Barnes celebrated the 20th anniversary of his sophomore album, Chasing Mississippi. 

Doors opened at 6pm and the show started at 8. You might think that doors opening 2 hours before the show is plenty of time, but 3rd & Lindsley serves as a bar & grill just as much as a concert venue. Many people get there when doors open to sit at a table (the best seats and views in the house). They’ll settle in, order drinks, and have dinner in order to claim their spot. If you get there, say, 30 minutes before the show starts, odds are the tables and seats will be filled and you may be met with either an awkward standing-room-only experience, or if you’re feeling bold and friendly, ask to join someone else’s table. Southern hospitality is real, y’all. Don’t shy away from this alternative if push comes to shove.

With no more room for stragglers, the show started promptly at 8pm as Matt Wertz joined the stage. He briefly introduced himself, acknowledged his longtime friendship with Barnes, and jumped right into the music. Wertz played beloved songs that he is known for from the early 2000s like Red Meets Blue, Marianne, and of course 5:19, which he closed the show with. The crowd was full of millennials who likely lived out their years of nostalgia at this show, me included. It’s still up for debate whether Matt Wertz played his beloved, classic hits in honor of Dave’s 20th anniversary album show, or because he knew that’s how the crowd best knows him. Maybe it was a mix of both. Either way, Matt Wertz simple acoustic set and rich voice permeated through 3rd & Lindsley while the crowd listened and sang along. The best word I can use to describe Wertz’s set and the connection with the crowd is “pleasant.” His voice was pure and gentle, and there seemed to be a simple understanding with the crowd that just Wertz and an acoustic guitar was the best (and only) way to enjoy his music.

After a tight 35 minute set there was a 10 minute transition. Perfect timing to grab another drink or get the courage to join a table if you were left standing during the opener. 

Barnes entered the stage at 8:45pm and took the room. He introduced the evening and his band, setting the tone that he would take some time between each song to talk about where it came from or how it was recorded. The room filled with gushes of awws after stating that the album was, in essence, the story of him falling in love with his wife, who was from and lived in Mississippi at the time (aww). He thanked his family and fans for 20 years of Chasing Mississippi before jumping into his set.

If you’re familiar with Dave Barnes, you know he is part musician, part artist, and part comedian. Not surprisingly, he took any moment he could to make the evening just as much of a stand up comedy set as he did an intimate concert. Barnes’s humor is unique, though, unlike true stand-up comedians. His remarks are authentic and spontaneous, not rehearsed or rigid. He lets his honest thoughts fly (for better or worse) as he tells stories and becomes more comfortable on stage.

Barnes warned the crowd that he would be truly hitting the album from top to bottom, acknowledging it would make the show about a 40 minutes, or in other words, the shortest concert ever, so the stories in between would add to the texture of the night. A special component of the evening was his introduction of his band. Justin Rosolino on electric guitar and Ben Shive on keys were two of the original musicians that joined him on the creation of Chasing Mississippi back in 2006, making the evening that much more nostalgia-filled and rich.

Before we knew it, Barnes took us back to 2006 with Ed Cash in the studio, where they cut all vocals for the album in one day. Every story between each song until the whole album was exhausted created a unique experience for the concert-goer, one that will impact and stick with the audience longer than any stadium show with smoke and laser lights. A show like this has deep roots and reminds us that there’s so much more to music than music.

Thumbnail image by Devin Tolentino

But I’d argue, of all the thoughts about life and human experiences shared through a nonfiction lens, there is nothing more personal, vulnerable, and exposing as writing fiction. I have the utmost respect for fiction writers (and disinterest in writing fiction for this very reason. Plots, character development, the creating of new worlds or languages or colonies come from a deep sense of imagination and is a window into the soul of the writer. Coming up with the details that create a world that a reader gets to escape into takes boldness and courage to share hidden, personal elements that come from you heart, mind, and soul that started from nothing but your imagination, and that is a vulnerable thing to share with the world.

It piqued my curiosity and it caused me to wonder how a street gets its name. I swear I heard it whisper to me; it was either that or the wind. I think it was both. It called out to me louder and louder with every full rotation of the tire tread ripping up the carpet of dirt covering the asphalt. I slowed so I could see; it curved abruptly and the turn was muddled by trees. It looked like a vortex of turns and curves and trees; like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I took the magnetic right turn that was pulling my car towards it and started on the street called shortcut.

I experienced a whole day on this street.

