I’ve never been what you would call “music smart.”

Aside from Mozart and my good ole’ 80s throwback standbys, I’m not real good at identifying whom I’m listening to, even on my own CDs.

I’m always the guy who acts smart, the first to name a would-be mystery artist on the radio. “Duh. That’s Sheryl Crow,”I’ve said with assertion on more than one occasion. Never mind the fact that the only reason I knew Ms. Crow was gracing my radio with her voice is because Casey Kasem or one of his buddies just told me so.

Either that or I’m wrong. In that case, I still act smart. “Tori Amos. That’s right. I knew that. What the hell was I thinking?” I say.

But I always, always know what I’m thinking. And most of the time I’m thinking that thank God you don’t have to pass a basic music test to get into bars.

I’d go thirsty.

That’s OK, though. We can’t all be music smart. After all, if it weren’t for people like me, how would the honest-to-goodness music smart people look smart? They would have nobody to impress.

See? I’m needed.

That light-blue sweater, pink-shirt wearing, Saturday-Night-Live talking Stuart Smalley and I should do a show.

My lack of music smarts, however, doesn’t mean I don’t like music. In fact, sometimes I wish I had the time and the inclination to fill my head chock full of music trivia. Just once I’d like to be the person who’s first to name that tune.

Alas, I fear it will never be.

But what really impresses my novice musical mind are those people who can sing, particularly those who can sing well. Maybe that’s why I found my way to central campus Friday night, joining about 300 others in listening to Ames’ own Nadas.

Now — as if my opinion means anything, which, of course it doesn’t — I’d say these guys are pretty good. And for this being the middle of Cow Town, U.S.A., they just might be bordering on real good.

The real genius here, in all fairness, is whatever Homecoming brainchild decided to host a concert under the silhouette of the Campanile. The only thing cooler would have been a floating stage in the middle of Lake Laverne.

Mike Butterworth and Jason Walsmith and crew could have tempted drunkards into the water with the now famed “Airplane Song.” I’m pretty sure there were more than a couple honor students out Friday who Walsmith actually had convinced that they could fly.

His airplane noises were very persuasive.

Back to the point, If you spent your Friday evening nursing $5 beers at the local establishments (Not that I didn’t find time to do that, too), you really did miss out on a good time.

There was something pure about listening to live music in the shadow of the Memorial Union and a towering Campanile on a chilly, almost-fall evening.

It was as if the heart of a Friday night high school football game was harnessed and turned loose on a college campus. All the crap — the screaming parents, the junior high kids playing “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” under the bleachers and the wad of Hubba Bubba that you accidentally sat in — were left out. It was just cool, a nice break in the sometimes monotonous collegiate life.

And Butterworth’s gangster look really completed the ambiance.

The best part was that even music idiots like me could appreciate the crowd-pleasing Nadas and the picturesque environment. Maybe my appreciation stemmed from it being my first real outdoor concert (I don’t think the Hampton [Iowa] City Orchestra counts).

But I doubt it.

Friday’s Homecoming musical festivities get an “A” in my book.

Maybe next year we can invite Sheryl Crow.

Or was that Tori Amos?

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Chris Miller is a senior in journalism mass communication from Marshalltown. He is the editor in chief of the Daily.