Scott Davis (Musings on Java and Open Source) What's so funny about Java, OS X, Peace, Love, and Understanding?

Every time I see a live show at the Denver Botanic Gardens, I think to myself, "This time I'm gonna blog about it." Then I get home and get distracted with other things. (Given the long silences at this URL, you are well aware of how easily I'm distracted...) After a Botanic Gardens show I almost always sit on the back patio, have a nice glass of wine, and try to stretch out the vibe of the evening just a little bit longer. That doesn't happen after other shows. Just Botanic Garden shows.

The venue itself is nearly perfect. As the name implies, you are surrounded by unspeakable beauty. It is a grassy amphitheater that seats just over 2,000 people. Being outside on a perfect Colorado night -- watching the sun go down early over the Rockies, listening to the cicadas accompany the band later -- is something that can only be experienced. Words hang hollow on the page in comparison.

Red Rocks is another local natural amphitheater. No one should die before seeing their favorite band play Red Rocks. But it is different. Deeply different. Shows there are events -- loud rock spectacles. Shows at the Botanic Gardens are intimate.

Just tonight, Patty Griffin marred an otherwise enjoyable set by playing three opening songs in rapid succession, and only then offering up a meek, "Hello [pause] Denver. Thank you for having us to this beautiful venue [pause], the Denver Botanic Gardens." At Red Rocks, that sort of stilted, scripted greeting is expected. ("Hello Cleveland! Are you ready to rock?") At the Botanic Gardens, you just expect more.

Like the time that Jewel forgot the second verse of a song. She stopped -- embarrassed -- and asked the audience for help with the lyrics. After she blew the third verse, she just quit. "Wow -- it wasn't the right night for that song, was it?" What in any other venue would've been a travesty, was greeted by applause and laughter at the Botanic Gardens. Here we want the performer to talk to us, interact with us -- not simply sing at us. The songs are nice, but as Garrison Keillor discovered, spoken words are just as well received as long as they are sincere.

Nearly every show at the Botanic Gardens is a sell-out. Since the "seats" are the blanket you spread on the grass surrounding the four-sided stage, reserved seating is a luxury that doesn't exist there. There is a comfortable ritual that we settle into for every show. The doors open at 6pm, but to get a seat in the front quarter of the stage you need to be in line by 4pm. Sometimes K draws the short straw. Sometimes I do. The loser has to stay at home. The winner gets to sit in line with a book (her) and a beer (me) waiting for the civilized rush into the park.

Once the blanket is spread, out comes the picnic and the wine. You can buy boxed dinners there (smoked salmon and mixed field greens), but it is always more enjoyable eating your own food. Prosciutto and brie. Fume Blanc. Sometimes a dessert from Whole Foods, other times a home-made Rice Krispie treat. It doesn't matter -- it all tastes better there.

You have an hour until the opening act starts. Tonight it was Scott Miller. If you can only buy a single disc of his, make it "Are You With Me?" The raw acoustic set -- a red guitar, three chords, and the truth -- fills the stage better than a full band. Less was certainly more when Patty braved the stage by herself for several songs. Her band was talented, but she connected best when she was up there by herself. She visibly startled herself by stomping on the floor in time with the song and actually hearing it.

The only exception to this "less is more" rule might have been Wynton Marsalis' set with African drum master Yacub Addy and Odadaa. The 20 (?!) piece Lincoln Center Orchestra shared the stage with another 6-8 African musicians. It was like nothing I've ever heard before. Chris Botti put on a helluva show, but hearing the unmic'd call and response of Wynton's band took the cake.

And then, before you want it to, the night ends. The Denver Botanic Gardens are nestled in a tony residential neighborhood. Like a sullen adolescent, it has a curfew of 9:30pm. Its big brother Red Rocks has no such (unfair) limit. You're tired and ready for bed after a Red Rocks show. In contrast, even after a 30 minute drive home from the Botanic Gardens, you're not quite ready to call it a night. So you sit outside on your back porch, sipping a nice glass of old vine Zin, trying to stretch out the vibe of the evening just a little bit longer. One of these days, you'll actually write about it...