Return of the Five-Leaf Clover and a Swifty Invasion

In a short blurb previously, I highlighted the magic of the perfect country-western song and Luke Comb’s Five Leaf Clover. When the Spotify algorithm gives it a spin, skipping becomes an impossible game; odd lyrics have a knack of sticking to a crying soul slowly dying on the inside. And Combs carried the momentum from his latest album to Nissan Stadium. Nashville’s local controversy over building a new home for the mighty Titans had stirred debates for the past year, primarily questioning the public policy benefits of these monstrosities. Recalling the ill-fated saga of the St. Louis Rams or Olympic Stadium in Athens, Greece, I get the concern.

But I’m fond of the idea of a dome in Nashville’s beautiful but often unpredictable weather. Music City has more than its fair share of unexpected rain showers. And a multi-use venue for the CMAs, Elton John coming out of retirement yet again, or when Garth wants to play with the thunder rolling offers a versatility far exceeding the limited confines of ten NFL games annually.

Nobody likes to cross their fingers for rain-or-shine events. But until it’s completed, that’s one of our few options. Prayer works too. In the movie Major League, they used KFC.

So, with the aid of his clover, on a perfect night weeks back, Luke belted out songs about Growing Up and Getting Older. Somebody needs to remind him that being 33 isn’t the end of the world. I’d take it! Still, his charm drew a record night of almost 59,000 people; maybe most found their own clover to bring along. For curious minds, the estimated odds of finding a five-leaf clover is approximately 1 in 10,000. Incidentally, it’s about the same as finding one with four leaves. Science is funny like that, but anything to keep the rain away.

The magic of the clover didn’t hold for long.

Records are destined to be broken. And a certain Taylor Swift made her triumphant return home to the place that started it all. Over a series of shows, she unveiled her latest recording, a defiant message to the evil masterminds peddling her original masters. Three down and three remain—Reputation, Taylor Swift, and 1989. Let’s not include the Christmas album. And then, she crushed Luke’s attendance record not once but thrice. Each night bigger than the last.

When anyone examines her catalog of work, no other artist has exerted more influence over the past two decades. Inside the somewhat friendly confines of my own home, I do like to debate with the Swifty overlords that Kurt Cobain single-handedly brought the 80s metal band era to an end with a single, revolutionary song. I can’t help but cheer the demise of the Aqua Net era, even as my playlist has more than its fair share of Bon Jovi, Guns N’ Roses, and Journey. Don’t Stop Believin’, Baby.

On my music nostalgia journey, we sometimes overlook the pioneers. Alanis Morissette inspired and shaped a generation of artists, likely impacting Swift’s own evolution. All music builds—there are only so many chords to go around. For reference, see the New York Times coverage.

No matter your music genre of choice, I’ve never attended a show quite like this one. I’ve experienced Pro-Football gladiator games, playoff MLB series, NBA arenas, Hockey face-offs, and numerous concerts. But never have I been engulfed in a roar as deafening as the Swifty army. Sorry, Chiefs fans. Amidst the chorus of Red and Champagne Problems, my memorable moment of the night was leaning out over the second-level deck, basking in the glow of the crowd.

Yes, 70,000 plus, working in unison, knew the words for each song.

And everyone stayed until the end, enduring the final chords and blast of fireworks. This held true even on a rain-soaked third night, where the concert start was delayed by Zeus’ mighty bolts until 10 pm and finished in the wee hours of the morning. Yes, I envision the day when a new stadium will make Music City weather whims a minor hindrance for the coming and going. But, again, building cool things should be celebrated.

Still, she pushed to the end—perseverance at its finest.

On Saturday night, I watched her limp off the stage, barely able to walk. Considering this is a three-hour spectacular, a dizzying medley of 40-plus songs. This was an ode to her fans across many eras and musical transformations. I’m not sure about the significance of what happened on April 29 in her latest Midnights album—theories abound. But I do like referencing random dates in songs. Where were you in late December, back in ’63? Right now, I’m scrolling through the pictures on my phone, hoping I climbed Everest, ran a marathon, or hiked the Appalachian Trail. Sigh, I most likely sat down in front of a computer or participated on a conference call. But “Oh, what a night!” Mid-May back in ’23. Yeah, I saw a spectacular show, one that will most likely never be tried again. Then, I began to wonder.

