I saw a living legend at a local club recently. I don’t go to nightclubs very often, anymore. What was fun at 21 is now a chore. I don’t know what to wear. I worry about parking. I’m not going to try and meet a girl. I don’t need to relax from my stressful day job. I barely drink. On top of that, the first show starts about the same time that I usually go to bed.

But this guy is a living legend; he made some of my favorite recordings of all time. He’s a musician’s musician, he plays, performs, writes and produces music. Ten, 20 years ago, the only place you could see this guy was in a stadium or an arena. To see him in a nightclub that seats 300 hundred people is a rare treat. And tickets were half what you’d pay for a Hannah Montana concert. This would be something I’d be talking about for a long time.

And sure enough, it was. The opening act was talented and tight, and as the roadies moved their equipment off the stage, the waiters moved to get everyone’s orders before the real show started. The place was crammed, six people sitting at tiny tables that barely had room for two glasses.

The Living Legend appeared, the crowd went crazy. Groupies swarmed forward. From the first note it was obvious the Living Legend was under the impression that he was in the Superdome, not a small nightclub.

The music you like, soft or loud, makes you feel as if someone else understands you perfectly. Even if it’s sad, it can make you feel better, alter your mood. I always felt better after a big dose of the Living Legend’s music. What was coming from the stage was the exact opposite of music. If this was music, a jet engine could go platinum and sell out Madison Square Garden ten nights in a row.

It has to be the seat, I thought. I must be in a bad spot. No person in their right mind could possibly think this was the way this was supposed to sound. I stood beside the stage. Maybe the band was hearing something different than I was. No, it was just as loud and garbled and unpleasant as it was at my seat.