With five days remaining, today I was to write a poem about my experience hearing live music, such as in a professional or amateur concert, and to tell how it moved me.

Unforgettables

Growing up, there was often live music at the bars frequented by my family. I recall some talks I had with musicians when I was too young, but I never learned to play. Not even garages only. Concerts were free at college, and we went. Cool late sixties vibes.

Might have been at the Cash crash when drunk Johnny may have shown or not. Me too.

Mom visited us in Cowtown, downtown, to see Mom’s fav, Marty Robbins, open for Merle (Robbins called him Murial) Haggard, who my wife preferred, I think. Don’t recall if we saw Elvis there before or after, but we did.

Good lawdy, Stella, all these folks ‘er dead. But not Willie. 91. Don’t recall seein’ Willie live, but that don’t mean I didn’t. We been to Abbott. Carl’s Corner, too. We looked. Where’s Willie? I remember. Hell yeah! I was there because it won’t ever happen again.

Willie was in a suit with short hair, performing at The Louisiana Hayride in the late 60s, now that I wear my 55+ memory beanie. It was his pre-outlaw time.

I’m so damn old that all the concerts I wanna go to will be in the cemetery. Ghost concerts? Kinda goth, but what a hoot?

Look both ways and if you can afford five hundred for an old fart’s live concert,
good on ya. Mind the gaps because live music has a time limit.

This is long, but it’s an interesting story when you have the time.