True Confession: It was back in the days before MTV, before every inch of celebrity life was examined ad nauseum. He was coming to Saratoga, and I had front row seats. Now, before I confess, you have to remember I grew up in front of the television, my generation the first to do so. Good guys wore white, brunettes were evil, and Native Americans were still Indians with last names like Silverheels. So given a name like Lightfoot, you know what I was expecting. A tall, dark, mysterious Tonto. Only someone who looked like that could have such a voice.
There I sat, front row center on that warm August night, best friend on one side, husband on the other, eyes focused straight ahead, waiting for Sings With Magic Throat to take the stage. When a short, fair skinned blond walked out from stage left, guitar in hand, I assumed he was a roadie setting up. He leaned the guitar into a stand, adjusted the microphone, but never left the stage, the way roadies do. Two musicians joined him, both carrying guitars. Then the lights dimmed. The curly blond "roadie" lifted the guitar from the stand and began strumming. With the first notes of If You Could Read My Mind I learned an important lesson. I never judged anyone by his or her name again.