Very nearly literally. Between Nashville and Belleville, the temperature dropped 50 degrees. We drove home in torrential rain that eventually turned into ice. We’re home, but now I’m a little concerned about my two Amtrak trips the hometown to fetch my kid tomorrow.

I should be asleep, for I have rocked far too hard, consumed way too many cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, slept too little, and had more fun than I should be allowed to have. But I wanted to write about yesterday while it’s still fresh in my mind.

Sunday started with a one-hour wait for pancakes. Not just any pancakes. Sweet potato pancakes from the Pancake Pantry, recommended by Angela. Was it worth it? Oh hell yes! That’s all I want to eat for the rest of my life.

“I don’t understand how breakfast can make me so sleepy. I thought it was supposed to give you energy,” I told Brian.

“Only if you’ve been doing farm work for six hours before you eat it.”

Work was not on the agenda. There was walking, though, through the Country Music Hall of Fame. I’ve been a museum nerd since I was a kid. I know that it’s just things – artifacts that would mean nothing were it not for the time, place, and people they touched. Sure enough, I found myself wishing I’d brought tissues. Seeing Graham Parsons’ Nudie suit? Just about brought me down? Seeing the white chiffon dress with the embroidered flowers and butterflies I remember Dolly Parton wearing when I was a kid? It would have made me cry, were I not so intent on figuring out how the hell they tailored that chiffon to fit her boobs. That’s an engineering marvel, my friends.

I joke because it’s too much to handle the emotional whallop of seeing and hearing so many things that have been parts of my life from the beginning, things that were abstract images on TV or sound waves in speakers, that were so concrete. The Hee-Haw cornfield. One of Johnny Cash’s black suits. Bill Monroe’s mandolin. Johnny Paycheck’s guitar with the words “shove it” inlaid in pearl on the neck.

From the museum we went to Demo’s for dinner with my friends Elizabeth and Kevin before heading to the Ryman Auditorium.

Before it was home to the Grand Ole Opry, the Ryman was a church. It’s still filled with hard wooden pews, and stained glass windows overlook the sanctuary. During the show, I could turn around and see the play of streetlights outside and stage lights inside playing in the colors.

A few years ago a minister friend of mine said something to the extent that church is different for everyone, that we find God in our own places. My church, she noted, just happened to be in concert halls. So how appropriate to see my favorite band in a church on a Sunday night.

John Doe opened. While I was looking forward to seeing him, it wasn’t until he welcomed us to church that I realized just how big it was. John was one of the musicians behind X, one on the first punk bands I discovered as a kid. So that packed a whallop, seeing him on that stage and hearing him.

My God, the sounds. I’m pretty sure that heaven will sound just like the Ryman Auditorium. Indescribable. Have you ever been to a concert where you could hear every single note played and understand every lyric sung? I hadn’t, until last night. It was like there were no barriers between what was being played and my ears. Just this pure, crystalline sound, the cleanest thing in the world. It’s pretty easy to get spiritual with sound that miraculous.

I never know how much detail to go into with these shows. I can spew the details to the hardcore Wilco fans on the fan board and spare you. Or I can do it here and maybe convert you, or make you stop reading altogether.

If you caught the band on SNL, you saw the spectacular Nudie the Rodeo Tailor suit Jeff was sporting during their second song. He didn’t disappoint, showing up on the stage where that suit belongs and not changing out of it during the two and a half hours it took the band to play 32 songs. We’re entering the realm of Springsteenian proportion shows, and that’s fine with me.

Our seats were in the balcony with a view of the entire stage, which was a nice change of pace. Usually, we’ve got general admission tickets, which means crowding as close to the stage as possible. I rather enjoyed sitting on my ass and watching it all from above. Not that I didn’t come out of my seat and shake my ass during most of the second set. Sit through “Monday’ with a horn section? You’ve gotta be kidding me!

The second song of the show was the Woodie Guthrie composition “Blood of the Lamb”. Clean, pure.

Have you laid down your burdens?
Have you found peace and rest?
Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

I’ve laid down all my troubles
I’ve found peace and rest
I’m all washed in the blood of the lamb

I heard the most wonderful silence, when Jeff came to the lip of the stage with his guitar, no mic and no amps, to play “Someone Else’s Song”. 2200 people fell silent to listen. When one person made any noise, he was quietly shushed. All those people. One voice, in the one room in the world where one voice can carry 2200 people, before the band returned, all bottomed-out shrieking guitar shrieks of “Misunderstood”. Standing in the balcony, the feedback shot through the soles of my feet and straight out the top of my head.

Isn’t that what getting religion feels like?

After the show, Brian and I passed through the alley near the tour bus and happened to find Elizabeth and Kevin. And after all these years – I’ve been a fan since 1991 – I met Jeff Tweedy.

Granted, it doesn’t look like a meeting so much as being a part of a crowd while he runs away. Just trust me when I say that Elizabeth took this photo after Jeff and I walked and talked. It went something like this:”

Me: We came from Belleville to see you!

Jeff: giggling Really? Do you ever see my dad around town?

He got on the bus. Brian, Elizabeth, Kevin and I went back to Roberts Western World, which just happened to have an entrance where we were standing (thank you Jesus!). Good house band. Excellent company. The best beer I’ve ever consumed (more cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, but I’m a firm believer that it’s not what you consume, but the circumstance in which you consume it). Hamburgers and onion rings. It was all warm and glowy and fuzzy. Isn’t that what getting religion feels like?