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.