Tulalip, Canada 2014.

In America’s Pacific Northwest are a people and place called Tulalip. Its meaning is small mouthed bay. Sure enough, if you climb far enough (higher and higher) above the earth’s surface, you can see how this region, its people, were named. A sliver of land around ocean, a horseshoe cupping the sea. It is indeed a tulalip. Nearby, as it happens, acres of tulips bloom into rainbows, as though trying to mimic what might be their regional namesake.

Next to a flower-lined highway are a mall, a resort and casino. One of many land parcels with a venue for certain-sized acts. Often big-name artists with devoted but dwindling fans, music-lovers who still go to the concerts, play old radio hits, and sing the score of their lives.

For me, Sammy Hagar is one of these soundtracks. Whether solo, Van Halen, or leading celebrity bands, his songs became touchstones. Beyond lyrics of sex and indulgence, which, as a songwriter, I admit at some point we’ve all written, Sammy rose higher, as though wanting to see for himself the very lay of the land at Tulalip. His song Dreams embraces this sentiment. No better message conveyed by any philosopher, ever. The notion of seeking one’s highest self, stretching limits and striving for goals. Making ambition reality, a desire for all that is selfless and good. Slivers of truth no different than sea-hugging coast, calm in a crescent of waves.

I’d never seen this red-auraed singer, never witnessed the heavy metal sensei in concert. Until lifelines converged, both in our way commencing a twilight phase. Reflective, leading life on our terms. No longer needing to prove. Simply living. Contented and predominantly happy.

The casino by the coast-hug-of-land was the venue. A stage set on grass with room for three-thousand, a beer garden and space for the bikers to stand, folded arms in tee-shirts and leather. I’d pre-bought my ticket, a camp chair that folded in two. Bought the seat from a broker, a professional scalper, paying two times its ticketed price. And felt I was getting good value, ensuring I would finally see the red rocker perform.

It was the History of Rock tour: Sammy Hagar, Michael Anthony, Vic Johnson, Jason Bonham. The setlist a mix of Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, and Hagar. A tribute to rock, Jason’s dad, and the legacy Sammy had built. The talent, expansive, matched the open-air setting. A dreamy, ethereal view of star scatters, like summertime petals in breeze.

I bought too many beers, shared with strangers, made friends against very long odds. But as the show finished, Sammy and Vic stayed on stage, their low-wattage encore an acoustic version of Dreams. Together we embraced the galaxial view, climbed higher and higher. Reaffirmed choices, what got us there, advances and setbacks, every moment a soundtrack. Knowing lives had been lived, were being lived well.

Stereo Story #732

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Bill Arnott is a songwriter, poet, and bestselling author of the Gone Viking travelogues. His column Bill Arnott’s Beat runs in several magazines, and for his travels he’s received a Fellowship at London’s Royal Geographical Society. When not trekking with a small pack and journal, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making music and friends.