Suddenly I’d been punched through the curve. I was gliding around the other side of the curve where tree branches hung lower but the trunks stood taller. I was wrapped up in a corkscrew coil of road, not knowing which way was up. The fog grappled so low over the street it tripped up my tires. And the bucks and does, I swear, they danced gracefully and maybe even smiled. They didn’t bolt, they weren’t skittish. Through my windshield hazed by condensation and dew I saw them dancing like they were at a jubilee. The road kept on forever. If I stared too far beyond my windshield I simply saw the road and the trees meet into a pinhole black speck, so I kept driving, and driving, and driving.The air was wet and the road was dense, and the dirt was compacted richly, like it was chocolate cake batter ready to be eaten off the spoon. My car, I think, was flying, or maybe it was gliding. I felt somewhere in the middle of safely grounded and freely suspended, moving whimsically without a direction, without fear of what was ahead, just enjoying the drive.

Turning off the street was a funny thing. I couldn’t tell if I had turned around and exited the way I entered or if I was spit out on the other end; it all blended magnificently into one. I couldn’t tell deja vu from something new. Suddenly I was back on my commutable roads, the ones that don’t shine like Shortcut does. The ones where I get stopped at red lights and the trees are typical in size. How could a street like Shortcut do so much in so little time? I experienced a whole day on that street.

Curiosity and an, “I wonder how a street gets its name?” is all it took.

Sometimes the discomforting or inconveniences or interruptions are what we need to bring a sense of balance back to our life. Things that slow us down in a world that riles us up.

It’s like getting stopped by a train when you’re in a hurry, or waiting for the red light to turn green. These are breaks in our lives that are good for us. It gives us a moment of pause, of reprieve, of recognizing that we have a choice to embrace the break that’s just been gifted us. Getting stopped by a train or burrowing in on a blustery and rainy day reminds us that our world doesn’t revolve around us. We are a (significant) moving part but not the main character. Perspectives shift and the world flips upside down for positive gain when we’re slowed down by the things in this world that take all the time in the world.

(Earlier today I complained about the rain and wind. I felt agitated and uncomfortable. But I’m reanalyzing it. It’s 6:36 in the evening and the sun is fading faster this time of year. The cold wind is making it difficult to type, but I’m sitting outside breathing in the crispest, freshest air I’ve ever touched and it’s electrifying the inside of my nose. I’m bundled under a blanket under a covered front porch, keeping me out of the elements. I swear I’m watching the leaves turn from Granny Smith green to candy apple red right before my eyes. There’s something about feeling your senses come alive and feeling grounded in the world around you, recognizing we are small and a piece of an always moving world. But today, the movement isn’t progress, it’s changing direction and causing me to slow down. Deciding to embrace the slowing down flipped my day around.

Gratitude changes everything.)

A relentless pursuit means not giving up. It means that we aren’t responsible for how someone feels, but we can pursue others with fervor, loving others and doing our part. Relentless pursuit might look like being consistent, gentle, responsive or receptive, inviting. Relentless pursuit has the connotation of not giving up in a fight, or staying headfast in challenges. It may come to that. Those waves that change the tide may come, but relentless pursuit can also mean steadiness, gentleness, selflessness, self control. Maybe relentless pursuit with others is an extension of love, of showing up, and of the fruit of the Spirit. If we treated our marriages, friendships, family relationships, even acquaintances or strangers, like our mail person or neighbor, with relentless pursuit how much more pleasant or content or steady or filled with joy might those relationships be (or people feel).

One is a desert where its mountains are rugged and brown with shadows carving out gnarled knuckles on each peak. The other is the south where its hills are rolling and carpeted in emerald green.

But, I noticed something between the two. At a certain time of evening, or maybe even a certain time of year, and certainly a certain distance away, both types of mountains blend into this gradient of slate blues and earthy purples, blending one ridge into the next like a Monet painting. From a zoomed out view of the world, which I think we can all go for a little more of in our lives, suddenly the mountain range of southern Arizona and the mountain range of Tennessee look similar, and I feel at home, no matter which is my view, because the one reminds me of the other just enough.

okends with our reality and life in the middle. But the thing about the sky is it feels more like a thought than an actual thing. With the ocean you can submerge under water, you can explore as much as you can explore but there is an end. There is a surface, and a rock bottom, and a reef, and a shoreline. It is a part of what makes Earth, Earth. But the sky. Yes, there are atmospheric layers and levels, yes you can penetrate through in a rocket ship to space like a deep dive into the depths of the ocean, but it feels different. It’s deep and vast but looks paper thin. You can fly through it, but what is it? Suddenly the bright blue sky, typically ordinary on a day like today, became extraordinary and took shape as a deeper mystery than the deepest part of the ocean that has gone untouched. I sat there watching the sky turn from powder blue paling in color until it turned subtly pink as if it were blushing from all the attention. It deepened in richness, like molten lava, and then cooled over into a deep purple, a graphite obsidian. Suddenly, something so simple that hangs over me like a canopy every day made me feel so small but so rooted.

