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Houses Of The Holy. 

I started going to concerts when I was a kid, tiny, wide-eyed, and already ruined for anything ordinary. My parents took me as if they knew my future self would demand it. I remember every single one.

I was eight when I saw Prince on the Purple Rain tour. Second row. The man was unholy levels of inappropriate. He was obscene, my moral compass corrupted for good. I sang along anyway. I recognized genius. 

Then there was Springsteen. Born in the U.S.A. tour. I had a bandana hanging from the back pocket of my jeans because that’s what you did. I had no clue what any of it meant, but I knew it mattered. I knew I was lucky.

Now, decades later, having built my life around live shows, I understand why they all feel like home. It’s not nostalgia. It’s DNA. Every time the lights go down, I am intact. It’s muscle memory. It’s Pavlovian. It just makes sense. 

Last night I took Evie to see one of her favorite artists. We danced in the rain at the Greek, we sang with a few thousand new friends, and I watched her find her place in the chaos that raised me. She saw me in my natural habitat. That was really cool. 

I can’t help her with math. I can’t sew, or French braid, or bake anything that requires yeast. But I can give her this, these moments, proof that life is a feeling. If I’m doing this right, her life will never be small. It will be a standing ovation kind of life.

So yes Evie, I can take you to the show.
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