I didn't know how badly I wanted to sing with a pop star until one tried to pass me the microphone in front of 50,000 people.

It was 1991, and somehow some friends and I had landed seats in the first ten rows for a big concert at Foxboro Stadium, south of Boston. It was an great day of music, with Billy Bragg, Jackson Browne, Bruce Hornsby, and Willie Nelson taking turns on the stage. The best part for me, however, was when 10,000 Maniacs came on to close the show.

Their set that night was jaunty, tuneful, and political without being overbearing. Somewhere in the middle of it, I pushed my way into the front row center, just to get a bit closer to their lead singer, Natalie Merchant. A few songs later, the band launched into 'The Campfire Song,' an environmental anthem that could have been the evening's theme music. As the band hit the bridge, Natalie came to the edge of the stage and crouched down, right where I was standing. I was transfixed, gazing into her eyes, wondering what private message she had for those of us in the front row. About five seconds passed, and then she hissed at us. "You're supposed to know the words," she said, her hand covering the microphone.

And that's when it hit me. On the album 'In My Tribe,' R.E.M.'s Michael Stipe sings a duet with Natalie during the bridge of 'The Campfire Song.' She had come to the edge of the stage at the Earth Day show, hoping someone from the crowd would come forward to step in for Stipe. It was supposed to be me. Except I blanked, even though I probably could have summoned the words from the recesses of my brain had I figured out what was supposed to happen. Not only had I ruined the moment for her, I'd ruined the day for me.

I spent weeks kicking myself and most of the summer thinking about my near-miss. I'm a good singer. I knew the words. What a wasted opportunity, I kept telling myself.

When I got back to campus that fall, the rumors started rumbling. The Maniacs were about to go into the studio to record a new album, and they wanted to road test the material first. They were going to play just a few small colleges in New England, and mine was one of them. Sure enough, the school announced that the band would be playing in our dining hall, one night only, and only 500 tickets would be sold. I was going to have another chance. I started singing along to the tape as I got dressed in my dorm room each morning.

I got the tickets, waited in the cold for 2 hours to be among the first into the hall, and took my place, front row, stage left. The band came on, they seemed loose, and Natalie was close enough to touch. Near the end of the show, they played the opening strains of 'The Campfire Song,' and the moment was about to arrive. Or was it? What if she was stage right instead of stage left when the bridge started? Had I picked the right spot?

I hadn't counted on there being any competition. As Natalie came to the edge of the stage, a woman stepped forward out of nowhere to sing the first line of Stipe's part of the bridge duet. What was she thinking? This was a boy's part! I maneuvered my way up to her side and, seeing me there, Natalie handed me the microphone to sing Stipe's second line. Hearing that I could actually sing, she left the mike with me, cooing her part into the same mike, her lips just inches from mine. The woman from whom I stole the mike wasn't so pleased. In fact, she later wrote a review of the show for the school paper and didn't even mention my star turn.

But perhaps that's because I managed to blow part of this opportunity as well. Natalie motioned as if she wanted me to sing the entire final verse of the song myself. But I didn't know it so I handed her back the mike.

I immediately felt like a jerk for blowing the final verse, but cheers and shouts were swelling up behind me. Wanting to surprise my girlfriend, I hadn't mentioned my secret plan to sing with the band. She turned red with a mixture of pride and shock. The band's bass player made eye contact and gave me an eyebrows-raised thumbs up. It was redemption, sort of.

I now know the last verse of 'The Campfire Song,' just in case I get another chance. And I still know the bridge too. It goes like this: "Something is out of reach. Something he wanted. Something is out of reach. He's feeling taunted. Something is out of reach. That he can't beg or steal. Nor can he buy."

So many experiences are for sale these days, but some of the best ones are those you can't buy, for any price.

Ron is the co-author of the best-selling book, 'Taking Time Off'. He still divides his time between a career in journalism and singing into his hairbrush.

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(c) Ron Lieber 2004
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