When I decided to see Sierra Hull two nights in a row last May, I told my friends the second night would be “Sierra Hull and some guys.” Two of those guys were Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan, who don’t need my introduction. And maybe you’re all caught up, and Billy Strings doesn’t need my vouching for either.
But just in case you’re where I was eight months ago, catch up with me: I knew there was a young man calling himself Billy Strings, and I didn’t give him credit for having earned his name, and I imagined he was playing straight bluegrass, and I thought I didn’t want that. I might have seen he was playing Doc Watson tunes or somesuch.

I love being wrong. At least, I love it when the outcome is a whole bunch of music I’m going to enjoy. I didn’t buy tickets for the concerts when they dropped. I bought them when it finally really sank in that I would not be seeing someone in May, whose visit would have included those days. What good medicine I chose for myself! Sierra Hull’s two shows absolutely deserve a full review. Today, I want to focus on what an amazing reward Billy Strings was for my gamble on a last-minute lawn seat at the Outlaw Music Festival.

I drove up by myself without trying to convince anyone else they’d like the bill. At some point, I figured I should check out the act I didn’t really know. And I put on Billy Strings’ most recent album, Highway Prayers. It started lifting my heart immediately. A traveling song for my traveling! The second verse included “Highway 80, way out west,” the third verse, Sacramento, the direction I was headed (the show was in Wheatland).

The chorus captures part of what I wanted out of my drive:

Where the air is clear and the road is straight

All the choices have been made

I’ll keep rolling right along,

leaning on a traveling song.

Billy’s set blew me away. More than one song had me teary, mostly with the joy that the world had this in it, and I had been missing it, and nearly missed it right in my own patch. What other miracles am I ignoring? And you know, it might not have even looked to anyone like I was enjoying his set, since I had my phone out through most of it, but I was so fully engaged finding what songs he was doing, and their lyrics, discovering setlist.fm. It was over way too soon, I thought.

But honestly, that concert is still happening in my heart if I just try a little.

In July, I had my encounter with a Billy Strings song that is among my favorite ever musical experiences, in a lifetime filled with amazing soundtrack moments. On a day that had begun with a medical appointment worthy of its own essay, that afternoon I found myself so close to the ocean I thought it would be churlish not to visit. That was a terrific choice. Among the many delights was the few minutes I spent watching two vast men strip to shorts, leaving a pile with their friend, and then running into the surf. The sight of them frolicking together, laughing and hollering, and so full of joy, filled me with joy. When I turned toward the shore, the first thing I saw on the beach was a bouquet of white roses that had been scattered. White roses make me think of Die Weiße Rose, and Sophie Scholl’s bravery against the Nazis. And of course, they make me think of me. I took a few to draw later, as well as several small chunks of charcoal, pure black leftovers from innumerable beach bonfires, so lightweight, they scatter on the surface of the sand. They seemed like a perfect memento, an art supply made of other people’s fires. Walking back, I got nearly to my car when I remembered that I had especially wanted to nature journal, or at least draw while I was at the beach. And doing it with location-specific charcoal felt great. There was a stand of cypress trees between the parking lot and the dunes, and I drew them and a few of the seagulls I’d been enjoying before finally going to my car.

That afternoon while I was driving around. I had remembered how much I’d enjoyed Billy Strings, and I put on a long playlist to get to know more of his music. I was unprepared for the song that came out of my speakers as I sat there. The opening words, “Sitting under the cypress tree, I saw a miracle flying high,” gave me chills. I looked up the trees to confirm that they’re cypresses! So that was lovely, and I knew I would always feel fondly about the song, which I restarted. And then it kept going, being wonderfully oracular.

Staring into the wishing well has got you feeling a particular way.

You can’t stand to see your own reflection.

So, toss a penny and close your eyes and try to think of something to say.

And don’t waste your wishes on perfection.

That felt like a powerful message from the musical universe, one I often need reminding about. What a gift. Two startling moments in my first listen to “Gild the Lily” were great, but we weren’t done yet.

They say that April rain will fall to resurrect the flowers of May.

You can’t know who you love until you miss them.

Oh my whole entire heart. Last year as April rains brought me May flowers, I was acutely aware of someone I miss, who I certainly do love.

I don’t claim I’ve got a deity looking out for me, making sure I have a good soundtrack with lots to think about. That would be grotesque when there is so much so wrong with the world. But a friend’s family has a belief they share that has only grown over the years. Six siblings, and when they hear an incredibly perfect, ridiculously appropriate song for some moment, they thank their musician father. He passed away in a terrible accident, doing what he loved, flying in the Arizona canyons. They figure he’s looking out for them, sending songs as little messages: Pay attention! I’ve started thanking him too, although I didn’t know that story in July. But I’m telling the story in February. And I say: Thank you to Sarah’s dad. Because he’s really holding it down, up there in heaven.

If you’ll give Billy the 23 minutes NPR gave him, I highly recommend his Tiny Desk Concert. If you only have time for one song, then try the version of “Gild the Lily” that Apple produced.

(Post title from the perfect song “Mad World,” which Sierra Hull often covers, always beautifully.)