Living-room concert? Canadian singer-songwriter? 7 o’clock Sunday night? While that sounded great, I gave my standard answer: I’ll try.

As the metaphor goes, my plate is full. Between my teaching career and fatherhood, things are piled, stacked, teetering, and occasionally falling off. I’m perpetually behind on grading, behind on sleep, behind on exercise, behind on everything.

The concert hosts, on the other hand, are empty-nesters with a house that became “too quiet” after their four kids grew up and left. They’re looking for excitement, while I’m tangled in a time-management quagmire – one that makes Sunday night concerts low on the priority list.

But at 7:30, the phone rang, and I picked it up to hear a voice through background party chatter: “Are you coming over?”

“I thought it started at 7,” I said.

“No. We’re waiting for you to get here.”

Suddenly, I felt like a huge chunk of the audience.

Driving a couple of minutes south of town through the February darkness, I figured I’d stay for three songs and head out. I entered the house with the concert already underway. Instead of the hushed strumming of a folk singer, a four-piece band filled the living room with propulsive drumming and soaring choruses. I hadn’t expected something so professional. And they played like they meant it – like they needed this gig. The vocals, the volume, the stage presence (living-room presence?) were a perfect fit for a house show. With about 25 people there, the place felt comfortably packed.

As a late arrival, I stood in the back, maybe 20 feet from the singer. Then someone motioned for me to fill the empty seat in the middle. From my new spot, I sat just 10 feet from the band. There goes my exit strategy.

As a late arrival, I stood in the back, maybe 20 feet from the singer. Then someone motioned for me to fill the empty seat in the middle. From my new spot, I sat just 10 feet from the band. There goes my exit strategy, I thought. My next thought: With a show like this, who needs an exit strategy?

Between-song banter consisted of classic tales from life on the road. Even the coincidences that led to this gig spoke of the charmed life of the wandering musician. Last year the singer, Mike Edel, was driving through Eau Claire on tour and stopped to eat at the Olive Garden. Across the restaurant, he saw a woman who looked like someone he’d worked with at summer camp in British Columbia. He approached her and discovered he was right. By the time the conversation was over, the woman, an Eau Claire native, offered up her parents’ house if the band needed a place to crash. The living room concert evolved from there.

Now it looks like a regular tour stop. “They’re such nice kids,” the mom said of Mike and his band. “They’re welcome anytime.” That’s how life goes for these guys. Meander to the next town. Wing and a prayer. Repeat the process.

After the show, I spoke with Mike (no backstage pass required). Like me, he was an English major in college, but he took the more adventurous route. “Do you get a lot of writing done on the road?” I asked, picturing a tour van and notebooks filling up with brilliant, authentic lyrics as the majestic miles of America rolled past. 

“There’s really no downtime on the road,” Mike said, shaking his head. They’re constantly driving, loading, unloading, setting up, tearing down – maybe squeezing in a radio spot in town before the show. And catching some sleep when there’s a chance. Or he’s on the phone with his manager, weighing options, planning next moves. “The only thing that feels like down time,” he said, “is when we get to play a show – just get lost in the music. That’s the only thing that feels like a break to me.” I left our conversation a little less jealous of the easy life and a little more appreciative of what it takes for a musician to create and provide entertainment for others.

During my two-song commute to work the next day, listening to the (autographed!) CD, I felt a little lighter having witnessed something special the night before – a kind of secret show. As for the band, they drove to Chicago for that night’s gig. The day after that it was a five-hour drive to Akron, Ohio. They made it in time to do a radio-promo spot, but then found out the gig was inexplicably canceled. They made the drive for nothing. While I was at home enjoying some family time, they were at bar in Akron, cursing their fate and begging the owner to let them play.

The owner eventually relented. I’m glad. As much as the band needed that gig, there were people in the crowd who needed it, too. And if Mike and his band travel through these parts next winter, perhaps they’d make Eau Claire a double-house-show-stop on the tour. When we put away the toys and games and set aside the time, our living room is a concert venue waiting to happen.

It’s worth it. A good concert, for everyone involved, is like a winter bonfire: melting the surrounding snow, drawing a crowd, and lighting up the night.