It happened because two men stayed after a concert.
Funny thing is...
I don't remember much about the concert itself. I've played thousands of shows over the years. They tend to blend together after a while.
What I remember...
is what happened after the music stopped. Even today, after almost every concert, I stay around for a while.
Some people want an autograph.
Others have questions about the songs. I've always believed those conversations matter just as much as the music. The songs may bring people through the door. The conversations are what send them home feeling like they actually met the person who wrote them.
Looking back...
I don't think those two men were only listening to the music. I think they were trying to discover the person who wrote it. Sometimes people ask why the lyrics change a little from one night to the next.
I usually just smile.
The truth is...
songs are living things.
Some nights a different word tells the story better. Sometimes an old memory finds its way back into a song. Sometimes the audience needs to hear something a little differently than the band rehearsed it.
When it's just me and a guitar...
the song is free to become whatever the story needs it to be. I've never been interested in singing a song exactly the way I wrote it years ago. I've always been more interested in telling the truth as I understand it today.
Maybe...
that's how the songs were written in the first place.
One conversation at a time.
One memory at a time.
One honest moment at a time.
That night was no different.
People gathered around after the concert.
We laughed.
Told stories.
Answered questions.
Eventually...
the crowd began to thin out.
Most everyone had gone home.
Except for two men.
One of them stood quietly, absentmindedly spinning a guitar pick between his fingers. The other had his hands tucked into his pockets, smiling as he watched the conversations unfold.
When the last person walked away...
they finally stepped forward.
One of them reached out his hand.

"Bill?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't think we've met."

I shook his hand.

"No, sir. I don't believe we have."

He smiled.

"We've been watching you."

At fifteen...
those four words were enough to make my heart start racing.

Not because I was scared.

Because I hoped they were about to say exactly what every young musician dreams of hearing.

They introduced themselves and explained they were with a touring musical group based in California.

They'd heard about me.

Someone had suggested they stop by and listen.

So they did.

Then they smiled.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions."

They asked how long I'd been playing.

Who my musical influences were.

Whether I'd traveled much.

How I felt on stage.

How I connected with audiences.

How I handled performing in front of large crowds.

One question caught me a little off guard.

"What do you do after the concerts?"

I shrugged.

"I stay around and talk to people."

They looked at each other.

"Every night?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

I smiled.

"I think it makes the stories more honest."

They looked at one another again.

Then one of them smiled.

"That's probably how the songs were written in the first place."

I laughed.

"I guess I never thought about it like that."

The conversation continued for a while.

Easy.

Comfortable.

More like sitting around talking with old friends than being interviewed. 
They weren't just learning whether I could sing.

They were quietly getting to know me.

They weren't just listening to the music.  They were trying to discover who I really was.

Finally one of them stood up.

"Bill..."

"We'd like to meet your parents."

I remember blinking.

"My parents?"

He nodded.

"We think there may be an opportunity here."

At fifteen...

I don't think I heard another word.

My heart was already halfway to California.

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