What Music Means to Me

Jan 27

Attending shows is a relatively new passion for me. This is a brief history of how I got here, and how I came to love the music I do.

A Childhood Steeped in the Past

I grew up listening to what my parents played (they were 39 and 43 when I was born). Though I grew up in the late seventies and early eighties, it was mainly country music from the 1950s (though it probably spanned the 1930s to the 1970s).

I thought of myself as a connoisseur of old-time country music because of my upbringing, but later I came to realize it was a pretty narrow swath of artists — there was a world of others out there that I had very little knowledge of. Still, I retained an appreciation for that style of music my whole life, despite a couple years-long detours into other genres (Broadway, alternative, electronic). It’s what I always return to.

My live-music experiences growing up were sparse, other than The Country Gentlemen every couple years, and a guy who played near my parents’ West Virginia vacation home at the Fourth of July celebration. (He always played “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On” and “Proud to Be an American.”) Oh, and my sister once took me to see Randy Travis with Trisha Yearwood opening.

In high school, live music mainly equaled musical theater, as I developed a crush on a boy who loved musicals and it rubbed off on me for that reason. Then I went to some rock shows when I got an actual boyfriend: I remember Rush, with the Tragically Hip opening, but that’s about it. I think I went to Lollapalooza and/or some local D.C.-area variation.

That combination of Broadway and rock shows continued through college — I did actually get into a few acts that I enjoyed seeing live, including Ani DiFranco and two local acts, Avogadro’s Number and The Nields. After graduating and moving to Minneapolis in the late 90s, I started going with friends to electronic shows with famous touring DJs — Paul Oakenfold, Basement Jaxx, St. Germaine. I loved those shows but it might have been the drugs talking…

I remember when Hank Williams III came to First Avenue a couple times. He always had a first set of classic country and a second set of like, death metal or something? I left during intermission. But those were the first shows where I really felt excited by the show. He’s got a pretty strong resemblance to Hank Sr., so I’d kind of fantasize that I was seeing the original Hank live.

Whether consciously or not, what I really wanted was to have my old, mostly dead (or no longer touring) idols playing in front of me in their prime. I’d think with longing of the time I had a chance to see Johnny Cash in D.C. and passed it up. I did look forward to the “Cash Only” tribute at the Cabooze every year, especially Sherwin Linton’s segment because he did the most straight-up interpretation of Johnny’s music—and threw in a bunch of oral history between songs as well.

Losing Interest in Music

After my clubbing habit died down, so did live music for me. Actually, so did music in general. For about ten years, I listened to music less and less, and then for a few years, not at all. It’s not like I never heard music at all — my partners would play music, and sometimes on road trips I’d throw a couple of Hank CDs on the pile. I sang to my kids. I went to the odd show. But I really didn’t actively pursue music listening opportunities — live or recorded.

Sometimes I’d comment on it to myself or others. A little puzzled but not that sad about it — I didn’t miss it, really. The part of me that actively enjoyed music seemed to have gone numb, or been amputated. I couldn’t really be sad about something I didn’t seem to care much about.

I did see local Americana act The Cactus Blossoms a few times in concert, starting in 2013. A friend invited me to that first one, and then a couple more times of my own volition. I really loved their act — at the time, their sound was the most authentic old-time country I’d ever seen performed live since maybe The Country Gentlemen back in the 80s. It was closer to sounding like Hank Sr. than Hank III had been. But even then, my enjoyment was mainly centered on the covers I recognized. I wished they did more of them.

When I think back and try to put together what was going on with my brain back then, I think I was just fixated on old music, and I felt like new music had nothing to offer. If Hank Sr. was the best that had ever been or ever would be, what was the use in going to see new music being performed? But at the same time, the music that I’d deemed the best had gotten a little stale over the years, with nothing new being added, and I didn’t feel the need to listen to it anymore.

A Crisis Point

Then, in 2016, something changed. In July, my family and I went to England to visit friends and in-laws. Brexit had just passed and everyone was sad and on edge. We nervously joked with our friends there about Trump winning the election. None of us believed it, but the whole ugly campaign season had gotten to me. While we were in England, Philando Castile was murdered in St. Paul — which hit especially hard since I’d been active in anti-police brutality causes since 2013. The next day in Dallas, there was a mass murder of police officers. Both events made international news, and we watched in helpless horror.

I came home feeling unsettled and unmoored by everything happening around me. It wasn’t until later that I realized I was aching for something to satisfy a part of me that I didn’t even know was still there. All the turmoil of the world going to hell had laid bare the fact that I didn’t really have a satisfying artistic outlet.

As luck would have it, in late August 2016, The Cactus Blossoms were playing at Lake Harriet Bandshell, which was very close to home. I went with a couple of friends. And something...clicked. I found that I recognized some of their original songs — I didn’t know I’d picked anything up from their previous shows. I felt a strange buzzy feeling. I came home and dug out their CD, which I’d bought at a show but never listened to. The very next day, I started listening to it several times a day. I’d take long walks and just listen to it twice, beginning to end. I watched everything of theirs I could find online. A month later, their first First Avenue show was announced. I bought tickets and vibrated with anticipation.

