church” would be the best song of the night. A little while later I learned just how wrong I was.
Though we had heard Brett Eldredge’s music on the radio, neither of us had much of a feel for it. By the end of his set, we had changed our views. We thoroughly enjoyed his voice, especially when he sang in the higher registers, as we both felt he was a little off on the lower ones. Speaking of lower tones, we were subjected more of that body shaking, chest reverberating, teeth clenching bass so prevalent in modern country at the outset of his set, the kind of bass that causes a vibration that works its way up from your feet and legs through your torso before stopping in your head, making you want to scream in frustration. That much bass has no place in country music, or any music for that matter. Having said that, as the show progressed and he sang his other songs, the driving bass lessened and we enjoyed him much more.
I use the tequila and doughnut scale to determine what it will take me to see an artist perform, either the first time or subsequent times. The absence of requiring tequila or doughnuts gives me an easy way to express threshold levels of enjoyment, but it fails miserably when I try to describe just how good I perceive a performer to be. For that I use the Bruuuuuuuuce scale. In the umpteen times I have seen Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band over the past 40 years, I have experienced them put on many special shows. Experiencing him sing his songs live is so much better than hearing the recorded versions. In my mind, Bruce Springsteen is the quintessential rock star. Bruce has always been the finest live performer I have ever seen. His shows have always been masterpieces.
Some shows are special. Some artists are special. Some crowds are special. Thursday night Keith Urban was special. Until Thursday night at Staples, I had never experienced a show in which a performer came close to matching any of my experiences at a Bruce Springsteen concert. That changed on Thursday night. Until Thursday night, listening to Keith Urban’s songs on the radio had been fine, but nothing special. His songs have always been pleasant, well produced and enjoyable, though they have never been compelling. On Thursday night that changed, too. I will never be able to listen to his songs the same way again. Apparently, all I needed to do to connect, really connect, with a Keith Urban song was to experience him perform it live. Either he has improved tremendously as an artist or I was just really dense when I saw him six years ago because I did not have this reaction then.
I don’t know if the show Thursday night was just a great show or if that is just how good he performs on a consistent basis. It doesn’t matter. His performance was outstanding. Every song was spot on. His musicianship was unparalleled, as he just shredded his way through each song on a variety of stringed instruments. His energy was off the charts. His interactions with the crowd were real and did not feel choreographed. It looked, felt and sounded like he was having fun, really pouring his heart and soul into the show. Pam felt it and was into it. I felt it and was into it. The crowd felt it and was into it. The band felt it and was into it. The ushers felt it and were into it. For all I know even the people working in the food stands felt it and were into it. If they weren’t, they should have been. The overall effect was synergistic, where the total was so much greater that the sum of the parts that I just stood there listening in awe.
Keith Urban may wear the mantle of a country singer, but in reality he is a rock star. And, after Thursday night, I rank him right up there with Bruce. After Thursday night, I will never need tequila or doughnuts to entice me to see Keith Urban perform. I would even consider buying tequila and doughnuts for him just to be allowed to buy a ticket, as on Thursday night Pam and I became true Keith Urban fans for life.