“Hey, we lucked out! Seats in the center of the front row” My friend Hendon deals out the tickets to our little group of four, and soon we’re sitting in the intimate confines of the Olin Hall auditorium, right next to the stage. This is Roanoke College, and the year is 1980. We’re about to see Livingston Taylor in concert.
I’d been a big fan of James Taylor for years, ever since I first listened to his “Sweet Baby James” record. Everyone with a guitar and a dream was playing his songs, but I knew little of his brother Livingston. I was soon to find out that he was a great musician in his own right, the fame of his brother notwithstanding.
Referring to our premium seats my row-mates and I shared sentiments like, “Oh this is just outta’ hand” or “Primo!” or other early ‘80’s expressions. Soon the lights dimmed and Livingston appeared on stage. As he worked through his first set I enjoyed the happy beat and the pleasing similarity between his and his brother’s music. The family resemblance of their voices was obvious.
Into the second set, my easily-distracted college mind wandered. I fingered the keys in my pocket and paused at the Audubon bird call connected to them. This kind of bird call consists of a small red wooden cylinder in which a metal insert is attached to one end. When the metal piece is twisted just right, all manner of bird calls can be produced. I was pretty good at it too. Anyway, I absentmindedly took out the bird call and fiddled with it.
The music in Olin Hall was loud that night, but nevertheless the unmistakable sound of bird songs began wafting up from a seat in the center of the front row. This continued for a song or two, then Livingston walked up to the edge of the stage right in front of me, pointed at me, and said, “you there with the bird call, come on up here!”
Yikes, what could I do but obey? I climbed directly up and joined the singer at center stage. In his friendly manner he asked me what my name was, how I liked Roanoke College, that sort of thing. Remember, this was in front of everybody, in the middle of his concert. Then he took me aside and whispered, “Ok, we’re going to play a little duet. The song is Blackbird by the Beatles.” I knew it well. “You join in with the bird call on the chorus.”
“Got it.” I said.
Before we returned to center stage Mr. Taylor’s good nature turned briefly stern as he whispered an addendum: “Then you can go back to your seat and put away the bird call!”
“Got it,” I said.
He started to play Blackbird and I stood by him with what was no doubt a stupid grin on my face. At the chorus I chimed in with that little red bird call, and the crowd went wild. Ok, I might be exaggerating about that last part, but it did sound rather good I think, and the audience was certainly amused. After the song was finished and the applause died down, Livingston winked and nodded at me with a fleeting but noteworthy, get-the-heck-out-of-here expression on his face. I leaped off the stage and plopped into my seat where I courteously and quietly remained for the rest of the concert.
Later, people came up to me with excited comments about how I must know Livingston and how we had planned our little duet ahead of time. Well, not really, I meekly explained. No, it was actually an impromptu encounter between an immature young man and an extremely gracious and wise performer.
I like to think that I became a little more considerate after that experience I know I was more careful with the bird call.