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The hunt for prestigious small batch and big name whiskey is only growing. The culture has turned from a prohibition-era risk and reward approach to an innovative artistry that takes the rich heritage of whiskey and creates something inventive, inviting us to take a step back in time through a modernized experience.

That history is one of the most prominent notes of whiskey, intermixed among that of vanilla, oak, and apple. Beyond the legacy that big distilleries, like Buffalo Trace, established over a century before prohibition, we’ve maintained that legacy but have invented upon it, creating niche, local distilling experiences each with its own unique flagship and style.

Let’s discover three local distilleries that took the rich heritage of whiskey and turned it into the exploration of new frontiers.

Whiskey Del Bac

Tucson, Arizona

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• Mesquite

• Desert

• Char

• Southwest

• Rich

• Rugged

Whiskey Del Bac, the authentic whiskey of the three, is distilled and bottled in Tucson, Arizona. Whiskey Del Bac got its start from the Speyside region of Scotland, which, naturally, offers a more pungent, peaty aroma and taste. One question of curiosity turned into the most unique and niche whiskey experience west of the Mississippi.

The concept of using Mesquite wood, which has a distinct smoky flavor, instead of Peat, like you would for most scotch, began the evolution into a new frontier of whiskey, paying homage to its roots: native to the Sonoran desert.

Most great innovations start from curiosity. Dorado, Whiskey Del Bac’s flagship bottle was released in 2013. Dorado has notes of “desert campfire embers” from its barley that is malted and smoked over velvet mesquite fire.

New Riff

Newport, Kentucky

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• Urban

• Craft

• Refined

• Revitalized

• Innovative

New Riff, the Kentucky-born bourbon of the three, is a local distillery as north of Kentucky as you can get. Newport, the urban city resting up against the Ohio River, is the home of New Riff Distilling. New Riff preaches their revitalized and refined approach to bourbon. The tagline says it all. Their bourbon is “a new riff on an old tradition.”

They describe themselves as proud to be independent, and playing the long-term game to become one of the great small distilleries, even if there isn’t a gold medal or official title to declare it.

One of their greatest rewards from their risk was discovering a limestone water-bearing on the property the founder owns. They drilled a private well into the aquifer and gained a perfect, 58 degree, mineral-filled water source.

New Riff has reaped the benefits of freedom in their independence, opening up a world of innovation left to their discretion.

Chattanooga Whiskey

Chattanooga, Tennessee

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• Resilient

• Unconventional

• Unapologetic

• Adapative

• Appalachian

Chattanooga Whiskey regenerated the concept of bringing “Whiskey to the People” by becoming the first distillery in Chattanooga in over a century. Chattanooga has withstood the tumultuous prohibition restrictions. The state of Tennessee implemented prohibition ten years before the national prohibition, which caused a century-long fight to take back distilling laws in Chattanooga by 2012.

It’s said that necessity is the mother of invention, and when roadblocks arise, strategy and creativity is essential. Though the laws didn’t lift until 2012, Chattanooga Whiskey Co. was founded in 2011, using Indiana to help produce whiskey for them while they fought for the distilling laws to rescind.

Now for over ten years, Chattanooga Whiskey has embraced the industrial age of pushing boundaries and developing a historical and modern product for the Chattanooga community.

Hosting a dinner party can feel similar in terms of preparation and execution. There might be missed details, like too many appetizers and not enough bowls, dishes in the sink you wished you’d gotten to as your first few guests begin spilling through the front door, or the recipe that is still cooking through and didn’t got as planned. Yet, the friends and family filling up the living room and the sound of clanking glasses and chatter overshadow the scrambling in the kitchen hours before. In the moment, no one notices (or minds) the missed details. What makes the night perfect is the people and the presence. But, don’t count out the importance of deliberate preparation. To make guests feel comfortable, and create a memorable and warm atmosphere, sometimes too casual of an approach can have the opposite effect. Life is nothing if not a balance, after all.

