Tracy Chapman, Luke Combs drove me to tears with 'Fast Car ...

Maybe we saw that our troubles and dreams can connect us, how much more we could accomplish together. And maybe the politics and other divisions faded – at least for those few moments.

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Grammy Awards round-up: Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus and Billie Eilish

Taylor Swift made history at the Grammy Awards on Sunday (04.02.24) when she became the first person to win Album of the Year four times.

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Why the heck was I weeping?

I’m a 50-something white guy watching the Grammys on Sunday night just trying to keep up with what the kids are listening to.

But then, there they were: Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs singing "Fast Car."

And there were the tears.

The moment created by Combs and Chapman spoke to so many parts of my life, but also to where we are now as a country.

I first heard Chapman’s "Fast Car" in 1988, when I was trying to blow a big chunk of my summer earnings on a real stereo. Chapman’s self-titled new album was on heavy rotation in stereo stores. The crisp, clean sound she created was everything you wanted out of a speaker.

Her music – especially "Fast Car" – sold me on that stereo. And that stereo’s speakers sold me on Chapman’s CD.

It wasn't just sound. It was the words.

I had recently finished an African American literature course at DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. Our professor frequently underscored the prevalence of “flying away” in Black authors’ works. With what little I knew of Black Americans’ experiences, I could still understand why you would want to take flight.

“Is it fast enough so we can fly away,” Chapman sang so soulfully about a different, hopeful life in that car.

Flash-forward a couple decades to 2010 or 2011. I pulled out that same CD and shared it with my youngest son. I found it funny how frequently he asked to replay "Fast Car" and wanted to know more about the album.

His musical tastes broadened. His friends turned him on to Top 40 country music. And before long he was trying to get me to listen. Alternative music and rock were my thing. I laughed at him, but I gave country a shot during a few car rides.

Before long, I started really listening. Underneath the catchy melodies were wildly creative and fun plays on words.

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In his song "Whiskey Glasses," Morgan Wallen paints a picture of a forlorn guy sitting at a bar hoping to drink away his girl problems. He sets up several great lines, but this phrase says it: “I'ma need a double shot of that heartbreak proof. And see the world through whiskey glasses.”

Escape, again. Perhaps a hope for a new future.

And then Wallen didn’t make his "Saturday Night Live" gig because he flaunted COVID-19 protocols. And then he said some racist things. And then I couldn’t admit to listening to him anymore. And then I didn’t.

It’s through that lens I heard two people in recent weeks on NPR discussing the scarcity of Black voices – especially Black women – in country music. The discussion turned to Wallen’s racism and to Combs. They said they felt like Combs completely co-opted Chapman’s song. Had he also muscled away a longtime LGBTQ+ anthem, too?

At that moment driving in my car, I took those music experts for their words: that a daunting, racial barrier exists between Black artists and the country music industry. A barrier that's not unlike those remaining in many other Americans' lives.

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Watching Chapman and Combs sing offers some hope

But then Sunday night, Combs starts talking about his childhood in an introductory video. He said "Fast Car" was his “favorite song before I knew what a favorite song was.”

A kid just listening to a good song.

And then there they were on the stage: Chapman and Combs.

Was every racial or socioeconomic issue solved in those few minutes? Of course not.

But a Black woman and a white man sang together about people down on their luck and dreaming of better lives. Maybe we saw that our troubles and dreams can connect us, how much more we could accomplish together. And maybe the politics and other divisions faded – at least for those few moments.

I hope my tears Sunday night were of joy for what potential still lies ahead and not that common ground is so far gone I just want to fly away.

Jim Sergent is a USA TODAY graphics editor.