We had to leave the John Prine concert early to catch the last train home, which sounds like the beginning of a John Prine song. We didn't get to hear the last few songs or the encore. I would have liked to hear it all, but what I heard and experienced was food for my soul.

I am one of those folks who were "folkies" back in the 70's. I was underage and faking my way into Earl's and The Quiet Knight. I wondered if I had only imagined how wonderful and profound it was, and how simple.

"Day time

makes me wonder why you left me

Night time

makes me wonder what I said

Next time

are the words I'd like to plan on, but

Last time

was the only thing you said."

Waukegan, where we saw the concert, felt a little like Mars. Nothing open except the theater, and we were smack dab in the middle of downtown Waukegan. After we ate at Fong's, we started over to the theater and while there may have been 10 or 12 cars on the street, we didn't see any need for the police to block the road in front of the theater. But they did. Inside we were overwhelmed with assistance. Ushers (mostly elderly, it must be said) were so helpful it made you feel as if they were setting you up for some very strange goings on.

"Come right in - just go right in - we'll get you all in real quick" spoken in rushed and slightly panicked voices with the subtext of "WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THESE PEOPLE?" Maybe this was a larger than normal crowd. Maybe they were concerned about us. Maybe this was Mars.

In our seats the lights dimmed for the opener, Iris DeMent. Big applause. The audience seemed very excited to see her.

But evidently in Mars, when everyone is in their seats, there's a custom that as soon as the lights go down, you get up and leave the theater in groups. I have never seen anything like it. Up and down and out and in and groups of 5 guys and couples and they were all in a hurry. It got to the point that I was sure I was missing some give away in the lobby. Then we were in intermission and people were literally hurling themselves out of their seats to get - well, I'm not sure where they were going or what they hoped to find there but they were determined to get there NOW. We'd been sitting there for 45 minutes, tops. Maybe there was a bomb scare we hadn't heard about. Maybe they have extremely weak bladders on Mars.

Finally - lights down, stage lights up and forget about Mars, I was home. And so was everyone else. With no introduction John Prine walked onstage with his bassist and guitar player to a tremendous ovation. And this crazy, unsettled, attention deficit audience became laser focused on his every word, motion and note.

I've been to lots of concerts, seen alot of live music. But there was something really special in this room. In the middle of a song, as Prine hit the lines that break your heart, people would applaud or scream out their appreciation. His songs aren't exactly upbeat if you aren't familiar with them. Best known is probably Angel From Montgomery. When he got to the lines:

"How the hell can a person

Go to work in the morning

Come home in the evening and

Have nothing to say?"

the audience couldn't wait till the end of the song to let him know how much they loved those words and voiced their opinion right then.

I suppose I wouldn't have been surprised if the lyrics had been:
"I'm proud to be an Okie from Muskokie" or
"I'm proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free."

But Prine's lyrics are sad and lonely and cut so close to the bone that it makes you want to inhale like your heart just got a paper cut.

"That's the way that the world goes 'round.
You're up one day and the next you're down.
It's half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown.
That's the way that the world goes 'round."

Throughout the night, I had a sense that somewhere there was a phantom group of back-up singers. But everytime I heard it, it seemed to stop. I realized that it was the audience, singing along softly. They didn't want to get in the way of his performance, but it wasn't enough to hear these songs, they wanted to share them.

"There's a hole in Daddy's arm

Where all the money goes

Jesus Christ died for nothing, I suppose.

Little pitchers have big ears

Don't stop to count the years

Sweet songs never last too long

On broken radios"

The audience reaction reminded me of the poetry slam I attended last week. Tim was competing in Louder Than A Bomb, the world's largest teen poetry slam. As each one of the young authors got up, the others would applaud in support, as if they were not competing against each other for just a few slots to go to the national bout. And as each performer left the stage the others would rush to their side to hug and congratulate them for capturing and reflecting life so it could be experienced anew. These pieces are rooted in hip-hop rhythms and when they are really good you feel like you can dance to them. Response is built-in and invited and the audience knows and obliges. During each poem, the rapt attention was broken only when the performer put words, rythym, movement and voice together to touch us with images or ideas that were so true there was nothing to do but yell or applaud or stomp feet or slam tables in recognition and appreciation.

