There was a lot I didn’t know going into seeing Brandi Carlile on Thursday night. The ability to name three songs was perhaps one of them. In my defense, don’t come at me when I’ve made my escape from the offspring for an impromptu night off, on the heels of chewing a mouthful of gummies, sloshed down with a beer or two. 

I was caught off guard fairly aggressively by my buddy with whom I chose to take in the beautiful evening with. Perfect hoodie weather as the sun gently set on the outdoor venue of Breese Stevens Field in Madison, WI. People watching in abundance with one of the most diverse looking audiences I’ve seen. I was absolutely making love to a pile of cheese curds with my mouth. A woman I greatly admire to my left. Then it happened.

“Can you even name a Brandi Carlile song?”

I stared blankly between my curd-gummy-beer-happiness daze. I felt like I was being accosted for existing in the little vibe zone we were trying to create. (Ps. If you ever want to know, it’s in a Bermuda Triangle in the back of a venue between concessions, the portos, and center line of sight on the video screens of the stage.) My lack of response prompted further interrogation.

“Well, can you?”

I took pause to really process the situation. I couldn’t say no…because that’s not accurate. My gut instinct was to defend myself, but during quick introspection I realized there was nothing being asked of me that truly required that, even though it may have felt like it.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

I knew I needed to respond with something.

I explained that, well, no, Brandi Carlile blended into the songscape a little for me, but I did enjoyably have The Highwomen on vinyl, and truth be told, I was always more an Amanda Shires fan, noted her connection to Jason Isbell, and launched into some history about Drive-by-Truckers, a band whose catalog I know well and intimately. None of that had anything to really do with the question demanded of me, and if she reads what I write she should already know those things.

But I felt like I needed to flex, maybe just a little. I even graciously ignored the misnomer when she backpedaled, aware of my frustration from this interrogation, because obviously, she, too, liked the “Highwaywomen.” It was clear here I entered some weird pissing match I didn’t want to be in in the first place. “I thought I was in the tree of trust, were we not…?” That’s a Will Farrell reference.

So here we were: The toxicity of the “name three songs” mentality. It’s like demanding a baby in a Tupac shirt to cite their favorite album. And this was possibly one of the oddest places to try and flex worthiness, especially as I looked around us there truly wasn’t a person there who didn’t belong at this show and that was remarkable.

Anyhoo, I didn’t have much space to analyze why this was happening to me now. The time was ticking before I had to turn back into a pumpkin and return to reality; I was not about to waste it trying to prove myself to someone I shouldn’t have to in the first place. Music, to me, is a common denominator between people and dammit, I was going to leave this night still believing that.

Turns out, cheese curds and beer and dancing was a perfect redirect. Brandi played all the hits I clearly was too dumb to know, but I thought she looked amazing and sounded even better. Her band truly can hold their own. There were emotional moments and peace. I almost pissed my pants laughing at absolutely nothing in particular. She covered Queen and told a few lightly comedic anecdotes. The photos I have from the evening include an accidental video from inside the porto. I was in bed by 11PM. Like any fun adventure could, it even ended the next day with a flat tire on my car.

It’s one thing to be appropriating and quite another to miss an opportunity to organically imprint good tunes on one another. And while I think we showed good recovery here, it’s an apt reminder that the best music bonds are rooted in love.