The horror of the 2016 election came (and then lingered, like a festering wound that never feels like it’ll heal), but far from dampening my enthusiasm for the show, it made it feel even more exciting. It was the most amazing, cathartic concert I’d ever experienced, up to and including a high-energy cover of “Everyday People” that alluded to the terrible time we’d all been having that year and getting through the hate and fear that surrounded us.

From Cactus Blossoms Super-fan to Live Music Devotee

For a while after that, it was all about The Cactus Blossoms for me. They didn’t play the Twin Cities much by then, so I traveled to Wisconsin and New York to see them, then Hopkins, Chicago, Des Moines and more. I paid way too much to see them open for the Jayhawks and Steve Earle and left after their set (sacrilege, I know!).

But along the way, I started getting into acts I found through The Cactus Blossoms, and there was a cascade effect: The Yellow-Bellied Sapsuckers, who had opened for them in Viroqua and at the Turf Club, had the Big Dixie Swingers open for them when I saw them at the Hook and Ladder. I went to see the Swingers at Palmer’s and discovered Mumblin’ Drew’s residency there. I started to love the experience of live music outside of The Cactus Blossoms (though they remain my favorites).

I started seeking out acts I’d never seen. I’d go alone if I couldn’t find anyone to come with me. I’d get near the front so I could really absorb what the artists were doing. It was such a fulfilling and rejuvenating experience, whether I was seeing someone I loved or an act I whose sound didn’t really resonate with me as much. By 2019, I was going to live music several times a week. For the first time, I tracked every show I saw in a year — for a grand total of 88. And my appetite for live shows continued to grow. No matter how horrific the world around me became, live music never lost the power to transport me out of my mental anguish, so it became more and more vital.

Other parts of my life became richer because of live music, too: In 2018 I met one of my best friends, who lives in Canada, through our shared love of The Cactus Blossoms, when my wife met her at a show and later introduced us. My traveling for their concerts increased as a result; I even went on a three-city tour of Canada in 2019 to see them perform! I’ve also connected with loads of people on social media who share my passion for music, and even met some of them in real life.

I took up guitar in 2018 as well, and it’s one of my favorite hobbies. I don’t have many friends who play or sing, but I’ve discovered a few and (before the pandemic mostly) had semi-regular jam sessions with them. My last two birthday parties have been musical, with people bringing instruments or their voices and joining me in making music into the early hours of the morning. I’ve even written a few songs of my own! All of this stems from live music. My life is exponentially richer and more satisfying because of it.

Then 2020 happened...

I hit the ground running in 2020: I saw all four of Charlie Parr’s Turf Club residency shows in addition to all four Cactus Blossoms shows, which meant I spent nearly a third of my January at the Turf Club, in addition to fitting in a few other shows elsewhere. I booked a three-show Cactus Blossoms tour for April hitting three states on the East Coast (including soon-to-be early COVID-19 hotspot New York) and bought a slew of other tickets for local shows in the upcoming months.

By mid-March I was halfway in denial about whether or not I’d be able to still go on my trip. But then things started getting shut down. Concerts. Work. School. Airline and show tickets started getting refunded. Shows were canceled or indefinitely postponed. The world got more and more awful — pandemic, police brutality (I live about a mile from the spot where George Floyd was murdered), Trump’s increasing attacks on, well, everything and everyone. And live music was no longer there to offset the horror.

Well, not exactly. I threw myself into watching livestreams, trying to treat them like a real event that I’d sit down and immerse myself in. The stimulus checks came and we were one of the fortunate households that didn’t “need” the money — we hadn’t lost any income at the time. So we resolved to spend ours on local or independent businesses or good causes. I spent nearly all of mine on music — tipping artists on their livestreams, buying gift cards to bars, buying merch and records.

For nearly six months, I subsisted solely on livestreams. Although they have their own charm — a certain intimacy and informality — it wasn’t the same, of course. When I finally got to see a live show (Charlie Parr) — masked up, six feet apart, outdoors in an empty lot next to the Midway Saloon in St. Paul — I wasn’t surprised when I started to cry. After that I managed to make it to several more outdoor shows before the weather and the pandemic both took a turn for the worse.

Even now, in what’s hopefully the last gasp of the pandemic, I’m desperately afraid that we’ll lose a generation of artists forced to find other work, that we’ll lose decades of history if clubs keep shutting down.

What does live music mean to me? When I see a live show, my main emotion is gratitude. Artists put themselves on the line. They put their hearts, souls and ingenuity into every song. They spend countless hours honing their skills and creating and practicing just for that magical moment when they’re on stage. My favorite shows are ones where I can get close and really study what they’re doing. I’m one of those uncomfortably attentive audience members, probably!

Every time I get ready for a show, I get this sense of anticipation, almost like butterflies. I know I’m going to experience a moment in time that is fleeting and will never happen again, a give and take between musicians and audience that is completely unique and special, whether there are five attendees or a thousand.

Live music provides an escape like no other. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the past few years without it. And thinking about getting to experience it in a “normal” way someday is one of the things that keeps me going during these times. I miss it more than I miss any other in-person experience, by a long shot.

~ Written by Carol J. Roth ~

Carol was born in Maryland and lived up and down the East Coast from New York to Georgia, but was mainly raised in Virginia. She is now a copywriter living in Minneapolis, MN with two spouses, two kids, and two cats.

Carol Roth