I first fell in love with Richard Speight Jr in Toronto, at the Creation Entertainment Convention in 2014. Of course I loved him as the Trickster, but I bought tickets to my first Supernatural convention without knowing a thing about the cast, and so I stumbled headfirst into a family reunion celebrating Rob Benedict’s triumphant return to the convention circuit, after he’d survived a stroke at that very convention in 2013. 

 

It’s fair to say that the love in that room changed me as a person. Since then I’ve followed Rich on his Kings of Con and Supernatural Then and Now adventures, but the highlight of each year has been spending one or occasionally even two weekends with Rich as the ringmaster for a Creation Entertainment weekend, cheerfully guiding us through the emotional highs and the wallet-emptying lows of each event with his brilliant banter, his palpable joy in riding a joke into the ground - through the crust, past the mantle, ready and willing to plumb his way into the fiery core of our planet to see a joke through to its bitter end - and above all, his fierce affection for everyone on that stage and for us, the freshly insolvent fans who attend these shindigs. 

 

Rich is hilarious without being cruel. He’s sharp and witty and sweet, an impossibly rare combination, and when he gets on stage to remind us to be kind to one another because we are family, it’s a message that hits home in a way it never could if he didn’t believe it himself. But when Rich takes the stage at a convention, he’s contractually obligated to play second fiddle. He’s there to hype up each next guest, to entertain us in the space between attractions; to whet our enthusiasm to a fever pitch, and then to disappear behind the curtain to let someone else shine.

 

What a treat it was then, after all this time, to get to see Dick Jr take the stage for himself. Full disclosure I drove down to NYC in my cheesy homemade, “BILLY 4EVA!,” fan apparel because Billy Moran invited me and I know that man sets any stage on fire - and I’m a huge Jason Manns fan, too -  but I adore Rich and I’ve enjoyed his albums and I was excited to see him headline. WELL, it’s no exaggeration to say I was not prepared for Dick Jr out on the town with his Volunteers, with nary a single vaudeville hook threatening in the wings.

 

I don’t even know where to start. I’m not sure I have the vocabulary to gush at the volume I’d like to but I can tell you that Rich was an utter delight. He took that NYC stage and turned it into Nashville for an hour, crushed that stage under his cowboy boot heel like it owed him money; he commingled his charm and his sex appeal and his extraordinary talent for making fans feel like part of the show and parlayed that gestalt into an event that blew our collective socks off. He killed it, is what I’m trying to say, and my words are but the feeble caress of a claw machine trying to grasp the iPad amongst the off-brand stuffed animals as I attempt to convey the pure awesomeness of the evening I had.

 

Rich was a smokeshow, a brick house, a sparkler brighter than the ones they had on the fourth of July when I was a kid; the kind you waved in clumsy figure eights and stared at until your retinas were all black spots and the sparks burnt your little fist. He didn’t steal the spotlight; the spotlight was just there to reduce the contrast, so that our retinas could stand a chance after staring at the sun. And when he wasn’t playing guitar or belting out smoky vocals or doing both at the same time, he was teasing his friends and keeping the audience in stitches with his trademark indomitable banter - teasing Billy for being a little too precious with his microphone and/or for being, and I’m only reporting the news here, “coked up,” Jason for his new Magnum P.I. mustache, and in one long, scenic walk to a punchline that just about killed me (and Forrest) stone dead, accusing Forrest O’Connor of sneaking morse code into his solos to spell out, “I got a grammy, I got a grammy, I won a grammy, a grammy, you ain’t won shit!” (Rich never did dare start anything with Mark Sheppard, I couldn’t help but notice. Maybe next time.) The man is a national treasure, and I’m just glad to be invited to the party.

 

Of course I know Rich didn’t put on this magic show all by himself. Billy set the stage on fire just like I knew he would. Jason’s vocals made me leak a few tears I will absolutely deny later. Meredith Lane’s harmonies and solos were perfect, Nick Morrison was terrific on bass, Mark Sheppard was phenomenal on drums; it was just a lovely show, and I had a lovely time, and there’s no way to describe the way my soul resonates with music using plain old words so I’m going to stop trying.

 

When Rich first took the stage - and I’m paraphrasing here - he allowed that following the sweet clarity of the singing angels that went on before him, he felt like he was bringing something, “A little stanky,” to the stage, and he was okay with that. Well, I’m more than okay with it, I loved it, and anytime I can swing it, you’d better believe I’ll be back for any encores. 

 

I drove home until five am that night with my ears ringing and my heart overflowing, and I can give no higher accolade than that. My heartfelt thanks to Dick Jr and every one of the Volunteers for the gift of their humanity that night. I had a wonderful time. :-)