That reaction might be expected from a bunch of teenagers. But not at a concert filled with 50-something folks. We know how to wait till the song is over to applaud, to hold our appreciation, to be cool. But song after song, the audience couldn't hold back their feelings. And these voices were mostly male. Grown men sang along in profound recognition of the shared truth in Prine's lyrics.

"Well, I leaned on my left leg

in the parking lot dirt

And Cathy was closing the lights

A June bug flew from the warmth he once knew

And I wished for once I weren't right

Why we used to laugh together

And we'd dance to any old song.

Well, ya know, she still laughs with me

But she waits just a second too long."

Jeanette Winterson, in her book of essays called Art Objects, writes that art does object to "the lie against life that it is pointless and mean. The message coloured through time is not lack but abundance, Not silence but many voices. Art, all art is the communication cord that cannot be snapped by indifference or disaster. Against the daily death it does not die."

Yes. And when we see, hear or read such objections , we are compelled to shout our assent right then. Even on Mars.

Dad is 80

First day of kindergarten, you walked me to school and I got on a bus to come home. Afterwards in the kitchen you and mom, asking over and over again, WHY would you get on a bus? I walked you there, I told you I would pick you up - and you were both upset and I didn't know why I thought I should get on a bus. Finally you told me to go play. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

I thought I saw you smiling but when I turned around you were just looking at me and you said go on now, go play.

I got in trouble in 1st grade and knew I’d be in trouble with you and so I stopped at the candy store and bought you root beer penny candy and you said what is this for and I said nothing and you said what is this for and I said I love you and you said what is this for and I said I got in trouble today and you said we will talk about this later and I went to my room. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

You told me not to go down the Parkside stairs one at a time cuz they were cement stairs and I could go down them one at a time when I was big and I figured I was already big and I went down them one at a time and after you picked me up and after you put spoons on my head and after you bandaged my eye you told me that I should have listened to you. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

We were playing tent, or dress designer, and you flew upstairs and yelled at us WHY was the sheet off the bed and Get to sleep NOW and don’t let me hear another peep and Deb said peep and you came back and yelled again. But, I thought I saw you smiling.

It had been a day and we hadn’t been listening and we had been bickering and nothing seemed to slow us down and mom said wait till your father comes home and you came home and you called us all down from our rooms and made us stand in line and you made me get the phone book and you told us you were looking up orphanages because this kind of thing could not go on in your house and you sent us back upstairs while you thought about it and told us to think about it. And I’m sure I saw you smiling.

I was really mad that we moved from the city, really mad and really unhappy and I cried and whined and moaned and you promised to take me to the library in “town” wherever that was and finally one day you did and I saw that the whole bookmobile that used to come by our house could fit in the lobby of this new library and when we drove home you asked me if I liked it I said I guess so. Oh, yeah, you were smiling.

Plenty of times when I was a teenager we would fight for hours, or I would fight and you would read your newspaper until you couldn’t stand it anymore and neither one of us was laughing then. But there were some times where we would disagree and it felt like playing volleyball and we passed the ball back and forth for awhile until you got tired and getting in a good pass was exhilarating even tho you would slam it back twice as hard. And I think I saw you smiling.

That smile I’m talking about is the one that says you’re getting a kick out of something. It isn’t meant for anyone else to see and it comes with a slight shake of the head. It is equal parts amusement and amazement and it is really, really good and most of us have seen it when you are talking to one of us about another one of us.

I can make people laugh, and when it is just right, when I have put the timing and the words and the tone and the look together just right and everybody roars and I can hear people saying afterwards when they think I’m not listening, she is so funny, I look back. And …I know I see you smiling.

Happy Birthday, Dad.