The veins on his hand rippled like the ceaseless crash of an ocean’s tide: mesmerizing. In the dim lighting, all eyes fix on the jumbo screen, entranced by the sole image of his fist caressing the gleaming neck of a guitar. The illumination pierced through the dark stadium, it cut through the pregnant anticipation of the room straight to our hopeful hearts, shedding light on the euphoria that was moments away. 

Twang twang twa-i-ang. Three chords, short but momentous, like the countdown to detonation, prompted the crowd to explode with screams. Instantly, I was lost at sea riding peaceably on the waters’ crest, the ebb and flow of the beat. I threw my compass overboard, pledging to the jumbo screen, my lighthouse, freely and fully letting John Mayer baptize me in soundwaves. 

From the initial notes of “Helpless,” I was adopted into his trademark blended family of sounds: folk, pop, alternative rock, soul, and untainted jam session. Mayer flowed from one track to the next, performing hits like “Edge of Desire,” “Daughters,” and a rendition of “Fire on the Mountain” that surely would have brought any Deadhead back to life. 

His outfit, a weathered blazer draped over a Cat-in-the-Hat t-shirt, epitomized the essence of the concert; it was free of frills, unpolished because it could be. He played as if his guitar simply took charge, dominated the stage, and demanded a solo. The band backed his riffs and musical tangents with an unshakable foundation of pure talent.