In August 1980, just before classes began at Colorado State, my husband (then a relatively new love interest) and I and group of friends jumped into the back of someone’s old pickup with a gallon of the old kind of mezcal (with the worm) and warm lemonade (yeah, college students move) and headed to Red Rocks Amphitheater to see Santana. A late start plus miscalculations about travel time along the 75 or so miles meant that our parking spot was in the back of one of the lots. Upon arrival, we were told that, due to weather, the concert was being moved to the Denver Coliseum. Obviously, sets were simpler then.

Our delayed arrival paid off. We were among the first to leave, to arrive at the Coliseum, and then to race into the general admission “seating” where we were able to stand at the stage. If allowed, and I asked, I could have jumped up to sit at Carlos' feet.

Our much younger ears didn’t balk at the proximity to the speakers and the passion and musical power of a much younger Carlos was jaw-droppingly impressive. That night’s version of “Europa” was so lovely and long and luxurious, that we wondered how it would have sounded at Red Rocks.
​
Last weekend, and 43 years later (!), we did not, unfortunately, hear “Europa,” but the tall, layered Creation and Ship Rocks on either side of the arena sent “Samba Pa Ti” straight into my heart. Carlos is still able to bend his strings, to pull out the sweetness of his guitar like no other. And his wife, the effing amazing drummer Cindy Blackman, was in the house, wowing us with her energetic solos and seamless rhythms with the other percussionists. Stellar. Who needs MDMA, when Carlos can bring his audience so naturally into ecstasy.

As a person who has thrilled at the opportunity for new experiences and connecting with people and cultures different than mine, our Hudson High School New Dimensions class trip to Manhattan in 1978 had me ramped up with excitement from the time our bus dropped us off at our midtown hotel. Walking in the Lower East Side, hearing my first opera (Carmen at Lincoln Center), the shows and street venders of Broadway, looking across the city from the World Trade Center observation area . . . it all opened my spirit and my heart.

And, then, we spent an afternoon in Harlem. . . the Harlem Gospel Choir, whose powerful, emotive voices resounded in the small church, sitting along the edge of the studio as the Dance Theater of Harlem practiced, under the direction of Arthur Mitchell. There was something about this area of the city that took me to another level – a combination of happiness and an undefinable sense of recognition and sense of place.

NYC has called me back so many times over the years. . . day trips from my husband’s family home in PA, visiting my son at NYU, conferences for the Women’s Caucus for Art, The Feminist Art Project and the UN, my daughter’s camp at Barnard, visiting friends who live in the West Village. And, each time I find myself in Harlem, for art or the blues or restaurants, I felt that inexplicable awareness and appreciation for its history and challenges and cultures and people.

Around the same time my son and his partner were considering apartments in the Harlem area, I heard Tedeschi Trucks’ “Midnight in Harlem” for the first time. I found myself in tears. I still can’t fully describe the reason. I felt it right that they should live there. That didn’t come to be. They found something else in the area. And, this is more about my own reaction to Harlem. But, that song and others by that band have found themselves in frequent rotation on my playlists and hearing them live became a goal.

I thought that goal would be realized in NYC, but, perhaps even better, at least acoustically, it happened last weekend at Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Morrison, Colorado. The amazing architecture of natural rock and skillfully designed sound systems – funneled the soulful sound into my body, expanding it and bringing forth, again, tears of connection.
​
I may never know why Harlem does this to me. For now, I am grateful for the experiences it has created for me and in me.

Feeling nostalgic and grateful today after watching the 2023 remastered 40th anniversary version of The Talking Heads’ “Stop Making Sense” concert film. In 1985, the album was still relatively new to my friends and me. The mix of rhythms, funk, punk and experimentally courageous music was a fitting sound track for my partner and me. We chose to play it on repeat for our going-away gathering as we danced around our apartment complex’s pool, marking a huge leap of faith for us.
 
I had graduated with my political science degree two years prior and was working for a Houston City Council member. He had only been working for about 9 months as a pharmacist. Yet, we decided to commit to at least a 5-year (which became 8) return to a student life style to build a different life together. The challenges were real – financially, and, for me, for the first 5 years, socially.  But, out of that time came 3 years of mothering a loving and amazing son, getting pregnant with our daughter, beautiful hiking, mountain & rock climbing and a fabulous exploration of life with a women’s circle in Portland, Oregon. And, then. . . we found our forever home in Billings, Montana, where our daughter was born and I found so many open-hearted people, fed my soul, like last week, hiking and camping in our nearby, glorious mountains and connected to meaningful social, environmental and creative projects.
 
The power of music. To touch our souls. To create a pause. To help us remember.