Grass, the kind that is blue.

Live music makes me incredibly happy. Especially passionate music performed by people who devote themselves to the moment. The kind of music that, even if you don’t want to, you can’t help but move around to.

On Sunday night, I went to see my favorite band, Old Crow Medicine Show, at a wonderful venue here in Charleston.  OCMS is an amazing bluegrass band that I’ve been loving for about 2 1/2 years now.  They are all young, most of them hot (except for you, Mr. Mutton Chops!  You know how I feel!), and oozing talent.  And while I’m pretty sure most of them have fierce cocaine habits, I can live with that in my musicians.  Anyway, I have it on good authority that they are fun to hang out with, so I’ll even forgive unfortunate facial hair in that situation.

The show made me a little nostalgic for the good old days when live music was a regular part of my life.  In high school, it seems like I spent almost every weekend listening to one of the local bands.  Part of that was my relationship with the bassist in one of the standard bands, but even after we broke up and he moved away, my friends and I would still make an effort to go out to specifically see some of our old favorites.  Once we got to college, our penchant for live music hung on, but it wasn’t as vibrant.  Eventually, as college went on, I was lucky to see a band every month or two.

I had initially hoped that once I got to Charleston, I would re-embrace the music scene (I feel like such a jackass when I say that).  The amount of music in this city is overwhelming at first.  There are literally hundreds of bands that play on a regular basis, but I’ve been so lazy about going out and finding one that I liked.  I always have every intention of doing it, and then, somehow, it is Sunday night and I’ve missed them all.

Part of the problem is that I haven’t found many people who like the same music that I do.  There isn’t a huge appreciation for banjos and fiddles among people in my age bracket- which is fine.  I actually like that it’s somewhat of a boutique music style.  At least we don’t have to deal with the Matchbox 20s and the Creeds.  And there aren’t 13 year olds wearing halter tops at the concerts.  Small blessings, you know?

But being in that old, converted train depot, hearing the sound of blazing fiddles and banjos and the occasional harmonica, surrounded by people who were cheering and dancing- it just felt so real.  And yes, there were a bunch of shockingly fragrant people, and my skin is still expelling the scent of old cigarettes and PBR, but the music is still coursing through my head.  I’m hearing it right now- as I write this.  It was one of those nights that will be burned into my brain and I’ll be able to recall years from now.  God bless bluegrass.

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