A Swan Song?

Through a happenstance of sheer persistence and luck, a wonderful person happened across these tickets using magical powers, fending off the notorious Ticketmaster. I jest here slightly, but the demand vastly outweighed the supply. Many jumped through hoops to see the show, paying exorbitant sums or signing up for security guard duty. Perhaps, there is a reason—this type of show has an air of finality. A glorious exit for an artist at the peak of her powers. I mean, why not go out on top? As the fireworks danced across the night sky, I wondered, is this tour the end? If not, this would sure be hard to top.

Like any artist trying to make their mark in the industry, Swift tries to bring something unique to the landscape. Her lyrics—captivating, reflective, and emotionally charged—paint a vivid picture of deeply personal stories, often drawing inspiration that’s autobiographical in nature. Love. Heartbreak. Empowerment. Self-discovery. These narratives infuse with her music.

At one point in the concert, she mentioned that her work has changed through the years—focusing on characters instead of her life. Even her earlier works, about her own life, have transformed. Everyone recalls sitting next to an Abigail in class. Fifteen multiplied by ten million. The point being the fans own it now, the Swifty Army. The entire show was a gift, a homage.

Echoing Cheers.

On the long, midnight trek back to the car over the bridge and through Nashville’s skyscraper woods, my mind wandered to Sam Malone, the central character of the beloved 80s sitcom “Cheers.” The show was set in a bar where patrons from all walks of life gathered, shared their stories, and formed tight-knit relationships. Let me be clear, I live with a devout Swifty, and to speak ill of her would invite a Han Solo-esque “there will be hell to pay” response. I doubt this Swifty has ever seen a single episode of the television series, which drew 30 million viewers weekly during its final seasons. In comparison, a viewership of 2 million is deemed a success in today’s fragmented media landscape—a testament to how times have changed and an extraordinary achievement. Nearly 40 percent of America tuned into the series finale aptly titled “One for the Road.”

If you haven’t watched the series in years, to refresh the memory, Sam, at a juncture, has the opportunity to sell the bar to a corporation and rekindle with an old flame. I won’t spoil the episode, but I feel it’s one of the finest endings in television history. Yes, Sam decides to decline the offer. When the bar has emptied for the night, Norm, one of the more popular characters with a full quiver of one-liners, stays behind and confides in Sam that he would eventually find his way back to his one true love—the bar. After Norm heads back home, Sam takes a moment, surveys his kingdom, and proclaims, “I’m the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.” Then, he rebuffs a late-night visitor knocking on the door by saying, “Sorry, we’re closed.” He straightens a picture on the wall and exits with the final shot of the place America called home for eleven seasons. A perfect ending. A sunset of sorts, but Sam will be open for business tomorrow. If this was a real-life bar, one could imagine ordering a cold one still “where everybody knows your name.” They do exist.

As I sat in my car, bracing for a long wait in after-concert traffic, I realized it wasn’t the end. Taylor has written countless songs about relationships. John. Jake. Calvin. HiddleSwift. I know; she has little in common with the television series. But her greatest love will always be her fans. And the show will go on. Until the next iteration, I’ll hold on to that one perfect night when I was a hipster—or something like that. I know, I’m only trying to be cool like all of those politicians on the hill when they couldn’t score tickets for all of their rowdy friends.

But, for one night, I understood the magic. Change will come. New stadiums. Heroes too. But always salute the artists—whether they’re songwriters, singers, writers, movie makers, developers, or accountants—who relentlessly pursue perfection in their craft. That extra turn of the crank matters, now and forevermore.

References

• This article was penned a year ago, and Ed Sheeran topped her single-night record, mostly due to stage size. But, as a fact check of sorts, the all-time record holder for most tickets sold at Nissan Stadium belongs to Garth Brooks. He sold over 73,000 tickets. But, alas, the show never went on due to severe weather, and it was never rescheduled. Considering he is somewhat obsessed with records (and holds the largest shows at most venues across the United States), I’m guessing he is planning his next move right now. Perhaps a stage that runs out to the parking lot? Haul in a few drive-through movie screens?