Coming into Bass Hall

As I left Bass Hall last night, I commented to C, “This was like going to church, only better.” Her reply: “Waaaay better!”

The Arlo Guthrie concert was brilliant in every way. As we were waiting to enter the hall, C said “These people look like they might have gone to college with us.” Yes, the crowd was decidedly middle-aged, with a few younger folks in tow, as well as a few older folks with canes. We looked at the merch and I wanted a “Solo reunion Tour” t-shirt but talked myself out of it; how many t-shirts does one woman need? Anyway, our seats were perfect – the first row on the second orchestra section. Too bad the geezer beside me with either dead or asleep – must have been a dragged-along husband.

Of course I can’t remember the set list, but I do know Arlo played The Motorcycle Song (aka The Pickle Song), City of New Orleans, St James Infirmary, Coming Into Los Angeles, Green Green Rocky Road, The Alice’s Restaurant Massacree, among others. The last song of his set was This Land is Your Land. For the encore he taught us a song that his dad wrote but never set to music, then led us in a sing-along. I wish I could remember the words, but my infamously sieve-like memory has let them trickle out overnight. “My Peace” is the title. While his songs mostly touched my heart, his stories touched my funny-bone. Lord, he’s a great storyteller. C and I hadn’t laughed so much in a long time.

And at intermission? I did buy a t-shirt.