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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

"Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young -- Live : Charlotte N.C. 7:00 p.m. Thursday March 16th, 2000"

Was this possible? Just seeing the words made it seem like someone had been brought back to life. Someone who's collective identity had lived in the imagination of my youth.

By the time I was listening to CSNY in 1974 at the ripe old age of 13 they had already gone their separate ways. The band had separated just before the release of their milestone album "4 Way Street" earlier that year. I was, of course, just beginning to dabble in popular music at the time, but I had successfully raided my older brother's album crates enough to know that what I heard was something very special: a voice and a sound and a message that spoke to me in a way that no music had before. It was music that said something of who I was and wanted to be.

In the vernacular of the times, "I had found my band."

The "Streets" of CSNY would intersect several times in the coming decades, mostly on the corner that was Crosby, Stills and Nash, but never as the whole group. These were, nevertheless, welcome reunions to those of us who cherished the inspired combination of soaring vocal harmonies and powerful guitar work that was the fruit of the four original members together.

Combined with the amazing body of material originally created in just three years by the group and the extraordinary independent work of Neil Young, a CSNY fan could get by OK. But any hope of the four sitting down on the same stage together quickly faded into the distant horizon of some happy mythical kingdom.

Seeing their names all on the banner before me again just didn't seem right. It really was a raising from the dead. It seemed so improbable. Had they ever really been alive?

I blinked incredulously at the screen.

Between the years 1974 to 1984 I would have traded half of what I owned to have seen those guys together, which admittedly at that time was not particularly much. By the time I graduated high school I think the estate amounted to a '68 Camaro, a Yamaha guitar and some pretty worn out camping gear. But I'd have cashed the better part of it in -- and here I was now waffling on whether or not I should go.

"Charlotte? Hmmm ... On a Thursday night? Hmmm ... Was that do-able? Hmmm ..."

The voice of reason or the spirit or the devil -- depending on your musical taste -- finally spoke:

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!!!

"GO!!! ... BUY THEM NOW -- BOTH OF THEM -- IT WILL WORK OUT ... BUY THEM NOW!!!.

"GO!!!"

I pondered a moment longer.

"GOOOO!!!!!!!," said the voice . "FOR HEAVENS SAKE!!!"

So I clicked and VOILA! The tickets were mine.

But it wasn't a cheap click. We don't really want to talk about that part.

Sooner or later the wife is bound to read this, and although she was the first choice to benefit from my mid-life musical crisis, (as our tastes in such matters are mostly mutual), her maternal obligations to the youngest of our tribe would preclude her from becoming part of any such outing. I think she said something about being happy for me. If she knew what it cost I have a feeling her "happiness" would be somewhat diminished.

I had four days to come up with a plan. It took me four seconds.

Call Buzz.

Buzz is one of those dear friends who always comes through in the clutch. He's also the guy that when given an opportunity or reason to revel is not likely, short of ill health, to say no. He is also a huge fan of the band in question. Being employed by USAirways and able to be anywhere on the planet for free with two days notice didn't hurt his chances either.

It was Sunday afternoon. I found him on his sofa in Ellicott City, Md. I did not finish my sentence.

"YES!" he interrupted. "I'll call you right back."

Ten minutes later the deal was sealed.

Buzz and I met at the front of the Charlotte Coliseum at exactly 8:00 p.m., five minutes before show time. We availed ourselves of beverages and munchies and descended the steps to our pricey yet extraordinary seats. As we did so the tall, lanky silhouette of Neil Young strode across the wide stage -- the first powerful bars of "Carry On" coming to life through his fingers as the rest of the band emerged from the shadows. Stephen Still's lonesome Stratocaster came singing across the years to join him and not a goosebump in the house lay flat. Voices young and old joined together to welcome the harmonies and the spirit that had somehow laid dormant beneath the surface all this time. We were headed to the mountaintop.

It sounds hopelessly trivial, but a tear rose to my eyes as I soaked in the rebirth of these guys. For music, which has such power to tear down as well as build up, can stir the soul in places that no other element of our worldly creation seems able to approach. And when it honors that better part of humanity that is a reflection of the divine, then the spirit dances wonderfully and joyously around us.

And so it was that night: four aging musicians reached back into their past, as well as our own, and brought something to life that to some was just the playing of some pretty good music written many years ago -- and to others a moment that they knew words would never well describe.

Suffice to say, trading that Camaro would've been worth it.