This is a true story, told as best I can remember it, about a rather memorable night in July of 2010, when I found myself in a situation I never expected, surrounded by people I didn’t recognize, and blissfully unaware of just how ridiculous the whole thing was.

On July 30, 2010, one of my best buddies Nick, a fellow Marine I’d met while working construction, called me up and asked if I wanted to go see Tim McGraw at the USANA Amphitheatre in Utah.

Now, these days, I genuinely enjoy country music. I’ve even written and performed quite a bit of it myself. But back in 2010, my musical tastes leaned much more heavily toward rock and metal, and my familiarity with the contemporary country music scene was pretty limited.

I knew who Tim McGraw was, of course. I wasn’t living under a rock.

I just wasn’t particularly familiar with the other acts on the bill.

Which, as it turns out, is a rather important detail in this story.

Anyway, Nick had a connection. Apparently, a childhood friend of his was working as a guitar tech for one of the opening acts and had invited us to come hang out backstage.

Free concert? Backstage access? An evening hanging out with my buddy?

Didn’t have to ask me twice.

Although I’d already spent several years working in live entertainment, my usual backstage experience involved pushing road cases, operating forklifts, installing lighting equipment, and generally doing the sort of work that leaves you sweaty, exhausted, and questioning your career choices.

This time, however, I wasn’t there to work. I was just a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy.

And apparently, that was enough to get treated like a VIP.

When we arrived at the back gate, it quickly became apparent that Nick’s friend had already made arrangements for us. The gate staff were expecting “the Marines,” and apparently, that was us.

Now, Nick and I were both civilians by this point. I’d gotten out of the Marine Corps the previous March, but apparently our veteran status had become something of a selling point. Everywhere we went, we were introduced as “the Marines,” usually with considerably more enthusiasm than I thought the situation warranted.

I found this rather amusing. We were just two guys who happened to have served in the Corps, but the way everyone kept making a big deal about it, you’d think we’d been dispatched by the Pentagon on some sort of official morale-building mission.

And the VIP treatment was no joke.

We weren’t simply waved through a gate and left to wander around. We were welcomed, escorted backstage, introduced to people, invited onto tour buses, and generally treated like honored guests.

In fact, what made the whole experience so surreal was that these people seemed to treat Nick and me like we were the celebrities.

I’m not exaggerating.

These were clearly important musicians. I didn’t know exactly who they were, but I wasn’t completely oblivious to the fact that we were in the company of some pretty big names.

Yet, somehow, they treated us like royalty.

Everyone was incredibly gracious, welcoming, and genuinely friendly. Everywhere we went, people seemed excited to meet “the Marines.” We were introduced around, invited into their private spaces, included in conversations, and treated like we were the guests of honor.

At times, I genuinely felt like they were making a bigger deal out of us than we were supposed to be making out of them.

And I found that absolutely bewildering.

Here were two construction workers who happened to be Marine Corps veterans, being treated like VIPs by people who had thousands of fans screaming for a glimpse of them outside the gates.

It was honestly a bit of a whirlwind.

Despite having worked backstage at plenty of concerts myself, I was accustomed to being part of the crew, not somebody the crew was making accommodations for. This was an entirely different experience, and I spent a good portion of the evening feeling like someone was eventually going to realize I didn’t belong there.

I was experiencing a rather impressive case of impostor syndrome, trying to appear perfectly comfortable while internally wondering how two construction workers had somehow become important enough to receive the celebrity treatment.

Nick, always the effortlessly cool one, seemed to be taking it all in stride.

I was mostly just trying not to look like the bewildered tourist I actually was.

I kept expecting someone to realize they’d made some sort of administrative error.

Apparently, nobody did.

We met up with Nick’s buddy, whose name I’ve unfortunately forgotten over the intervening sixteen years, and he took us onto one of the tour buses to meet some of the musicians.

Apparently, there were three buses. This particular one was for the instrumentalists, while the singers had their own accommodations.

We were introduced around, shook hands, made conversation, and generally hobnobbed with the musicians.

I didn’t recognize a single one of them.

But they were friendly, welcoming, and seemed genuinely happy to have us around. I was having a great time.

Eventually, we made our way to the wings of the stage to watch the performances.

It was a fantastic experience. Here I was, a construction worker and former Marine, standing backstage at a major concert, enjoying the show alongside people who actually belonged there.

I was trying to play it cool, which largely consisted of keeping my mouth shut and pretending this was all perfectly normal.

An excellent strategy, which I would unfortunately abandon later that evening.

After the concert, we were invited to hang out behind the amphitheatre while the crews tore down the production.

If you’ve ever been backstage during a major concert load-out, you know the scene.

Forklifts running around, road cases rolling everywhere, stagehands tearing down lighting and audio equipment, trucks being loaded, and crews working furiously to get the entire show packed up and on the road.

Meanwhile, beyond the back gate, there was a huge crowd of fans screaming, hollering, and trying desperately to catch a glimpse of the performers.

The kind of commotion you’d expect if Elvis had just risen from the dead and was giving autographs.

And there we were.

About six people sitting in folding chairs around a fire barrel, casually shooting the breeze while the entire production was being dismantled around us.

Two random former Marines, a guitar player, and a few other guys who were apparently important enough to warrant all this fuss.

I found myself sitting next to a tall fellow with brown hair and a beard.

Nice guy. Very friendly. Completely unpretentious.

We’d been chatting for a bit, and I figured I’d make some casual conversation.

“So, what do you do for the band?”

He looked at me for a moment, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

Then he chuckled.

Everyone else around the fire started laughing.

I wasn’t entirely sure what was so funny.

Apparently, I’d just asked one of the band’s lead singers what his job was.

