Her words cut loose – @SarahMcLachlan in Boston

Met Sarah McLachlan. Wanted to cry. Didn’t know what to say to her. Was probably less awkward that I think I was, but I was definitely awkward. Don’t know why. Other people don’t leave me starstruck, and Sarah, while the definition of graceful aging (and getting hotter the older she gets), wasn’t unapproachable.

We were warned, before Sarah emerged from behind a closed door, that she was sick. She’d pose for a picture (have those cameras ready, kids), but wouldn’t have time to sign anything. Gutted, a bit, when we were heard that bit of news, having brought Touch on vinyl, the CD cover to Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, and a poster (circa 1997) of a pregnant goddess drawn by Sarah. Fortunately, the woman at the front of line, ignored the warning and handed something to Sarah for her to sign. Which she did. And she signed something for everyone.

Holly met Sarah first, and then I took my turn.

“This is quite old, and in such good condition,” Sarah said, when I handed her Touch.

I said something about how it’s my favorite of her albums — which it is — but that was about it. A picture, another with Holly on one side of Sarah and me on the other, and then Holly and I were ushered out, so that Sarah could get through the line of 20 people who paid for the opportunity for a few minutes with Sarah.

The show, with an orchestra, was similar to the last time I saw Sarah, in January 2011. That concert was the first time Holly and I left Aurora with a babysitter. Aurora was less than two months old. A storm was rumored to be on its way, though I don’t think snow fell that night. Or the next night.

Sarah, the orchestra, and her band (including husband-and-wife team Melissa McClelland and Luke Doucet), performed for a little less than 150 minutes, including a 20 minute intermission.

And though sick, which Sarah alluded to once near the beginning of the set, she hit those high notes and held those long notes and circumnavigated her entire catalogue, ending with Ice Cream, as she tends to do. Then she was gone, whisked away. The lights came up, the orchestra shut away their instruments, and there were the techs, erasing any sign that the night, with all of its wonder, had occurred.


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