Okay, picture this: My Bride and I, in a rare burst of cultural enthusiasm (rare for me anyway), decided to attend a MercyMe concert at the legendary Red Rocks. Now, Red Rocks, for those of you who haven’t been, is what happens when a giant geological event has a baby with a concert venue. Getting to your seat involves scaling a near-vertical series of steps that would make a Sherpa pause for a selfie and contemplate early retirement.
Upon reaching what felt like the summit of Mount Gigantic Rock, we were greeted by a sign. Not one of those helpful “Concessions this way” signs, oh no. This one announced
that they were filming the sequel to “I Can Only Imagine.” And if you didnt want to be in the movie you could destroy your knees by turning around and schlepping back down the mountain.
Apparently, our evening of inspirational Christian rock was going to be punctuated by our involuntary participation in cinema.
Fine, we thought. Audience interaction! Maybe we’d get to wave enthusiastically or look thoughtfully heavenward. We could handle a little background emoting. The concert started, and to be fair, MercyMe brought it. The entire place was on its feet, swaying and singing along with such fervor you’d think the Rapture was being live-streamed. Even I, a man whose usual concert participation involves subtle head-bobbing and hoping no one spills beer on my shoes, found myself belting out a few lines.
Then came the dreaded “brief” intermission. This, it turned out, was code for “Let’s film a deeply emotional, spirit-filled scene with the entire audience… repeatedly.” Now, I’m not saying I’m emotionally stunted. I’ve teared up during a particularly moving car commercial. The first two takes of this scene? I was in. Feeling the feels. Maybe even subtly mouthing “amen” under my breath.
But by the sixth take, the spiritual wellspring had run dry. My emotional reserves were depleted. My “touched” face had morphed into a “can we please just get back to the music?” grimace. My Bride, bless her patient heart, was starting to look like she was contemplating a career change to professional stone carving, just to have something to do. Forty-five minutes after the first set, we staged our own dramatic exit. We didn’t buy tickets to be extras! We wanted to hear “I Can Only Imagine” live, not be the only ones imagining when the concert would resume.
So, while I’ll probably brave the Stairway to Heaven that is Red Rocks again someday, and my Spotify playlist will likely still feature MercyMe, the chances of me attending another one of their concerts are roughly the same as me winning a competitive hot dog eating contest. Which is to say, slim to none. Anyone else ever have a concert experience hijacked by Hollywood? Enquiring minds (and slightly traumatized concertgoers) want to know.