The Superfan.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of seeing – nay, witnessing a My Morning Jacket show at Stubb’s. They are my favorite, favorite band, and have been since they rocked me to the core for the first time at Irving Plaza in New York back in 2004. I’ve seen them many times since, and each experience has been a true gem. From their crazy oversized costumes at Bonnaroo to the Jim James/M. Ward/Conor Oberst acoustic set at the Paramount to their intimate ACL taping, I have felt utterly connected to this band, their music, and their message. I’ve had few experiences more transcendent in my life, and to be in their presence, to witness their craft, is always a most special treat.

I was nervous on the evening of the show. I often get a little stressed out by crowds and details, especially where music is concerned, something I’ve come to call “event tension.” It's a bit OCD, yes, but my ultimate goal is always to enjoy things to their fullest. My boyfriend and I arrived relatively early for this sold out show, but when we settled into a location with our group, we were a little farther back than I had envisioned. On the other hand, a couple of other friends had stationed themselves on the second row, which was far closer than I had envisioned. Complete sonic immersion was my main concern, but when faced with the choice of making my extremely supportive boyfriend into a sardine and sharing the experience with our group of friends, I stalled until I had no other choice but to stay put.

As the music started and the window for forward motion closed, I started to mentally kick myself for not taking that leap and moving closer to the stage. Recognizing the futility of that kind of thinking, I grasped hold of that negativity and began to will myself onto the positive side. It wasn’t difficult, what with the sparkling soundscape coming off the stage, and soon I began to feel like I was in exactly the right place.

Very shortly I noticed a guy about ten feet in front of me who was already bordering on obnoxious, not even three songs in. Fist pumping, jumping, singing along to every word. How annoying. My mood was already fragile enough. Once again I willed myself into a positive mindframe.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was directly in front of my face, right between me and Jim James, so I actually couldn’t help it. Quickly I began to realize that as much as I should be, I wasn't scowling – I was smiling. He was so utterly full of joy, so unabashedly, relentlessly IN LOVE with this music. He was GEEKING OUT. At one point he actually turned around, clasped his hands over his heart, and animatedly told his friends he was in “true love.” Each song was meticulously choreographed with a battery of rock star moves including much pointing, bouncing in rhythm, and all manner of syncopated clapping, with the occasional spin-around. He could have won any air guitar championship, hands down, and he never seemed to get tired, even during the slow songs. The shirt he wore had the words GET BACK emblazoned on it in yellow. Indeed.

Who was this guy? Where did he come from? There must have been some musical theatre somewhere in his life. He probably at some point played the role of Danny in Grease. Maybe he was a mascot for a college sports team. So strong was his resolve, he even got the surrounding frat boys to dance with him, grabbing the shoulders of the dudes in front of him until they finally gave in to his energy, and by the end he had a whole shameless chorus of backup dancers. Other guys were bringing him beers, and he was so, so grateful. He shared that spirit with everyone and thus he didn’t have to miss one single second of the show.

Moreover, this guy and I had something important in common, a solidarity that transcends social norms. I have to say, I’ve probably been that guy to someone else in a faraway, more intoxicated time. I definitely know all the words to all the songs and all the chords and solos too, and I certainly have my own little choreographed moves. My dancing, of course, is far, far less overt, but I’m sure I enjoy a show with more gusto than most of the people around me.

The Jacket is a force. It is pure elation coursing through your blood, through each and every molecule of your being. By the encore I was actually weeping with joy. Any shadow of tension had dissolved in swirling guitars, elevated by the joyous freedom of this young man. It electrified every cell in my body. Truly, they transmit a magic that fits my soul like a puzzle piece. I don’t know how it happens, but it never fails. I hang on to every note, giggle as spontaneously as a child, bend to the will of the music in the simplest, purest, Baptism of Rock. The hair flying, the highs and lows, the rambling tangents, this is what it takes for them to get that sound, that otherworldly expression out of their bodies and into my ears. Their spirit possesses me in a way I cannot describe. The synchronization of their efforts connects me to something larger than myself, and when music can do that, it's good. Really good. So good it might just make you dance with complete abandon, eyes closed, ears open, waving your hands at the sky like some blissed-out churchgoer. It's not much different. That, you can believe.