Flop Sweat in Edinburgh

The Night I Totally Bombed... Was The Highlight Of The Christmas Tour??

I’ve been home about a week from a whirlwind Christmas tour—a fairly short run in the States, with two sold-out Ryman shows here in Nashville, followed by a truly incredible week of UK shows in Scotland, Nottingham, London, and Wales.

Before I get to the story I want to tell you, I must first brag on our hosts who brought us over and worked tirelessly to put these shows on. It was an absolutely tremendous amount of work for them and our crew, and they all could not have been kinder or more encouraging. Truly selfless people who desperately want to see hope, beauty, and change in their nation. It was an incredible honor to be a part of it.

Our tour and crew, featuring our tour manager, Ken.

Of course, it was also just a huge gift to travel and play music with some of my dearest friends in such stunning places. It was a trip I’ll not soon forget, and I’m very thankful to Andrew Peterson for continuing to have me out on this tour, year after year.

I said it most nights, but it’s one of the great joys of my life to be a part of this community, getting to tell this story through this music. I will never take it for granted.

I could go on and on about the good things, the friends, the music, and the hard work, etc. However, the story I want to tell you is about my complete and utter failure during the first show of the UK run

We were in Edinburgh, Scotland, in this absolutely gorgeous old church. The room was sold out, and the atmosphere was electric. People were genuinely excited that we were there, and Scottish crowds are not quiet—even at Christian singer-songwriter Christmas concerts.

If you haven’t seen the Behold the Lamb of God tour before, here’s how the show goes:

It’s broken into two halves. The second half is Andrew’s Behold the Lamb of God Christmas album, played all the way through with no interruption and no talking—just 45 minutes of straight music. It’s kind of a folk-rock Handel’s Messiah in that it’s one giant piece that tells the story of the coming of Christ. It’s pretty stunning, to be honest, and I’ve heard it for twenty-five years. It gets me every single time.

The first half is a big Nashville “songwriter round,” where all the different songwriters in the band take turns playing a song or two of their own. Andrew usually opens the show with a song on his own, then we all come out and play a Rich Mullins song together—this time it was the song “Creed.” Then we sit on stools, hang out, and take turns playing songs.

Because we’re all friends and we’ve done this for years, we tend to play along with each other or jump in on harmonies, and it’s really a lot of fun. It’s a very different kind of Christmas show in that none of the songs are typically Christmas songs (ha!), but it really lets people get to know who we are and presents a sense of community that is really special. Plus, the songwriters are people like Andy Gullahorn, Jill Phillips, Arcadian Wild and Jess Ray, so it’s pretty epic.

I’m one of the songwriters, too, and in Edinburgh, I was up right after Jess. I introduced my song “Year of the Locust,” a song I love playing and have performed hundreds of times.

I’ve always struggled with remembering lyrics—I’m probably a little ADHD—but I have never hit a wall like I did this night. I stepped up to that microphone, and my mind just turned to a complete blank sheet of paper. For the life of me, I could not think of a single line in the song.

I have a little funny bit that I do when I forget a line, and I made the joke and started over, but the second time, the lyrics still weren’t there. It went from funny to panic quickly. Andrew started googling the lyrics on his phone while my face turned as white as the lyric sheet in my brain. My mouth got dry, and I started sweating like crazy. I think I was having a panic attack.

Andrew handed Jess the phone, and she, so supportively, stood right next to me and held the phone in front of me. By that point, I was in such a panic that I could barely read the lyrics she was holding. There were 800 people watching this whole thing, plus all my friends to the right of me.

By this point, there was no room in my brain for the lyrics—only shame. The feeling that I was letting Andrew down at this big, important show. The embarrassment of making such a fool of myself when all I had to do was sing one single song. I’ve played thousands of concerts in my life; why couldn’t I sing one single song tonight? Why can’t I be someone people can count on?

I pushed through the rest of the song. I don’t know if I hit all the notes or not with my dry mouth, but as I finished, the room erupted. Half the room was standing up, cheering.

I freaking love Scottish people.

But then I had to sit on that stage for the next 45 minutes as my friends played their songs perfectly (because they’re professionals who don’t fold under pressure like me, I thought.) The whole time, I just sat on a stool in front of all those people, beating myself up, knowing they were watching me sitting there, beating myself up.

To be honest, the rest of the show was great. I played really well. I remembered all the lines to all my harmonies, even this crazy song where I ride the fifth above Andrew as he sings the genealogy from Abraham to Jesus. Everybody else was brilliant, as always. Andrew’s songs are amazing. The gospel is as beautiful as it always is. The crowd was incredible and sang along at the end louder than maybe any other crowd in the history of this tour. It really was powerful.

But, of course, I just wanted to pack my stuff up and crawl to the nearest pub, hoping nobody would recognize me—the guy who blew it.

This is the church - Charlotte Chapel. On the right is the pub I wanted to escape to - The Fox and Faun.

It took me forever to pack up that night, though. So many people came up to talk to me after the show, thanking me for pushing through the song. They told me how much those lyrics spoke to them and how they might have missed them if I hadn’t had to fight to get them out. One lady just walked up to me crying, hugged me, and walked away. I never got her name.

Many people told me that was their favorite part of the show. They shared their own stories of big failures, and we laughed together at mine.

The next night, we played in Nottingham. I played the same song. I nailed it. Only two people came up to me after the show.

They had both been in Edinburgh the night before. They wanted to tell me how much it had meant to them last night.

Friends, why is it always this way?

I want my excellence to inspire and encourage people, but instead, it’s my flop sweat and failure. I want people to be wowed by my amazing brilliance, but what they need to see is a friend holding another friend’s phone for me so I can barely make it through.

It’s no longer about seeing your favorite artists or your top Spotify whatevers, it’s just seeing people being human, and being comforted by real vulnerability and friendship.

I’m still getting emails about the performance two weeks later. I sucked so bad people are still thinking about it! Haha.

As we end one year and step into the next, maybe you feel like you’ve crushed it and people should cheer for you, and if so, that’s awesome. Congrats.

But if you feel like I did on stage in Edinburgh—dry mouth, not sure what to do, held up by your friends, and a little embarrassed that it didn’t turn out like you hoped…

Well… maybe that’s the most powerful year you could have lived.

The one the rest of us needed.

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That’s it for me today. Merry Christmas, friends, and a Happy New Year.

Thank you, again, to everybody who ordered the vinyl album. Lots of new music to come next year. Stay warm and healthy and get some rest!

OH! One other fun bit from Scotland:

There was a church very nearby in Edinburgh with a cemetery where J.K. Rowling got a bunch of character names for the Harry Potter books.

Here I am with the grave of Tom Riddle.