If you happened to watch the Grammy Awards on TV Sunday night, perhaps you caught Michelle Obama’s cameo appearance. For those of you who didn’t, here’s a condensed recap of her remarks:

“From the Motown records I wore out on the South Side, to the . . . songs that fueled me through this last decade, music has always helped me tell my story . . . Music shows us that all of it matters — every story within every voice, every note within every song.”

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one nodding in agreement with the former first lady’s ode to the power of music. I can’t sing a lick in tune, but music has long been a passion — and has played a significant role in my 25-plus-year relationship with my husband, Jeff. It connects the two of us more than any other art form; going to a show and listening together continues to be pure joy. 

Yet as I was watching the Grammys and thinking about our favorite pastime, what stands out is not only how our taste in music has expanded and changed as we’ve gotten older, but also where and when we consume it.

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We have never grown out of our desire to keep discovering new artists or enjoying familiar ones. But our approach in doing both has morphed from chaotic to comfortable. 

Let me explain.

Jeff and I met at a Neville Brothers concert at the old Mississippi Nights in Laclede’s Landing. Throughout our five-year courtship, we saw countless concerts together. Many of them started late at night — and by late I mean after 10:30 p.m. Many also required us to stand for several hours at a time. 

We often decided where to vacation based on whether a certain location had a music festival. We drove for days to attend the Telluride Bluegrass Festival in Colorado and were regulars for years running at the Jazz and Heritage Festival in New Orleans. So what if we were shoulder-to-shoulder with a throng of humanity so thick we could barely breathe? That was part of the experience.

As middle-aged funksters, we continued to go to music shows every chance we got. Much of our interest was in hearing lesser-known artists, so we were early followers of Lucinda Williams, the Mavericks, Patty Griffin, the subdudes, Donna the Buffalo, Lake Street Dive, Brandi Carlile, Victor Wooten and the Avett Brothers, to name a few. But that didn’t stop us from shelling out the bucks to see Neil Young, Dave Matthews, John Mellencamp and Willie Nelson play Farm Aid at Riverport or Paul McCartney at Scottrade or Billy Joel and Elton John at Busch Stadium. 

Along the way, however, we made a concession: we now required a seat. Standing for hours on end to hear a band, any band, would no longer be part of the experience, said our backs and knees.

About a dozen years ago we began attending house concerts, which are just like they sound — concerts held in people’s homes. Luckily, we have a couple of friends who host these shows monthly. Attendees are encouraged to bring a potluck dish to share and their own drinks. Doors open at 7 and the music begins promptly at 8. The cost is usually in the $15-$20 range, and all the money collected goes directly to the band. 

What’s particularly special about house concerts is the intimacy, which allows for a true connection between artist and audience. One of our friends maxes out his shows at 75 people; the other, at 40. Pretty much everyone in attendance is there to hear the music as well as stories the performers tell. And perhaps the best thing of all: not only are you assured a seat, there is no bad one. The band is never more than 20 feet away. 

As great as house concerts are, Jeff and I still relish a stool at a bar — the divier the better — to see live music. Last year we stumbled onto our version of heaven during a trip to Ireland. In Dublin, as well as in the small fishing villages we visited, we found dozens of cozy pubs that featured musicians of nearly every genre, playing for tips. We even heard an amazing duo at Foxy John’s, an old-fashioned hardware store in Dingle that sells nails and screws alongside whiskey and Guinness. Talk about a place to get hammered.

In addition to securing seats at nearly all the pubs we visited, many of the bands started playing at noon. That’s another thing that has changed for us over time: we now seek out the early-bird special. Hearing a band that gets underway at 10:30 p.m. (or even 9!) is, frankly, exhausting.

Last month we made our first trip to Austin, Texas. Once again we struck musical gold in finding divey clubs, known as listening rooms, with terrific music that began by mid-or-late afternoon. Willie Nelson’s daughter Paula and her band rocked the Saxon Pub at 3 p.m., while Redd Volkaert, who was Merle Haggard’s lead guitarist for decades, tore it up at the Continental Club from 3:30 to 5 p.m. 

So pumped were we from the visit that I’ve decided to start a campaign here in St. Louis, urging more venues to offer live music during the day. To support such an effort, I’ll need your help. Just because we’ve gotten older doesn’t mean we need to give up the things that make us happy.

And I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if I could get Michelle Obama on board with this plan, too.

NEWS & SCHMOOZE: News and Schmooze is a weekly column by Editor Ellen Futterman. Email  Ellen at: [email protected].