By Chaz Martin

Oh my people: I will tell you of the shining hope. I have seen the golden cherub arise from the depths of despair and pain, to deliver spiritual tidings of ultimate redemption. My brothers, my sisters, I have traveled many leagues on my journey. Through a gauntlet of trials and testing, I arrived inColumbus, Ohio, to witness the spirit of light rise like a Phoenix over downcast eyes. For yes, on September the 28th, I was present at the Neil Diamond performance at Value City Arena.

As I stood in the third row, surrounded by middle-aged women, uncertain of my worthiness to attend this concert of mystic ritual, my mind was set at ease by a host of trumpeters, trombonists, guitar players, tambourine groupies, Jamaican steel drummers, and laser lights (Oh! The laser lights that exorcised any hint of inhibition from the throng of balding housewives and initiated acid flashbacks from the few college students who stared with dropped jaws in anticipation for the arrival.)

And then, oh then, the head of Neil Diamond appeared at the base of the stage, followed by his shoulders, his torso, his hips, legs and boots, rising up on an elevated lift. A half-instant of silence ensued as we grappled with ourselves as to the reality of his purple, sequin shirt, a shirt that Joseph would have traded in his coat to wear, a shirt that no one other than Neil Diamond could possibly fill. It was festooned with color and vibrancy, reflecting the very light from our eyes.And then, my people, came song. A right hand was thrust forward as the pelvis of Neil Diamond shifted, then reversed, than propelled the man towards our section. And song flowed into words that fell into laps like manna.

Far, We’ve been traveling far, Without a home, But not without a star, Free, Only want to be free, We huddle close, Hang on to a dream. We’re comin’ to America, TODAY!

And an American flag the size of New Albany, Indiana was unfurled, falling from the ceiling in waves, clearing with it my aversion to benign nationalism. And I knew that our country had sprouted Neil Diamond from its loins, along with Elvis Presley and Ma Rainey and Tony Bennett. And I knew that it was good, and that somehow, deep down inside, there was a bit American identity stirring within me.

I thought love was only true in fairy tales, Meant for someone else but not for me, Love was out to get me, That’s the way it seemed, Disappointment haunted all my dreams Then I saw her face Now I’m a believer.Top that, France!

Neil Diamond is the embodiment of all things American that may be construed as trite, self-indulgent, and excessive. His presence as a messianic troubadour may be decried as cheap, fanciful dreaming. To these naysayers, I say fie, fie on your jaded condemnation of simple joys. I say come, come lay down your broken dreams and bloodied swords, lay out your hands, touching hands, reaching out, touching me, touching you.

Oh my lost tribes, lay down your sorrows for a while, find an escape in a silly, foolish moment where you can close that foamy mouth and open it again, with its corners upturned. After a 500-level class on globalization, followed by a lecture on the Middle East, when all you ask is to feel innocent for a while, play that old, dusty Neil Diamond album and you will be.

Some might say that I have given up my criticism of America in exchange for a quick fix through the music of a pelvis thrusting charlatan.

But, no, I have merely let my soul open to the healing power of mid-1970’s ballads, to restore a sense of place and purpose to this ground on which I stand, a country that gave the world Rock N’ Roll and its cheesy, bubble gum counterpart that makes any trouble seem far away. And as Neil Diamond was lowered down; his feet, legs, hips, sequin shirt, and luminous head vanishing into the stage, a new feeling of rightness was left under my chest. And I will not give that up to reclaim rationality. Not just yet. I’m a believer.

Chaz Martin is a senior history major and a columnist for The Louisville Cardinal.