When hosting a quintessential dinner party, the preparation is important, but relieve yourself of the pressure of reaching for perfection in the details. Most details will come together and, though some may not, it won’t puncture the evening. It’s the community and conversation that steals the show. Being extravagant versus being intentional is the difference between being perfect and prepared. Intentionality and preparation win every time compared to extravagance and perfection.

Quintessential refers to the most perfect or typical example of something. In the context of a dinner party, it would refer to an evening that embodies all the essential elements and characteristics that make it a memorable and enjoyable experience.

Let’s dissect a few elements of what makes a dinner party a quintessential, memorable one.

Pick your setting

Consider the season and weather during your dinner party. If it’s an autumn gathering and the forecast is warmer than normal, consider setting a place outside to set up tables, turn on stringed lights, and let the rich fall colors provide natural decor. If your party is set for the summer, consider the heat or humidity as a factor whether you choose an indoor or outdoor setting. When hosting your event outside, keep in mind the seasonal insects. Use citronella candles or have bug spray available to keep bugs off of your guest list.

When setting up inside, consider the place settings and number of chairs or tables needed. Consider the volume of your music or the number of lights turned on or off, making the ambiance comfortable and not too loud and bright, but not too dim and quiet. Again, oftentimes life is all about the balance.

Offer a variety of food

Offer variations that fit the season, the theme (if you have one), and the expectations of the evening. Are you throwing a full dinner party, fit with appetizers and an entrée with sides? Or are you offering light bites and small plates? Depending on the goal of your evening, make it clear to guests if they should munch ahead of time or if they can expect to be set for the “dinner” part of their evening plans with you. Unless you are offering a full-blown entrée, or even in the light bites scenario, consider adding multiple variations of food.

Think about offering various dips, a decadent cheeseboard, vegetables and fruit, meat and cheeses, and hot and cold options. Include elements that might cater to various types of foodies. Include light options, heavy options, vegetarian-friendly options, and meat-lover options. Offer a big salad of crunchy greens, fitting with the season, to add an element of freshness to your menu.

Know your guests. If you are unsure about gluten, dairy, or other allergies, simply ask! Otherwise, err on the side of caution and add texture to the menu by offering allergy-friendly food. No matter the circumstance, everyone will be grateful for options.

Have a drink station

When offering drinks, again — know your audience. Offer a variety of drink options: red wine, white wine, beer, a cocktail bar, and ensure to have plenty of non-alcoholic options. Make sure water is obvious and available, and offer lemonade, sparkling water, or a non-alcoholic juice cocktail as an alternative. Create a signature drink if the event calls for it. For instance, for a holiday party, offer a festive batch cocktail in a punch bowl or pitcher.

Have a station set with ice, plastic cups, and a permanent marker for guests to claim their cup.

When guests arrive and you are welcoming them in, guide them to the drink station providing them the options available. This will instantly make them feel welcomed and comfortable, like they won’t have to ask for a drink or a glass of water!

Consider the ambience

For your dinner party, consider the lighting and music that might help fill in gaps or set a comfortable tone throughout the evening. Pick a playlist that can play as a subtle undertone throughout the night, at a volume level that can be heard, but doesn’t over power the conversation. If there is ever a lull, it won’t feel like it if music is underlaying the evening. If the conversation stops and there is no music, it can feel startling how obvious the silence might feel!

Similar to music, consider the levels of lighting available to you. Light subtle candles throughout the space, but don’t let the sent overpower the food. Choose lighting that feels warm and just enough. Too much or too bright of light can feel sterile, and too dim of light can sometimes feel too formal.

Drop greenery or short vases of fresh flowers on side tables and counters to add another fresh element.

Include a wind down hour

Depending on the cadence and momentum of the evening (for instance, if there is not a 6:00 - 9:00pm end time established), consider offering a wind down hour with dessert, tea, decaf coffee, or even a digestif or nightcap.

This is a wonderful opportunity to thank your guests for joining, offering a natural way to taper off the night. And, it provides time to recount the valuable moments of community and conversation that just preceded.

The secret to hosting the quintessential dinner party is to make it your own. Be intentional and make your guests feel welcome, comfortable, acknowledged, and cared for, and your dinner party will be a hit. When the evening ends and the last guest makes her way out the front door, you’ll be able to stand in your foyer looking at the empty plates, the sink full of glasses, and the trailing crumbs around the counter, accompanied by the few dim lights still buzzing and the playlist that has now made its third rotation through, and relish in the conversation and community that preceded your last, “Goodbye and thank you for coming.”

