I was much older than I should have been when I realized that not everyone experiences music the same way. Not everyone is moved to tears after three notes of Sigur Ros. Not everyone lies on the thin carpet between their floorstanding speakers to listen to the new Beck album. Not everyone is impressed by Kevin Morby’s combination of poetry and folk-gospel blues, not everyone falls into involuntary cumbia when listening to Chicano Batman.

It turns out I’m not everyone. Music is my religion and my philosophy, my ritual and my waking dream. The intersection between inexplicable devotion and joyful wonder. Not everyone is like that. But I know I’m not alone.

My brother Peter is a musical missionary. His day job is as a Spanish professor at Yakima Valley College, but his true calling is educating the musically unconverted. Peter will hear an artist who is seismically reorienting his relationship with the universe, and he won’t rest until you feel it too. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with his evangelical fervor, but more often than you can imagine, he delivers an unexpected miracle to your record player.

One Sunday he and I tasted small batches of mezcals in my living room. He flips through a stack of my albums, still wrapped in their original cellophane, and selects one he gave me months ago. “Listen to this. “Best country album of the last five years,” he said.

Now, I’m not a big fan of the current country music scene. I love Loretta Lynn and George Jones and grew up with Johnny, Waylon and Willie. But in my opinion, country music lost the plot a long time ago. The current crop is too much fake patriotism and formulaic alcohol songs sung by pretty boys in lift kit pickups. Hard pass. But the album Peter put on my refurbished Rega 25 was Sturgill Simpson’s Metamodern Sounds in Country Music, and my life just wasn’t the same.

Simpson took the stage at the Gorge Amphitheater on September 20, 2024 wearing what my friend Germaine calls a Canadian tuxedo, something that looked like a selvage denim jacket over Costco jeans: He wore a blue and white striped crewneck sweater and his crisp white ones Sneakers looked like Keds. No boots, no hat, no sign of a buckle.

The most important country musician in my life clearly has no interest in looking like a cowboy. And I mean, no surprise. In the song “Some Days” from his album “High Top Mountain” he made it clear: “I’m tired of other people trying to take what’s mine. And I’m sick of y’all playing.” They dress up and try to sing them old country songs.” Amen, my brother.

And notice that he took the stage. He didn’t walk or strut. He didn’t wave to the crowd and I didn’t see him smile. He simply stood at the microphone while the wild-haired organist played a haunting minor chord progression and Simpson sang the line “Hello my son/Welcome to Earth” from “Welcome to Earth (Pollywog).”

The opening track of the show and on his spectacular orchestral album “A Sailor’s Guide to Earth” is not a song about beer cans or line dancing, but about the pain of being separated from your young son.

“I was told that you measure a man by how much he loves,” and off we went. The content and style of his opening were a wonderful sign.

Simpson and his band Johnny Blue Skies played a total of 32 songs, many of them new, a handful of notable covers and exactly all of my favorites.

Look, I don’t have high expectations. I see it as an indulgence, a casual invitation to disappointment and a distraction from the here and now. But I’ve been looking forward to seeing Simpson since COVID-19 canceled his 2020 tour. I’m here to tell you that this exceeded anything any Sturgill fan could have hoped for.

Most of my favorite concerts were historical performances.

Nick Cave was a half-mad lion tamer and a devout preacher. Joe Strummer howled the outraged truth right in your face. Hugh Masekela shared stories that filled the room with smiles and tears.

Simpson, however, did not appear. He just played. His first words into the microphone were the lyrics to a song, and his last words were “Thank you and goodnight,” and the Klieg lights hit the crowd, instantly destroying any hope of an encore before his sneakers left the stage.

The songs flowed into each other and Simpson often seemed lost in the mystical bliss of the sprawling melodies. The band wasn’t indifferent to the audience, but they didn’t really acknowledge us either.

They didn’t play like we weren’t there, but like there were a few thousand of their buddies crowded around them while they jammed in a buddy’s basement.

No song sounded exactly like its recorded version. It felt like the band was simultaneously exploring the outer limits and testing the inner structures of each song, a jazzy bluegrass improvisation of muscular country.

The Simpson catalog spans time and space: watchmakers, bank robbers, depression, sea voyages, drugs and, of course, transmigration and the death of the ego. You know, regular country stuff.

There aren’t many encouraging themes, only Sturgill somewhat ironically celebrates our collective survival. And let’s face it, these are challenging times. Our country feels like a powder keg, with polarization and anger seeping into everyday discourse.

A significant portion of our country is still struggling with a historic hurricane, and our newscasts are full of people taking credit and inventing blame. And you know what, I think Simpson already wrote about this in Living the Dream:

“The old man upstairs has a crooked smile

I stared at the chaos he had created

He said, ‘Boy, if you’re not having fun, just wait a little while until Mommy washes it all away and she thinks Mercy is overrated.'”

So do yourself a favor. Visit a record store and buy Sturgill Simpson. And tell them Peter sent you.

• Brendan Monahan is excited to be writing about music and culture for Explore. He’s a writer, a yogi, and a total tacos goofball. He loves listening to beautiful music and singing with his daughters. Brendan lives with his wife Aileen in Yakima, where he has practiced law most of his life.