Showing up at the Moody Theater in Austin, I was the demographic: middle-class female, 30-60, chasing a raspy masculine voice known only through airwaves. When my husband surprised me with tickets to see Bob Schneider for Valentine's, I was thrilled! But the real surprise didn't come until 30 minutes into the show.
Lex Land. There was nothing grand about her
introduction or entrance onto the stage.
She walked with slow calculated steps up to a microphone and looked out
upon a crowd of couples. Her black floor
length sequined gown didn't hold a candle to the sparkle that ignited once her
sultry voice spilled out lyrics that cracked with slow rendering heartbreak.
Her cover of Bonnie Raitt’s "I Can't Make You Love Me" captured
a spirit I wasn't searching for on Valentine’s Day and have managed to avoid
since marrying. My soul crushed as I listened and remembered the blistering
pain that accompanies unreciprocated affection. Like a jar of lightening
bugs springing from release, her voice offered a flurry of painful recollection
of times past. The memories were unavoidable and inescapable. My
eyes searched the room full of romantics and wondered how many clasped hands
would ultimately survive the roller coaster ride that accompanies
commitment. It may have been a day to bask in love, but the silent phantom
that drifted overhead made me question love and its inescapable tragic beauty.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible
to turn a Bonnie Raitt classic into something more. In an instant the original
was replaced. Poof. Gone. It was exhilarating, scary and unnerving to have the
ability to toss Bonnie aside.
I took solace the night those
memories were awakened by the velvet voice of Lex Land. And as the warmth of my
husband’s shoulder nestled against my own, I paused to be grateful for the
moment.
On the tumultuous sea of love, I’m thankful to
have found Land.
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