My Mom cherishes this reflection when she hosts dinner parties. She often turns up the music and dances her way to the sink, picking up plates and reminiscing about the evening. My parents and I would tag-team clean-up: breaking down tables, taking out trash, loading the dishwasher, hand-washing the china, and throughout it all they would talk about the moments and laughter that filled the room (or backyard).

And when it was all clean and everything put in its place, my Mom would look at us and say, “It looks like we never even had a party.” But, we felt like we did. The dichotomy was humorous and beautiful to me: using the time to clean up to reflect and un-do everything we planned to do, because it is all about people, after all.

If I offer any other piece of advice, it would be to clean up the same night for two reasons: 1. you will be grateful in the morning and 2. you can capitalize on that time of reflection to reminisce on the evening, recounting the memories made and the moments created. And, you’ll be able to turn in with a full heart and a clean kitchen, as if you never even had a party; because beyond the details, the best part of the evening is the people who filled the room.

Unspoken Rules (of Thumb)

FHB: Family Hold Back

If there might be a concern for the amount of food, family hold back until every guest has been served. But, a respectful rule of thumb no matter what is that hosts go after guests.

Add a Soundtrack

Everything is better with music in the background. Pick a playlist that matches the theme of the event. Press play and let it fill in any gaps for you.

Always Greet Your Guests

When your guests arrive, always greet them and provide a simple ‘lay of the land.’ Where can they drop their purse? Offer drink options so they aren’t wondering where a glass of water is. If you are held up with last minute details, enlist someone to greet guests, making them feel welcome and comfortable from the beginning.

Include an Element of Something Fresh

Consider adding fresh flowers, fresh greenery on the tablescape, or offer fresh food.

Don’t Underestimate Making a List

We are bound to forget something! Make a list to help keep track of dinnerware, food, drinks, details like lighting candles, or filling water glasses. Oh, and don’t forget the ice!

Inspired by my mom, Claudia, who truly is the hostess with the mostest.

The hills are green and roll like the eyes of an old friend I used to know, familiar and comforting but gone in a blink, whooshing past like a dream. Beyond the rolling Tennessee hills is the very thing that grounds me: a beautifully defaced blacktop. The washed out roads might as well be dirt. The broken asphalt that remains looks dry, as if it will crack under the pressure of my tire tread feeling the terrain with every inch I cover every second. The asphalt is narrowed by the natural eroding of flooding from the summer rains. The trenches fill with rainwater and eat at the asphalt, slowly, diligently, until the sides shrink and shrivel. In taking a curve a bit too closely my tire dips in and out of the road, which looks like a bite was chewed out of it. 

Tied up in the turmoil of dust flying behind my tires is the recklessness and speed associated with back roads. Driving recklessly fast or dangerously slow are both necessary and natural when driving on a back road. I speed up on a curve so the butterflies fluttering outside feel like they’re in my stomach. As quickly as I gain on the curve I slow to a safe speed and take in the scene through every mirror around me, thinking about that sign “Salvation” and figuring I’ll be forgiven for my reckless commute. Driving on a back road grounds me to the world. I grip the steering wheel tight and then release, moving my fingers symmetrically from the inside out as if I were playing piano. Gripping the steering wheel I suddenly feel like the vehicle, — which I pretend is four-wheel drive — the broken asphalt, and I are inseparable. Suddenly, I realize we’re all connected and I’ve never experienced something like that so surreally, so spiritually. 

As the butterflies in my stomach dip and rise, offset with the hill I just took too fast, I notice my surroundings; they fill my eyes as if they were a soundtrack to my ears. I see a man on his tractor bouncing and bobbing, I see a magnificent horse — white, but tainted by mud — snarl at the flies buzzing around him. I smell a manicured lawn — freshly cut grass that smells just like watermelon. I approach another curve and find myself asking for forgiveness involuntarily.

Ask forgiveness, not permission. That sufficed as my prayer as I took the curve too fast. I crossed over the double yellow lines to compensate for the curve, making it feel straight; truthfully, to go faster and feel a thrill. Hugging the center, aware that a driver of similar mind may be doing the same, I feel prepared to glide back to my rightful place on my side of the road, mindful though to not gravitate too far as to dip into the eroding side which transcends into a car’s demise as quickly as a blink. The art of driving on a dirt road is balancing risk and safety like a ferocious and elegant dance. 

