I love Raleigh all the time, really I do, but yesterday was special.  There was a benefit in town, at four different venues, hosted by the good people who bring us Hopscotch. The benefit was for Oliver, a two year old who has been dealing with some pretty big medical stuff lately.  And while Oliver’s family has been taking care of Oliver, their friends have been looking out for them, and the community has gotten behind that family and those friends, and it’s been kind of a chain reaction of good things.  As in, a lot of people standing up and saying, “Take THAT!” to something scary, and seeing what can be done to help.

And what else would people who love music do, but host a musical benefit?  A really really good one?  And so, on to the music.  As with Hopscotch Proper, the only problem with a really good music festival is the hard choices that come when an explosion of good bands happens all at once.  I have been trying to see Love Language for at least a year.  I have been trying to see Old Ceremony for longer than that.  I love Filthybird.  And, having already buried the lede here, the Avett Brothers were playing at Kings.

I had every intention of going to see the Avett Brothers at Kings.  What’s not to love about the Avett Brothers at Kings?  Last time I saw them, I was waaaay back in the Charlottesville amphitheater.  I wouldn’t change a thing about that night. However,  I doubt I’ll get the chance to see the Avetts in a crowd of three hundred again.  A couple of weeks ago, though, word spread that a fourth venue had been added, and the lineup included Bombadil and Tift Merritt at Lincoln Theater.  I didn’t hesitate for more than five seconds.  ”I love y’all,”  I told my crowd.  ”But I have to go to Lincoln.”

I have a history with both these bands.  A short one, with Bombadil, but I fell in love with them during one of my favorite parts of Hopscotch.  They are unlike any band I’ve ever seen before in how surprising their music is.  Lest I sound vague or uncomplimentary, I’ll explain:  their lyrics are quirky, but smart and lovely.  The instrumentation is enchanting and strange, with twists you don’t see coming but which are of course exactly what is called for in any given moment.  The harmonies are flawless, and the set might veer from man alone at a keyboard, to full-on band with kickdrum thumping, to different man sitting onstage with a guitar, and back to full-on orchestral pop. And yet, the overall sound is completely coherent.   I’ll say it again.  I love them.

The crowd was completely obnoxious during their set, kind like an episode of “Big Brother” and “Jersey Shore” and “Gossip Girl” rolled into one.  People with their backs to the stage, shrieking out inane conversations, and a couple (a forty-something couple, old enough to know better, I might add) making out against a wall, and people trying to pogo dance to soulful songs about redemption, and so forth.  I snaked my way through the shriekers and pogo-ers to stand in front of the speaker, next to the stage, and was drawn in immediately by the intensity of the performers, and all the rest fell away.  It was beautiful enough that, several times, I had to swallow a lump in my throat and blink back tears.  But music does that to me.

Which brings me to my next topic:  Tift Merritt.  I have listened to her for a decade or so, and seen her sell out the lawn at the art museum more than once. She’s so real and sincere onstage, and has a voice that’s at once southern and sweet and bluesy and country, but she also plays the hell out of a guitar.  She had a nightmare time slot:  not just midnight, but at the same time as the Avett Brothers and the Love Language; most importantly, playing a set that started with twenty minutes to go in the second half of the State game.  She killed it anyway.

I didn’t realize she has a new album coming out this spring; can’t wait.  I wasn’t sure how I’d do tonight, given that I was a teensy bit overwrought the last time I saw her play.  I am happy to report that I totally held it together, probably because there was no pedal steel.  Held it together until she played “Good Hearted Man,” of course.  How does anyone make it through that song intact?  Because I’m 100% sure that song is about me, and that’s the happy ending I’d love to have, someone kindly and gently breaking down those walls, and oh good lord am I crying again?

I digress.  The show was beautiful.  The music crowd went home happy.  The basketball crowd, at least the crowd watching the late game at bars all over town,

went home heartbroken, but proud.

And so, back to the beginning of this post: I am proud.  Proud of this town.  Thanks, Team Oliver.  Thanks, talented and generous local musicians.  Thanks, Team Wolfpack.  Thanks, Raleigh.

and by 3:00, I had checked something off my life list, in a spur-of-the-moment way, when I was granted an audience with The Mecca Ham.

I looked startled by my good fortune, as my paparazzi document the moment in the background. I mean, this is a famous ham.  It’s not a pretty ham, but, well, it’s seventy-five.  We have been stalking this ham for a year.  Every time we’ve asked to see the ham, we’ve gotten a different story: on the premises, not on the premises, in deep freeze, doesn’t exist, exists but only one person has the key, exists and we know who has the key and maybe they’ll bring it out for the anniversary in May.

And so.  I met Audrey and Julia for lunch on the sidewalk at Capital Club 16.  We toasted Friday, and admired the tiny line forming on the sidewalk in front of Kings for tonight’s benefit concert.

We then toasted good luck in general, when our most kind bartender brought us these special tiny beers, and said we had to drink them three sips (no more, no less) for good luck.  Some of us struggled with that math.  But we’re all pretty sure we acquired the luck.  I walked back to work, and the girls went down to Mecca, where they could keep an eye on the line.

The texted me within minutes, while I was reviewing color samples at my desk.  The text included a photo.  Of The Ham.  ”UNIVERSE DOES NOT LOVE ME $#%!’”  I texted back.  Immediate return text: “They’ll leave it out for you if we tell them you’re on the way.”  

I explain the predicament to my boss, who is immediately gets on board with this expedition.  He gets out the good camera.  I can not contain my joy.  ”God loves me,” I announce to the world at large.  ”You already knew that,” says my boss.

And we meet the ham.

It is room temperature, and hard like plastic, and a lot flatter than I’d have guessed.  If you get up close, it still smells like ham.  We have a lot of questions.  Why?  Why did someone pay for a meal with a ham?  It doesn’t sound like a fair trade.  Maybe it was for a bunch of people?  Maybe the ham was in bad shape already but the owners were kind enough to barter?  Why didn’t they cut it and serve it, back in the 40′s?  Why did it sit in the window for decades?

We discussed this over more beer.  That’s a lot of beer, before 4 pm on a Friday, but buying the boss a beer is a fair trade for being a good sport about the ham.  And everyone involved had serious spring fever, anyway.

There we all were, giddy with our conquest.  Julia’s comment was, “Can you believe we’re all here, elated about a ham? How crazy is this?”

“Glad y’all said it,” came a voice from behind the bar.

We all proceeded to ditch work, boss included.  Worked out great for the crowd lining up at Kings; I joined them for an hour or so while Willow, William, Audrey, Julia and I took in the sunshine, chatted with neighbors in the crowd, admired the dog wearing the NCSU bandana, and possibly spotted Joe Kwon on the street, though our crowd was divided on that fact.  I figure, all those lucky omens are just plain…lucky.

And the part of the day I’m most excited about hasn’t even happened yet.  Fingers crossed for an evening of happy surprises.  But it’ll be hard to top the ham.