Arriving a few hours early, we found the stage in a corner of the village park. We set up our folding chairs in a prime spot, then headed off to grab dinner from vendors pitched around the concert venue.
Another typical small-town festival, with the usual menu of funnel cakes, lemon shakeups and deep-fried everything. The prices, however, caught us by surprise -- two weeks ago and less than ten miles away, we'd paid twice as much for the same fair fare.
Toting coney dogs and onion rings, we returned to our chairs in front of the stage, where another local band was performing a strange mix of covers, from Led Zeppelin to Donna Summer, from 4 Non Blondes to B-52s.
They were, in a word, awful.
As much as I hate to say that about any musician, "awful" doesn't begin to describe how bad they were. This wasn't let's-get-up-and-leave bad. I'm talking please-somebody-suffocate-me-with-a-tennis-ball bad.
My most charitable observation would be, "They looked like they were having a good time," but no band that bad should be allowed to have that much fun -- ever.
They played long by 20 minutes.
About an hour after the torture ended, McGuffey Lane took the stage, and immediately became engaged in a frustrating tug-of-war with the sound guy, who couldn't seem to route the right audio to the band's monitors -- a lingering curse from the opening act. Although the scene threatened to get ugly at one point, eventually the problem was solved (or at least tolerated), and the band played on.It's been a long time since I first took in a McGuffey Lane set at the old Zachariah's Red-Eye Saloon, and I've already paid tribute to its influence on my musical odyssey. Last night's performance proved that "The Lane," after three decades' time, is better than ever.
I had the pleasure of working with lead singer and guitarist John Schwab in a professional capacity several years ago, and we became friendly. Now, whenever my wife and I attend one of John's shows, whether he's solo or with the band, he never fails to give us a personal shout between songs.After the first set last night, we ducked backstage to say hello, and John greeted us with his customary hugs, warmth and humor. Mrs. KintlaLake and I had just stepped away to allow others to have a moment with him when our older spawn and three of his friends showed up, and we'd hoped to introduce them to John.
The six of us hovered for a minute or two, ultimately deciding that the crowd was too big and time was too short to impose -- but apparently John had been keeping an eye on us, and as we were leaving he called us back. He took the time to greet each of our next-generation companions before bounding back onto the stage.
That brand of kindness is rare in this world -- John, you have my respect and my gratitude.
McGuffey Lane's second set was brilliant, as expected. Driving home, we basked in the warm glow of the evening's experience, vowing to let less time pass before catching another show.