Suddenly it’s a different day and the same backroads are muted gray from the coming winter. Gray skies for a gray mind, I think to myself. The time that has past from commuting in the summer months to the Sunday reprieve on a golden winter day feels whimsically one; like a different life but also like no time has past at all. The drive is again spiritual and welcomes me like last time, like the hospitable stranger who offers a jump when broken down and throws in a Coke, which they had just picked up from the grocery, as if his stopping to help wasn’t kind enough. 

The leaves on the trees have fallen and the wind blows every so often, making the leaves glimmer on the ground like pennies. The clouds hang low in the branches of the barren trees making it look like a fairytale, like someone — the wizard in a story or something— had dusted the branches with tufts of cotton, effortlessly but deliberately. I’m taking the curves so fast — and it’s early enough in the morning I hope no one minds — it feels like slow motion. Between the pennies and the trees I feel like I’m dreaming. 

Then there’s conflict between the winter and the spring. They are pushing and pulling, trying to stake their claim for just a little bit longer. But some things stay the same, like the sanctified communion of reckless drivers on backroads, testing their limits and acknowledging their small size in the world across every double yellow line and every head nod through windshields whooshing by too fast. The art of driving on a back road requires a mutual understanding — among drivers and among holy surroundings — and it requires focus, appreciation, confession, trust, and belief in the power of finding salvation in something crooked. 

A perfect example of legend meets learner was the golden thread of Dolly Parton that strung the entire show together like Dolly’s coat of many colors, with her green co hosts Jimmie Allen and Gabby Barrett. Seeing the two generations of country music converge on stage as hosts of the event to unfold was a magical experience; as if the two aren’t so lost from each other. Themes of this thread traipsed all around the stage starting with Eric Church’s early performance. In true Chief fashion, Church wore his aviators, covering his eyes from the crowd, but still connecting through a mash-up of one song off each and every album, starting with Sinners Like Me and ending with his latest album release, Soul. 

Contrarily, Walker Hayes performed his first ACM Award show with “AA,” and his viral hit, “Fancy Like.” He worked his way through the crowd to the center stage and stunned the stadium with his cunning and charming pop-country songs. Country music fans young and old ate up both these performances, which is just another thread of the beauty behind the convergence of country music - traditional and modern - in the 57th Academy of Country Music Awards. 

Next on the docket, was Lainey Wilson’s, who won New Female Artist of the Year, performance of “Things a Man Oughta Know.” If you weren’t looking at the screen, you’d think Deanna Carter’s voice was fooling you with a new song. Wilson has a pure classic country sound, just like Carter. Her voice is tinged faintly by an honest Louisiana accent and is rich as honey and innocent as strawberry wine. Her performance, doused in black leather fringe no less, was a catalyst of joining new, young voices with new, fresh approaches to music, with the true, classic bones of country music. 

Watch Lainey Wilson’s performance here.

To bookend the beautiful theme was a performance you just can’t make up. Kelly Clarkson, the pop powerhouse with a heart for country music, belted Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” as homage. The 57th Academy of Country Music Awards was a beautiful reminder that how it once was and how it is going to be doesn’t have to be lost without the other. 

The excitement and gratitude was felt by everyone. Barnes and his band electrified the stage with funk-filled songs like his relatively recent “Dreaming in Electric Blue”. Barnes and his band for the night unleashed their energy and the evening truly was electric.

Barnes thematically strung the set together with a beautiful and eclectic melting pot of music — focusing on the contemplative, reflective emotions of gratitude, and what truly matters in life through songs like “Good,” and a subdued and poignant cover of Lauper’s “Time After Time,” while also balancing his original and raw funk phase with “All That Noise” coupled with his more recent funky releases like “(I Guess That’s What I Get) for Loving You”… polished with wet guitar sounds and a vibey bass player. Barnes tied in his beloved and slower-paced originals like “Nothing Fancy” and “Grace’s Amazing Hands.”

In true Barnes fashion, the set was tied together effortlessly with his impromptu stand-up between songs. Known for his storytelling and roaring laughter at his own in-the-moment jokes, Barnes charmed his loyal audience.

Quick like striking a match, the intro to “Circles” immediately ignites atmospheric sounds and synth that gains momentum the moment Tyler Jarvis starts singing. The 80’s essence blends meltingly well with rich, contemporary moods and vibrant pop sounds. In true Tyler Jarvis fashion, he uniquely merges the current state of pop music with nostalgic and bold tones of the 80’s, capitalizing on a new transition period for music that is relevant but authentically his own. 

