Josh Ritter is the happiest person on earth.
He is definitely the happiest person in Portland’s Crystal Ballroom. He is happier than anyone I can see. He is certainly happier than I am. And I feel pretty happy at the moment. But Ritter is happy in another way, a way that says he knows something we all don’t. Maybe he does.
Josh Ritter is touring on the release of his newest album. The tour buses parked outside near Burnside are large, but modest. Right now, he is running up and down the unmarked aisle, leaping back on stage with ease, singing his folk-inspired rock tunes with such a free, shit-eating grin, it is impossible to not enjoy his performance.
I’m not a huge Josh Ritter fan. I own one of his albums and I do not remember buying it. My friend Natalie was given two tickets to see Ritter on this Wednesday night and she asked me up to Portland from Salem. The ripped album I own is one that I enjoy, so I decided to drive up I-5 after work and made it to a MAX stop in 47 minutes. I had just enough time to ride with Natalie into downtown Portland, get off, and walk up the three flights of stairs to McMenamin’s Crystal Ballroom.
For a mid-week show of mellow acoustic rock, the place is packed. Natalie and I stand near the back. We stuff my puffy Patagonia jacket into her purse and I buy a two-dollar bottle of water at the bar. We stand next to a bored security guard and hundreds of twenty-to-thirty-year-old dudes and gals, everyone wondering what to do with our hands and feet. Acoustic rock is great music, and Ritter is a remarkable songwriter, but the genre does not lend itself easily to any particular movement. There is no jumping around, no moshing, no cha-cha slide. As a fan at this type of show, you have few options on how to outwardly respond to the music, to let the artist know you dig what’s going on. Standing with arms crossed makes you look uninterested. Arms dangling by your side just feels awkward and can too easily lead to an accidental butt-graze on a passerby. Hand-holding works for couples, but Natalie is not that kind of friend-who-is-a-girl. So, as I usually do during these types of show, I just put my hands in my pockets, my eyes half-open, and tap my feet on the bouncy Crystal Ballroom floor.
For some reason, I want to respond; I feel like I have a responsibility to do so. I want to let Ritter know I am happy to be here, even though I know he’ll never see my pigeon dance and smile more because of it. I want to communicate to the artist who is trying to communicate something to me. Because, I think, a show is meant to be less about entertainment and more about a connection.
Natalie must be thinking about the same thing. She leans in just before the solo section of the set and whispers in my ear a question that has obviously been forming in her head since we first got in from the dry cold. She says, “Michael, isn’t it incredible that all these people are here at the same time to enjoy this show? Why? There are people with all different experience, from different places, at different ages, all here to listen to music. We are listening to the SAME THING at the SAME TIME! Why, huh? Why do people show up at concerts, what makes people stay up late and clap for organized noise and some thoughtful words? There has to be some kind of thread, don’t you think? What is it?”
I smile and do not answer. The show carries on from soft jams, leading to electric anarchy, on to some mic-less folktales about mummies waking and love-making at the end of the world, they even play the chorus of the Talking Heads’ “Once In A Lifetime,” and through it I cannot shake the question. By the time we go downstairs for a beer and a burger, I think I have an answer.
“Natalie,” I say. “I think I have an answer.”
“You have an answer?”
“Yeah. To your question, about why people come out to concerts.” We order our beer and our burger. “Okay,” Natalie says. “What is it? What is the thread?”
“Josh Ritter knows stuff. That’s why people come out to shows. Because the artist knows something and they state the fact that they know something through a song. The song doesn’t have to be personal, or factual, or even have lyrics. The whole point is that he knows something about the world, just enough to put some words to it, a few chords to it, some noise to it, enough to get some guys to play along to the goodness of knowing something. People show up to be reminded that someone knows something. And, I think, it is good know to that someone knows something. Because if Josh Ritter knows something, then maybe I know something too.”
I cannot tell if Natalie agrees or not. She says that is an interesting way to think about it. We eat our burgers and drink our beer and watch the cars on the road. Natalie asks me thoughtful questions and I try to give thoughtful answers. I organize my mind as best as I can in the midst of clanking glass, shifting headlights through a dirty window, loud music coming from the bar, and louder music coming out the kitchen. I seem to talk in circles, but Natalie seems to understand me and she tells me what I’m saying makes enough sense. She nods her heads and smiles with her eyes closed.
And now, as I write this, I think about the idea of knowing stuff. And it seems like the most important aspect of making music, art, writing novels and stories, retelling conversation shared over unhealthy amounts of red meat and fried potatoes. I think about why people go to church, why they read novels about people who never existed, how they sit alone and listen to records. I think about one interview I did with a singer and songwriter named Eric Anderson. He performs under the name Cataldo and once said something very interesting about his album, Signal Flare.
He said to me, “Some people like to write about questions and uncertainty. I write about stuff that I know. I like to write music that says, ‘hey everyone, look at this thing I discovered, this part of life I found to be true.’ That’s a signal flare, you know. That light in the sky I shot to say I know something.”
Eric Anderson is also a happy person and an incredible songwriter, and I think that is because he has figured out he knows something. For him, it feels good to know something and it make sense for him to write pop songs about the things he knows. That’s why, I think, I enjoy his shows so much. Through my half-closed eyes, I can the signal flare floating above the stage, yellow and red, and it feels good to know that someone knows something. Because if Eric Anderson knows something, why not me?
Natalie and I finish our food and walk through the rain that is just beginning to fall and floats like gnats on a spring afternoon. We zig-zag back to the MAX station by Pioneer Courthouse Square. We don’t know when the train is scheduled to arrive, but the lady in a gray sweatsuit does and she is happy to tell us.