Ah.

Well.

That would explain the reaction.

At the time, all I knew was that his name was Charlie, and the other singer hanging out with us was named Dave.

In my defense, I had no idea who the band was, let alone what any of its members looked like.

He was a good sport about it, though. Didn’t make a big deal of it, didn’t act offended, just laughed and carried on with the conversation. He may have even been a little flattered.

I appreciated that.

Now, to be clear, I wasn’t completely oblivious. I knew these guys were probably a pretty big deal. The screaming fans, the tour buses, the VIP treatment, and the fact that everyone seemed to know who they were had made that abundantly obvious.

What I didn’t know was exactly how big a deal they were.

And after I’d already embarrassed myself by asking one of the lead singers what he did for the band, I certainly wasn’t about to follow that up with, “So, uh, what’s the name of your band?”

I’d already demonstrated quite enough ignorance for one evening, thank you very much.

So I did what any sensible person suffering from a severe case of impostor syndrome would do.

I smiled, nodded, acted like I belonged there, and quietly committed to learning absolutely nothing else about my hosts.

It seemed like a reasonable strategy at the time.

The whole situation was rather surreal.

Outside the gate, people were screaming and practically begging to get backstage. Inside, forklifts were buzzing around, hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment was being dismantled, and there I was, sitting around a fire with the very people everyone outside was desperate to meet.

And I’d just asked one of them what he did for a living.

Eventually, the crowd thinned out, except for a few die-hard fans still screaming at the gate, and the production started winding down.

At some point, the band even invited a few lucky fans from the crowd through the gate to join the festivities.

I can only imagine what an experience that must have been for them.

For me, of course, it was all still a bit of a mystery.

Eventually, somebody suggested we move the festivities onto the singers’ tour bus.

Now, having worked in the entertainment industry, I understood that there was something of a hierarchy when it came to tour buses.

The crew had their accommodations.

The musicians had theirs.

And the principal performers apparently had a rather nice bus all to themselves.

I may not have known who these people were, but I certainly understood the significance of being invited aboard.

So Nick and I happily accepted.

The band had three principal members, two guys and a woman. She’d performed with them earlier that evening, but by the time the after-show festivities got underway, she’d gone off to do her own thing.

The two guys, however, were very much in the mood to celebrate.

What followed was an impromptu, alcohol-fueled tour bus dance party.

The guys took over the bus sound system and started DJing. Drinks were passed around with remarkable generosity. Music was blasting, everybody was laughing, and the whole thing rapidly devolved into the kind of party that probably seemed like a much better idea at midnight than it would the following morning.

Nick and I got absolutely hammered.

And I mean we had a GREAT time.

Here we were, two former Marines, partying on a luxury tour bus with a couple of musicians who were clearly famous enough to have people screaming for them outside the gates.

I knew they were somebody.

I just didn’t know who.

And at this point, I was far too committed to pretending I knew what was going on to start asking questions.

To me, they were just a couple of genuinely friendly guys who happened to have a very nice bus, excellent sound equipment, and a generous liquor supply.

Three qualities I hold in high regard.

What made it even more remarkable was that throughout the evening, these guys never once made us feel like we were imposing.

Quite the opposite.

They continued treating Nick and me like honored guests. They were generous with their time, their hospitality, and their liquor, and seemed genuinely happy to have us there.

It was almost comical.

Here I was, feeling like I had absolutely no business being in their company, while they were going out of their way to make us feel like the most important people in the room.

Eventually, the evening came to an end. We thanked everyone for their hospitality, said our goodbyes, and went on our way.

As far as I was concerned, it had been a fantastic evening.

I’d gotten to see a great concert, hang out backstage, meet some cool people, and get spectacularly intoxicated on somebody else’s tour bus.

All without having to push a single road case.

An unqualified success.

It wasn’t until sometime later that I finally discovered who we’d actually been hanging out with.

Remember the tall guy with the brown hair and beard?

The one I’d casually asked what he did for the band?

Charles Kelley.

You know.

The lead male vocalist of…

LADY ANTEBELLUM.

Yes.

THAT Lady Antebellum.

Now known as Lady A.

The country music trio that had recently released the album Need You Now, featuring the massive hit single of the same name.

The group that was absolutely dominating the country charts in 2010.

One of the biggest acts in country music at the time.

I’d spent the evening hanging out with Charles Kelley and Dave Haywood, had casually asked Charles what his job was, and then proceeded to get thoroughly drunk with them on their own tour bus.

Looking back, the thing that stands out most isn’t the drinking, the tour buses, or even the fact that I managed to ask one of the biggest names in country music what he did for the band.

It’s how those guys treated us.

At the height of their success, with thousands of fans screaming for their attention, they went out of their way to make two random Marine Corps veterans feel like the most important people in the room.

They were gracious, generous, down to earth, and genuinely fun to be around. There wasn’t an ounce of arrogance in the way they treated us.

I walked away from that evening with a tremendous amount of respect for them, even if I didn’t yet know their names.

And when I eventually discovered just how famous they actually were, that respect only grew.

So anyway, that’s the true story of how I got absolutely wasted with Lady Antebellum at the height of their fame, knowing full well they were somebody important, but being too embarrassed to ask exactly who.

I suppose there’s something admirable about treating celebrities like ordinary people.

But there’s something even more admirable about celebrities who go out of their way to make ordinary people feel extraordinary. 

Even when one of those ordinary people is an oblivious Marine who just asked the lead singer what he does for a living. It is my goal if my ship ever comes in, to be just as considerate and humble, and to never forget where I come from.

Thanks to Nick for his continued friensdhip, and that amazing opportunity to make a memory like this.