My friend Chris and I have an ongoing conversation about music – we introduce one another to new music and discuss the merits of various artists and albums.  We trade off buying concert tickets for mutually beloved artists as well as introductions to new ones.  John and I brought him to see Jonatha Brooke, he roped us in to see Chris Smither (as someone who owns several versions of “Love me Like a Man,” I was ashamed to admit I knew little of the artist who wrote it).  I have pretty eclectic tastes and a fairly wide music collection by most people’s standards, but Chris blows me out of the water, owning thousands of CDs.  It’s always a coup for me when I can introduce him to someone new.

So it was a bit trippy this morning to come in to work and find Kris Delmhorst’s “Strange Conversation” sitting on my desk.  I sent Chris an e-mail:

Are you lending or returning this to me?  I can’t remember talking about this to you or lending it to you, but I also can’t remember if I own this on CD or just have a downloaded copy from iTunes…

He was crushed to find out I already knew about her.  On the other hand, I thought it was pretty cool to finally have a somewhat obscure artist both of us had heard of.

John and I don’t get out terribly often. We’re homebodies by nature, with many domestic pursuits and interests. As a result, we end up not taking as much advantage of the many things the DC area has to offer as we think we “should.” (The shoulds and oughts of this type of thinking are particularly vexing, but that’s possibly the subject for a whole other post).

Occasionally, a better-organized friend or two will end up inviting us along on one of their outings. This is most helpful, as it both bumps us out of our slothful rut and gives us the warm glow associated with people thinking we’re not really that boring.

So it was with great pleasure that we accepted an invitation to go to Wolftrap to see Shawn Colvin and John Hiatt yesterday evening. It was a warm, muggy summer night, with the occasional puff of a cool breeze for relief. Both artists took the stage alone, with only a guitar or piano accompaniment. Both exhibited the kind of easy, folksy, humorous virtuosity they are known for.

Shawn Colvin was the opening act, and I especially enjoyed her set. I have been a fan of hers since the chorus of “Steady On” nipped my ears with its coyote-wail chorus. Her music galvanized my cathartic anger in reckless youth, it warmed me by Christmas firesides, it fizzed with windows-open, car-stereo-at-11 brio, it reassured me that there was a woman who could create beauty by facing fear and pain, tumbling and falling down the avalanche.  Listening to her sing last night was the soundtrack to my 20’s and 30’s, leaving the bad behind, embracing the good, and pulling this great music along with me as I make my way towards 40.

I had never seen John Hiatt live before, and was delighted to see that the impression I have always had of a bemused, intelligent, humorous son of the prairie was dead on. Yet behind that “aw shucks” manner is a guitar player of astonishing skill. He’s got a new album coming out in March, and from what we heard of it, we’re going to be getting it.

Of course, since life events are irregularly spaced and lumpy, I am now in New York for my annual weekend to celebrate my mother’s birthday. Fearing the afternoon storms that plague the DC/NY routes in summer, I flew up early and am now waiting for her to arrive. Suddenly, the homebody is out with a vengeance.