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It was to be a night that would end abruptly with shattered glass. It started with a few light showers of rain, along with the curious sight of several fashionably slip shod musicians laboriously lugging their variegated instruments and decidedly dilapidated sound equipment from their vehicles down the hitherto orthodox hallways of a hitherto conventional academic institution. 

What can I say? “With a Little Help from my Friends,” I was about to do what Jack Black would do in the then forthcoming School of Rock movie-bring rock to the classroom. Rock 'n’ roll has a way of shaking things up, and this would be no exception.

It was Monday evening, March 24, 2003. Students of my History and Systems of Psychology class at Chapman University in Sacramento, California were sitting on the edges of their chairs as they anticipated another evening of music and scholarly reflection. The band, Flail, and the man, Solomon McCrea, were following some appreciably tough acts in Barry McGuire and in Jennifer Mancuso, whose performances several weeks earlier had utterly Mesmerized, inspired and enraptured members of the class.

If prior acts of class weren't challenging enough, some of my students were expecting Solomon to think, act and sound like his brother, John McCrea, frontman for the band, Cake. A conspicuous injustice had been committed by at least one local critic obsessed with drawing comparisons between the two forcing Solomon to live in his brother's shadow. My students would soon grow to appreciate Solomon as an artist in his own right. The goal of these Acts of Class performances, like the ones that had preceded them, was to creatively bridge the gap between philosophy of yore, and modern-day expressions of advanced philosophical thought. Music has always been a powerful conduit of such expression. These musicians had arrived to serve in that conduit capacity-in that rockin' role, if you will. In short, they came to knock thought off its rocker. 

Solomon McCrea, unassumingly grabbed his six-string acoustic guitar and parked himself securely in the lonely, empty chair that faced the crowd of eager students. To the philosophically minded, the chair could have easily served a convenient metaphor for the human dilemma, as expressed so elegantly by the seminal theorists of existential psychology and philosophy, including Christian philosopher, Paul Tillich. We, as human beings, have always possessed a conspicuous, inherent awareness of our utter sense of isolation and alienation from nature, which we were once one with. Erich Fromm, in his book, The Art of Loving, connects this sense of isolation and alienation to the fall of man, as revealed in the biblical story of Adam and Eve. The alienation, if not divinely transformed, can easily turn into rage, rendering the empty chair the kind that was depicted in Alice in Chain's popular song, “Angry Chair.” Then again, to those rare students who had not done their homework, the chair that Solomon sat in (notwithstanding the prospect that it could be holding a future superstar), was probably just a chair.

Solomon McCrea did not simply play a set of songs. He traveled through them, serving as a musical tour guide to students who were gutsy enough to follow in his sinuous path. Solomon's voice had a distinctly haunting quality to it. It reflected a spiritual hunger that, at times, grew into a voracious appetite for an elusive sense of satisfaction. His lyrics went way beyond the superficial preoccupation with evanescent pursuits and the narcissistic navel-gazing that spews through the airwaves of many a prosaic radio station. His lyrics further revealed a sensitive social conscience, and a high level of social awareness. His music was marked by intensity. His creations were difficult to place in a distinct category. It was folk. It was emo. It was rock. It was Celtic. It was Solomon, at his best. Most importantly, Solomon had his audience emotionally captivated and intellectually engaged.  He led them to reflect on the world through his own unique perspective as an artist and a modern-day musical philosopher.

Flail followed Solomon's sagacious act of class. The band comprises some of the most versatile and skillful musical masters in Sacramento. Frontman Jason Sewell stepped up to the mic like a batter, confidently stepping up to the plate. He made it to first and then second base, with a couple of casual quips as he began to tune his already well-tuned guitar. Then he made a home "run" as he traveled up and down the fret board with his flailing, but never failing, fingers. The sound check was more like an appetizer that teased the musical taste buds. It further featured Al Martin's choppy beats of brilliance, followed by the rosined rejoinders of fulgent fiddler, Kory Rosander. Erik Neversoft tickled the ivories long enough to get a giggle out of them-a glorious giggle I might add. Then the band was set to deliver, and what a deft, indefatigable delivery it was indeed!

It was musical metamorphosis, as the band seamlessly morphed from one style to the next. They threw everything in the mix but the kitchen sink, but it was no hodgepodge. The music flowed like a stream of fresh water, originating from multiple, variegated sources. I detected a pinch of post-punk, a scintilla of ska, a barrage of bowlegged blue grass banter, a hint of hard rock, a caboodle of country-even an iota of emo. It served as a great metaphor for the melding, or integration of seemingly disparate schools of philosophical and psychological thought. They sung and strummed a string of original songs that seemed to come from the depths of a bottomless well. 

Well, that's when it all came to a screeching halt. There was a conspicuous, if timorous, knock on the classroom door. It was a security officer who hesitantly broke the news about a broken car window and a stolen stereo. The car was traced to me. I was truly alarmed when I realized that I had failed to set my alarm, placing my trust wholly in the hands of the now chagrined security officer. A hoodlum had ended our hootenanny, but the memory of that night, will be forever etched on my memory.