Where the Arts Come Out to Play

Lots of couples. That's what I notice first when walking into Wolf Trap. John Legend is obviously a good date. I feel momentarily disoriented, having been part of a pair for the better part of four years. I am here now with co-workers who lug blankets and Whole Foods grocery bags. We find a bit spot off to the right with a great view of the Sequioua-tall supporting columns. M. and I instead perch on the stone ledge, careful not to block the lawn's view least we get hit with verbal barrage. We'd seen others fall victim. M. sings along, enraptured, and knows every word.

The lawn area is grooving, loving John Legend. He sings, swoons, swaggers. "I'm so happy tohave my album out. I've been on others..." grand piano chord, "What the hell are you waiting for?" "I'm calling...out to...all my..." Lord, that song... We swoon, too. The sun tires and sets, leaving us with John, his voice, the band. "Live it up..."

He finishes. We demand an encore as he instructed. He obliges. Intermission. C., who bought house tickets, reports the upper deck is stuffy. Not much energy she says, and she and J. move to the lawn where we are. Wine, cheese, turkey wraps, olives, ginger beer. Spread out blankets. Joss Stone, giggly, funky, Janis Joplin, almost unintelligible, skirts around the stage. Girls in front of us stab their fingers in the air and sway their shoulders. Clearly they've been waiting. The guys beneath the foot bridge sing like winos in a Sophoclean tragedy. Ballads are soothing and I pull out a blanket, lay on my back. And sleep.