So let’s get one thing straight. I am not a 20-something hipster tapping in to live twitter feeds from garage bands in Prague. I am not an old-school rocker with high off-road mileage and a septum tattered by blow. I am, like most of my middle-aged friends, a victim of an embarrassing epidemic that’s sweeping the nation. Musical Impotence.

M.I. develops in three stages: 1) generalized musical apathy, leading to, 2) inability to get it up for live shows (yes, even the hot ones), resulting in, 3) complete ignorance of contemporary music culture. It goes mostly unnoticed until one morning you wake up and can’t tell Joshua Radin from Marilyn Manson. Sad? Why, yes it is. Full-blown M.I. leaves you with two choices: resign yourself to the inevitable and live out the rest of your days entombed in a fortress of re-mastered James Taylor CD’s, OR throw caution to the wind, indiscriminately bedding down for an evening with any old band that happens by in hopes of reviving your mojo. I’ve always been a feisty lass, so when I received a last-minute text invite from a friend to join him at the Boulder theater on Monday night for a show, I hoped it might be just the miracle cure for what ails me. “Sure!” I texted back, “um… who’s playing?”

Sometimes utter cluelessness has its rewards. I’ve never been to Disneyland, but I imagine kids approach it the same way I approached the show – wide open, ready to be amazed by anything and everything. Fortified by a tall pour from George’s, I made my way past the vending area and rounded the bend to the theater proper, steeled and ready to hurtle in to the fray with a sweating, pumping, horde of… southern gents in crisp plaid shirts??? Well, I never. The scene was pure Sunday barbecue, southern style: friendly folks, blonde kids, clean-cut guys on dates with smiling gals. Disarmed by the scrubbed, down-homeyness of it all I relaxed, settled in, and turned to the opening band, Those Darlins, for some good, clean fun.

Did I say good, clean fun? Retro Appalacian and girl-punky, Those Darlins were in full fandango when we arrived, dishing out a little bit of raunch and a whole lot of sass with their dolled-up grits. There was something in lead singer Jessi Darlin’s tomboyish full-frontal approach that was downright charming, her voice adding sweet Georgia peach tang to a tart’s lyrics. Free associations: Southern-fried fishnet-ripping garage meets The Raveonettes…  I found Those Darlins imminently likeable and was even roused to a little retroactive stalking via the interwebz.

Next up: the alt-country headliners, Old 97’s. (Let me pause here to say that, as a middle-aged geek, I truly love learning something uber-useless during the course of an otherwise unremarkable day. Case in point: the name Old 97’s is a nod to “Wreck of the Old 97”, a country ballad about a train.) Post presto-change-o break the 97-ers sauntered onstage, sliding to their mic’s like Crisco on a hot locomotive. From my prime front-and-center real estate, gawking up at lead singer Rhett Miller, I had a sudden doppelganger revelation: he is Nigel Tufnel (“This is Spinal Tap”). Am I wrong? The hair, the pout, the pelvic swooshing… it’s uncanny. While I was still looking for armadillos in those trousers, Old 97’s ponied up and galloped off in a rollicking longhorn stomp of a set. Tight, slick, seasoned pros, they had the ladies smiling, the kids singing and the Texans bobbing in their boots.

Sadly, just as things were heating up, my M.I. kicked in with a vengeance. Typical. I ignored the first few yawns, but when fantasies of fuzzy slippers hit, it was clear that the jig was up. I begged off and turned to leave, the sea of plaid parted, the seedy elegance of Boulder Theater yielding to a Darlin-filled sidewalk. I mounted my trusty cruiser and pedaled off toward home, a cup of chamomile tea, and a stack of James Taylor CD’s.

At 18 I moved to the deep south for school. But not until I was tripping over the shoelaces of 20 did I realize that not everyone down there liked me.

I’m not slow, just in case you’re wondering. I’m a Yankee, so, Atlanta Speedway aside, I’m pretty darn zippy compared with most folks down there. No, it’s just that Southerners are born to this life packing Nobel-Prize-winning politeness skills. As a New Englander, I’m basically a point-and-grunt social troglodyte in comparison. Not that I didn’t try. The subtle difference between “charming” and “darling” was easy enough to pick up, but the day I found out that “interesting” was definitely NOT a compliment? Well. I’m not whistling Dixie when I say that was the beginning of the end.

Those first two years were truly magical, though. The charm of Southern warmth and sweet gentility, soft drawls drowning out memories of hatchet-like northern barking. And then there was the music, rocking the roots as well as some newer branches of r&b. I thought I’d found utopia by crossing Mason-Dixon. I still remember those as the best of times, and even after all these years, I have to admit that my fantasies of “the good old days” are a lot more gumbo than clambake.

It was head-sucking, tail-pinching déjà vu all over again at Boulder’s Fox Theater on Friday night for the North Mississippi Allstars/Missing Cats lineup. Passing by the ID checkpoint I was greeted by a massive, kindly bouncer who reminded me just the tiniest bit of an inked-up IZ. I guess when you’re that size, copping an attitude is just plain irrelevant. Safely in-house, I cruised toward the stage where Missing Cats were layin’ down the groove.

Once in the theater, a short-haired 50-something woman grabbed my attention. Simply put, she looked like the happiest person I had ever seen. I asked her what her secret was and she beamed bandward. “Been following them for 15 years and never got this close to the stage!” she enthused. “Pure bliss!” After a few songs, I could see her point: those cats weren’t missing a whole lot so far as I could tell. With an air of practiced ease and southern ‘tain’t-no-rush pacing, Missing Cats were reaching out and touching hearts with classic boogie-woogie keyboard riffs and soul-filling tunes like “Body in the River” and “Sweet Mary”. Toward the end of the set, a gently wasted, teary-eyed guy looked up at JoJo Hermann and wailed out “that’s SUCH a beautiful song!” and, well, I had to agree.

Set break = people watching. More aptly, hair watching. Long tresses, unruly curls, scraggly waves, dreads, ponytails… even a Fu Manchu or two. In these days of careful metro coiffing, the staggering array of hippy hair was like a breath of (herb-scented) fresh air. With a smile I noted that the Friendly Flag was also flying high and proud. From sweet Sarah who held my water while I went to the restroom, to the flannel-shirted dude who made me giggle with an impromptu hug, kindness was king of the hill.

The good vibrations crescendoed as headliners North Mississippi Allstars took the stage, and this yankee got down to gettin’ down. Peaceable dancers smiled and made way for me on the floor as the Dickinson brothers juked the Fox like a Tennessee speakeasy. From a rave-cool techno solo on synthesized washboard, to a little look-at-that-woman-with-her-dress-above-her-knee hot sauce, the joint was jumping in shades of Mississippi Hill Country blue.

Free-flowing jams that would have made Duane Allman’s eyes twinkle, repetitive rhythms of midnight causeway rides through dank bayou air, whimsical fingerings like colored autumn leaves falling on piano keys. For me it was all a seduction to the sweet by and by. And when the flood of reverie came for me (strolling with my lover on a muggy Louisiana night, an old blind man singing heartache to the empty corner of Bourbon and Dumaine…) I laid back with a smile and let that lonesome old river come and carry me away.

Check out more photos from the show.