With cracks and pops of synth and echoes, the melody and musicality frames the story line and lyrics in what matches the feeling of the roller coaster of emotions we experience in a relationship when we are criticized for misunderstanding the other, dismissed for taking things out of context, or in need of closure to mend some type of imbalance and the cyclical “going through the motions” that ensues. The story line builds in verse 2 where Tyler Jarvis names the punch: “Feels like we’re strangers playing lovers” and “you keep on saying we’re forever/Sounds like lines you just memorized.” Jarvis puts words and a story to a feeling or experience we can all relate to, and leaves us contemplating if closure is actually attainable.

There is beauty in the madness, though. Jarvis reassures those running through the motions that honesty and transparency in a situation takes courage and we move forward with hope that our vulnerability will be met where we are. Life and love leads us running in circles and Tyler Jarvis takes us along that journey with the perfect new song for the new year. 

Tyler Jarvis leaves his listeners with this: “Have you ever felt stuck in a situation and nothing makes sense? Even when you’re honest, the other person doesn't seem to hear you, and it feels like no matter how hard you try they can't quite hear what you're saying. ‘Circles’ is a song about having the courage to be honest and transparent and hoping the other person will meet you there.”

Listen now on all major music platforms.

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Tyler Jarvis, with his latest single “In the Fall” released November 6, 2020, brings to surface that exact feeling when a season or a moment ignites a memory. “In the Fall” pays homage to the places and people of our past that shape us into who we are, whether or not the feelings tied in with remembering are difficult ones to relive. 

“In the Fall” is a transcendental capsule in its lyrics, its musicality, and its meaning. Tyler Jarvis uses unique and powerfully driven 1980s-influenced piano, guitar, and drums to illuminate the storyline in a way that expounds on nostalgia, freedom, and feelings — regardless of the kind. Lyrically, Tyler Jarvis catapults us into the moment and scene by capitalizing on senses, describing a hauntingly beautiful Tennessee memory in no other season than the fall, signifginf the very seasons of change we go through in life.

The storyline builds and explodes into an epic portrait through the chorus and effortlessly bleeds into a striking acoustic set of the same powerful chorus. The song is a framed picture of how it feels to remember a unique place, person, or part of your life that was prominent but perhaps now subsequent to the ever-evolving places life brings us. He sings, “These three long years have changed all our moments, but in the fall it still feels the same” and continues with, “mountain scenes and valley streams feel so make believe when it takes me back to how it used to be.” He leaves us feeling like “oof” to the same places of a difficult memory that come rushing back to surface while we grapple with the way we remember a memory compared to the way it is now. And all for the good.

“Memories have a way of making us feel unlike anything else in our lives. ‘In the Fall’ is a story of recognizing how important every memory is, and that we don’t have to let go of the bad ones.”

— Tyler Jarvis

Memories can be magical, they can be painful, they can be exhilarating, and they can be beautiful. Tyler Jarvis with his latest single, “In the Fall” takes us on a journey to memories being all of this and more, and reminds us that life is made of beautiful seasons and powerful memories.

A unique attribute about country music through generations is that songs — that are inherently different from one another — can be traced back and related to each other, as if it’s an extended conversation or a sequel to the adored original. Country music is a conversation.

One of Tim McGraw’s most beloved and recognized songs is “Something Like That,” which was released in 1999. The song is set as a memory during Labor Day weekend at a county fair. The young narrator recounts the moment he noticed a girl and marks it as one he’ll never forget. 

Ryan Hurd’s “Every Other Memory,” which was released in 2020 follows a similar pattern as McGraw’s, acting as a contemporary sequel or altered perspective to the same event.

Both set up the storyline with a memory; nostalgia as intense as a flame. Both take place over a holiday weekend and both capitalize on the senses that often heighten a memory.

Tim McGraw’s first verse:

It was Labor Day weekend I was seventeen

I bought a Coke and some gasoline

And I drove out to the County Fair

And when I saw her for the first time

She was standing there in the ticket line

And it all started right then and there

Oh a sailor's sky made a perfect sunset

And that's a day I'll never forget

Ryan Hurd’s first verse:

I still smell the smoke from

The Fourth of July fireworks

And I still feel the kick drum

Front row at the concert

After Talladega

Safe to say you stick around

And the theme ensues throughout the rest of both songs. Each narrator is older looking back on a memory of a younger, freer, first summertime kind of love. In McGraw’s “Something Like That,” the narrator runs into his old country fair flame on a flight a few years later. 

