The gunmetal gray clouds hung low over Broadway, as if the Devil himself had come to take stock of what was happening on Music Row. It was Wednesday and in the heart of the Bible Belt, it was the perfect night for a midweek revival service in the Neon Steeple at Chiefs. Smoke, from the burnt offering on the altar of Rodney Scott’s BBQ, filled the early afternoon air. While the threat of rain and the quickly dropping temps would’ve served as a deterrent to venture out on most nights, this wasn’t most nights. This was one of a select few nights where, weather be damned, the faithful were going to gather.
The stained-glass, lit from the inside, cast a soft welcoming glow on the wet pavement as it marked the destination of the pilgrims headed down Broadway. Each window served as silent and vibrant reminder of the saints and sinners who’d come before and were in some way responsible for what was about to take place. Legends of country music from bygone eras and sports legends with their roots firmly planted in North Carolina were the cloud of witnesses that welcomed the faithful home.
There on stage, in place of a traditional pulpit was a chair and a guitar, six to be exact, because the shepherd was determined not to lead the flock astray but to bring them on a journey with him. With phones locked away and distractions at a minimum, the Chief walked on stage, settled in his seat, and took us to church. Like any good revival, it was a night filled with story and song. The songs were brought to life by the stories behind them. Each song added weight to the stories that inspired their writing. Each monologue and melody pushed back against the deepening darkness just on the other side of the brick walls.
You could see in the faces of those sitting in the crowd that something more than a mere exchange of information was happening. The night was a testament to a country trailblazer—who has carved his own path in the industry by refusing to sell his soul for vapid Top 40 songs that exist untethered from lived experience or shared story. This isn’t to say that every song is autobiographical, but it is to say that every song resonates with the audience in a visceral way because it is grounded in reality.
You can sing a song to no-one, but you are always telling a story to someone—this is where the connection between Church and his Choir is forged. They feel like they are a part of not just any story, but his story. The sold-out nights of “To Beat the Devil” at Chiefs on Broadway cemented the relationship between the artist and his most ardent admirers. It was a testament to the enduring truth that the best relationships are built on the best stories. If you listened carefully, the angry, driving rain that pelted the stained glass windows that night hissed ever so slightly as the Devil’s tears were turned to holy water as they ran down the facade of the Neon Steeple while the preacher preached and the choir sang.
Everyone in Chiefs on Broadway that night was there to see Eric Church. Some for the first time, but most were there because they were and remain his most faithful supporters. However, for me it wasn’t just seeing someone I’d only known from a distance. To see Eric command the stage and share the most vulnerable and honest parts of his journey reminded me that we shared more than just those few hours. Those stories were a nod to the people and place that made him and made me.
I grew up in the same community as Eric. His sister and I were classmates and best friends throughout middle and high school. As I sat there a year ago, on that cold rainy November night, I witnessed the rest of the crowd be introduced to what I was already intimately familiar with. Where we grew up storytelling was the currency and a rite of passage. Storytelling was (and remains) an art form in that small pocket of Caldwell County. Because what had been ingrained in us from every Sunday morning, VBS, and Wednesday night revival service was the simple truth: If you are going to beat the devil, you have to tell a better story.
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