"The songs you wrote got me through a lot, just want to tell you that." - Ben Folds, "Late"
I got off work a month in advance. Nut-Meg counted down the days on her Simpsons calendar. When the tickets came in the mail, I danced something akin to a jig, although given my sparse background in Irish folk dance, it was probably closer to excited flailing more than anything. Nut-Meg and I made arrangements to take our finals for that day first thing in the morning so we could get on the road. A pristine new atlas was waiting in the car, which boasted a full tank of gas and various snack-type foods.
Six hours in the car. Five near-death experiences in the car. Three rude locals. Two incredibly wrong turns. One panic attack. And then, with our long and perilous journey finally over, we waited for our hero, Ben Folds, to take the stage.
He did. He chatted for a moment about making angry television preacher faces in the mirror in his dressing room. His fingers found the piano in front of him. We found bliss.
The next two or so hours and twenty-five songs are a blur. It was a moment in every sense of the word. Time stood still and yet it passed too quickly. I was swept away by the music to a place my soul had only imagined. I was so caught up in it that I didn't fully realize its power at the time, like at high school graduation. It's a milestone, but you are so focused on the experience that its significance is a matter for another day.
It was the consummation of a mostly one-sided relationship through song and harmony that touched me in ways so profound that I'm still discovering their true effects. Ben's voice in the microphone and the melodious arias of the piano intermingled and seduced my ears with their beauty and truth.
The words are a triumph of self-expression that smile on the artist's natural wit and talent. The stories speak of universal experiences to which an entire audience can relate. The piano is a rockin' musical instrument when it's played correctly (which means my sister hasn't been playing it correctly since, well, ever).
The new songs he shared with us...wow. August is almost too long a wait, and yet for this I have patience eternal. Ben claims this album will be untitled. Whether he'll go through with his decision to put a melting butt on the cover remains to be seen, but the song he wrote for his daughter, "Gracie Girl," is the best argument for children I have ever heard.
The improv shit...also wow. Everyone has heard the story of the four-point-six songs Ben wrote to wiggle out of a publishing deal and everyone may even know that one of them was a showtune. But I had never heard "Morgan Davis" before, anywhere, and it's hilarious.
The Danville show's version of "Rock This Bitch" started out all "Fuck Free Bird," much to our delight. Ben Folds has also done wonders with the classic piano standard "Chopsticks," telling a happy little story in its lilting style. Nut-Meg and I exchange quite a look before bursting into laughter during his cover of George Michael's "Careless Whispers."
And the audience's harmonizing is spectacular enough on the CD, but no sound system can recreate the energy, enthusiasm and excitement of harmonizing with masses of other people in an acoustically perfect auditorium. The bitchin' horn (or perhaps bitch and whore) section in "Army," the ahh-ahhs in "Not the Same," the sing-along for "Philosophy"...quality music.
One thing that'll be with me for awhile was meeting Ben after the show. There's no way this entire entry isn't gushing hero-worship style prose, but to me meeting Ben is like meeting my own Dalhi Lama, a spiritual guru whose insights are (gag with me, kids, but shut the hell up because it's true) a window into my soul.
Shaking hands and chatting with the man who wrote and performed the soundtrack of my life was a humbling experience. Shockingly enough, I had enough presence of mind to thank him for his contribution to society. Less shockingly, I was in such a daze as to have missed the camera completely when Nut-Meg took my picture with him. Sigh.
In the week since the concert, Ben and his piano have popped up in my life in little ways, just like before. Only now, I have a deeper appreciation of the words as I sing along. "Zak and Sara" and "All U Can Eat" enter another dimension when they're expertly performed by Ben Folds himself on a piano very near to you.
Granted, I'm only eighteen years old, but I'd imagine that doing indeterminate (read: 120+ mph) speeds through parts of Tennessee and Kentucky, getting accosted by a homeless man for the last of the cookies in a gas station parking lot, finding breaded fish crumbs in the bottom of the A&W fries during a quick dinner and suffering through an indescribably awful opening act chock-full of shoeless yokels that called themselves a bluegrass band all in the pursuit of an amazingly talented piano man is a close as a trip to Mecca as I'll ever come. At least until the next Ben Folds concert.
Someone got here by searching for: Reading: Broadcasting and Cable. Watching: Talk Sex on Oxygen. Listening to: Ben, Ben and more Ben. Eating: Delicious homemade chocolate cake. Yum!
