Beneath the fading light of an August evening, where the Colorado skies clung to the last vestiges of day and the mountains loomed like sentinels of the ancient past, Tyler Childers took his place before a nearly overflowing crowd at Folsom Field. As darkness gathered, so did the anticipation, swelling like the distant storm that loomed just north of Boulder, sending waves of electric excitement through the air.
Shakey Graves had already set the stage with his haunting melodies, each note like a wind-whispered tale. When Sierra Ferrell joined him—her voice weaving with his like phantoms from a forgotten era—the crowd swayed in a spell of beautiful melancholy. But there was no mistaking who they had come for. The audience, a sea of kindred souls, awaited the arrival of the Appalachian storyteller himself.
With the opening notes of “Whitehouse Road,” Tyler’s presence was like an invocation, calling forth the energy of restless spirits. The crowd responded in kind, a wild beast stirred from slumber. Tyler’s voice—gritty, raw, and deeply lived—cut through the thick night air, a perfect reflection of his stories of reckless nights and small-town sorrow. Each word resonated, finding its place deep within the hearts of those who had come to listen.
He followed with “Old Country Church,” a haunting rendition of Hank Williams’ classic. The sacred mingled with the profane, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the field had become a sanctuary. Tyler’s voice, reverent and full of soul, silenced the thousands before him as if they had stepped onto hallowed ground.
“Can I Take My Hounds to Heaven?” brought a flicker of levity, with Tyler’s grin as wide as the prairie sky. His bandmates stood shoulder to shoulder, and before diving into “Country Squire,” he introduced them all—each one honored by the rapturous applause of a fully captivated audience. Together, they sent the crowd down a path of longing and homeward dreams.
When the winds began to pick up during “Bus Route,” it felt almost prophetic. The night itself seemed to listen as Tyler painted a vivid portrait of small-town life, the wind carrying whispers of forgotten stories and lending an eerie weight to the song.
“I Swear (To God)” arrived like a prayer offered to the stormy skies, a pledge of resilience that felt all too real in the midst of nature’s growing tension. And then, with “Cluck Ol’ Hen,” Tyler and his band unleashed a raucous fury—a whiskey-soaked cover that had the field alive with stomps and shouts. It was a revival of the old-time spirit, brought forth with an edge of wildness.
The night took a somber turn with “Rustin’ in the Rain,” a mournful reflection that found the crowd swaying together in shared sorrow. “All Your’n” followed, an anthemic release that bound the audience and Tyler in a communal harmony, voices lifted to the heavens in a unified chorus.
And then came “In Your Love,” the heart of the night, where beauty and longing collided in a moment of pure, unfiltered emotion. As drones danced in the sky, illuminating the night in a celestial display, the music seemed to ascend to something greater—a connection not just between artist and audience, but with the very cosmos themselves.
Tyler then took the stage alone, stripping the moment down to its rawest essence with “Lady May,” “Nose on the Grindstone,” and “Follow You to Virgie.” It was as if he stood alone in a darkened valley, his voice a river winding its way through the quiet of night, each note heavy with the weight of memory and loss. The crowd hung on every word, reverent and silent as if drawn into his solitary world.
When the band returned, it was with renewed fire. “Percheron Mules” and “Two Coats (Jubilee Version)” reignited the night, and by the time they hit “Shake the Frost,” the release was palpable—a defiant roar against life’s burdens. Tyler stoked the flames further with “Honky Tonk Flame,” sending the crowd into a frenzy before leading them to a spiritual peak with “Way of the Triune God.”
Far off in the distance, the storm lingered, casting flashes of lightning that seemed to dance with the music. Yet the night remained untouched by the storm’s wrath, as though the heavens themselves had paused to listen.
“House Fire” brought the energy to a boiling point, each lyric like a testament to resilience through adversity. With “Universal Sound,” Tyler reminded the crowd of the beauty that can be found even amidst chaos—a cosmic reminder that we are all connected through the vibrations of life.
Finally, with “Heart You’ve Been Tendin’,” Tyler laid his soul bare, offering the crowd one final glimpse into the heart of the man who had captivated them all night. The field, now bathed in the soft glow of stage lights and distant storm flashes, felt like a shared dream. Tyler looked out over the sea of faces, his awe at the beauty of the place and the magic of the moment evident in his humble words.
As the last notes faded into the night, the crowd lingered, unwilling to let go of the spell Tyler had woven. The storm, which had seemed to threaten but never truly arrived, dissipated into the night—just as the music had filled the air, leaving behind echoes and memories that would carry on, long after the lights had dimmed.
