The Soundtrack of Our Lives

I went to see the Eagles at Sphere with Zita.

These are songs I’ve known for years. All of them longer than Zita and I have known each other.

And there was nothing old about the night.

I remember singing Elton John songs with my family in the car—on trips, driving home from church. I loved those songs before I understood what they were saying.

“Crocodile Rock.”
“Rocket Man.”
“Your Song.”

Years later, hearing Elton John in Las Vegas, I heard the words differently. By then, I had a history to apply them to.

The feelings began to mash together: the boy in the family car, the man sitting in the audience, everything that had happened between them.

That is what music does. It waits for you to catch up.

Then my heart caught the rhythm.

I began swaying with the crowd, all of us moving together like wheat in Dad’s fields.

That is one of the things Las Vegas does remarkably well.

It gives you another chance to see the people who made the soundtrack of your life—and sometimes puts them somewhere that makes the music feel completely new again.

At Sphere, the room became part of the performance.

The stage looked tiny beneath mountains. The walls disappeared. Songs I could probably recognize in three notes suddenly had an entirely new landscape around them.

But that isn’t really why I’ll remember the night.

I’ll remember going with Zita.

I’ll remember knowing the words.

I’ll remember looking over at each other when one of those songs started.

There’s something different about finally hearing music you’ve carried around for decades performed by the people who put it into your life in the first place.

That’s the reason to go while you still can.

You aren’t the same age you were when you first heard them either.

Everyone comes through town.

Cher.
Rod.
Barry.

But I also think about the ones who never got to play for me.

Tony.
Nina.
Old Blue Eyes.

Las Vegas can bring the past into the room and put it under the lights.

But even this city cannot make every curtain rise again.