We scored a bunch of free tickets to Trans Siberian Orchestra, thanks to my friend and coworker Beau’s gregariousness. The bunch of us piled in the Tahoe after a wonderful Italian dinner and meandered through downtown Denver for the show. We just needed to pick up the tickets at Will Call and we’d be in like Flynn.

We eventually found our way to Will Call and … no tickets. Not in Beau’s name, Automattic, WordPress, nothing. It seemed like it was not going to happen after all. They asked Beau to “come with them” and visions of bad dealings in backwater Sheriff’s offices came to mind.

A little while later, unharmed, Beau came out with two sets of tixs. The adventure was redeemed. The two sets of tickets were in different parts of the stadium, so we split up and arranged to meet up later. The group I was in headed out and found our seats. A bit far back from the stage, but completely unobstructed and just off the floor. Really nice seats.

I knew TSO for their 80′s metalized (and synthesized) Christmas music, and they were belting out plenty of it, with big hair and lasers and fog and all. There was also an astonishingly beautiful solo of “O Holy Night,” which a female vocalist completely commanded and which brought a tear to my eye.

But TSO also kinda ruined it with an extraordinarily sentimentalist story about a father reuniting with a son he had abandoned, interleaving the awesome music with a story that felt like it was trying really, really hard to force Christmas. None of the beauty and warmth of a Charlie Brown Christmas there – just a heavy dose of we’re-going-to-do-our-best-to-make-you-feel-something.

And the story wasn’t even remotely plausible. It felt like a ham-handed sermon tossed in amongst beautiful music and a stunnning light show and pyro-technics.

Something like a mega-church.

I think I would ditch the sermon if I were TSO, or at least take my time to craft something more people could relate to. It’s no easy task, I know, religion has been pretty much ruined at this point for most everyone. But bad sermons don’t help that.

All said, I’m grateful for the free tickets, for my friends for putting up with some accidental sermonizing and for accidental eighties hair and tunes and fire and lasers on a cold Denver night