McGraw sings that he recognizes her voice from the past. The song progresses, “She said ‘I bet you don't remember me’/And I said ‘only every other memory.’”

And….enter stage right Hurd’s “Every Other Memory” where he sings, “Every other memory is you.”

The charm of a happenstantial moment like this is the epitome of a great country song, and it’s one that every one — in some form or fashion — can relate to. Hurd’s latest release has similar appeal as McGraw’s “Something Like That” in voice, storyline, and flow proving that experiences, moments, and memories transcend eras. 

Her music always reminds me of growing up at home in Tucson, Arizona. When her songs spill out of speakers I am transported back to my living room. We’re getting ready for a party — my parents are wonderful hosts — and my mom says from across the kitchen, “Lisa, I have a job for you.” My eyes light up and my shoulders tighten, ready to hear how I can contribute to the coordination of the gathering. Being the youngest of four I am ecstatic at the opportunity to have a job. 

“Will you pick out some music to put on,” she asks, knowing my answer.

“Anything specific you have in mind?” I ask.

“I trust you,” she affirms.

This is what I was made for, I think to myself. I put in CD after CD in our 6-disc stereo player, each one is chosen and placed with purpose. I consider the event, the people coming, and what music might fit the occasion best. Though with each party, five of the six discs rotate accordingly, there is always one that stays put in the first disc slot: Sara Evans’ Born to Fly album. Once each disc is locked in place, I press play and wait for the sound of the inevitable pop of the stereo before the snare rolls in “Born to Fly.”

I join my mom in the kitchen and we dance and sing to the title track and to “Let’s Dance.” I cherish these moments: singing into wooden spoons feeling every single lyric literally as it rolls off my tongue. Her music captures happiness in a moment.

People arrive and the house fills with laughter and movement. The background music is tracking the evening like a real-life soundtrack and it’s just enough to tie the night together without speaking over people. The 6-disc rotation has finished it’s first round and suddenly the twang of Sara Evans transcends through the night again, a little bit deeper than the rest of the music, almost as if it fills the fissures of space between the drinks clinking and the people conversing. I trail through the open space bumping backs and saying “excuse me” as I grab a plate and grasp the overwhelming gratitude I feel. I catch myself singing along to “I Could Not Ask For More” in the kitchen when my mom approaches and asks, “Honey, do you need anything?” My answer is no. I have everything I need, and truly could not ask for more. 

Another stereo pop and suddenly I’ve clicked out of my day dream. The light is green and “As If” is fading out as another obnoxious car commercial takes her place in the radio speakers. I’m visiting home tomorrow, so it’s no coincidence Sara Evans graced the radio today. I think that was orchestrated.

It piqued my curiosity and it caused me to wonder how a street gets its name. I swear I heard it whisper to me; it was either that or the wind. I think it was both. It called out to me louder and louder with every full rotation of the tire tread ripping up the carpet of dirt covering the asphalt. I slowed so I could see; it curved abruptly and the turn was muddled by trees. It looked like a vortex of turns and curves and trees; like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I took the magnetic right turn that was pulling my car towards it and started on the street called shortcut.

I experienced a whole day on this street.

Suddenly I'd been punched through the curve. I was gliding around the other side of the curve where tree branches hung lower but the trunks stood taller. I was wrapped up in a corkscrew coil of road, not knowing which way was up. The fog grappled so low over the street it tripped up my tires. And the bucks and does, I swear, they danced gracefully and maybe even smiled. They didn’t bolt, they weren’t skittish. Through my windshield hazed by condensation and dew I saw them dancing like they were at a jubilee. The road kept on forever. If I stared too far beyond my windshield I simply saw the road and the trees meet into a pinhole black speck, so I kept driving, and driving, and driving.The air was wet and the road was dense, and the dirt was compacted richly, like it was chocolate cake batter ready to be eaten off the spoon. My car, I think, was flying, or maybe it was gliding. I felt somewhere in the middle of safely grounded and freely suspended, moving whimsically without a direction, without fear of what was ahead, just enjoying the drive.

Turning off the street was a funny thing. I couldn’t tell if I had turned around and exited the way I entered or if I was spit out on the other end; it all blended magnificently into one. I couldn’t tell deja vu from something new. Suddenly I was back on my commutable roads, the ones that don’t shine like Shortcut does. The ones where I get stopped at red lights and the trees are typical in size. How could a street like Shortcut do so much in so little time? I experienced a whole day on that street.

Curiosity and an, "I wonder how a street gets its name?” is all it took.