If, as Karl Barth said, God may speak through a blossoming shrub or a dead dog, I reckon God may be found at rock festivals. At least that is my hope every spring as the Chicago winter finally eases its grip and I begin planning rock music outings.
It has become a tradition for my family and some friends to structure our vacations around popular music. For seven years running, we have spent a three-day weekend in Memphis. We eat barbecued ribs at the Rendezvous, ride riverboats on the Mississippi, visit the National Civil Rights Museum and Graceland and the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, watch minor league baseball games, see Gibson guitars manufactured, catch the ducks parading from the roof to the lobby fountain of the Peabody Hotel, and buy shirts at Lansky’s (Elvis’s clothiers). We concentrate on listening to a lot of blues. And on dancing.