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April 18, 2007
Music is Fun
You read Fluid Pudding, right? Of course you do, which means that you know what I did last night: I spent the evening with Angela at the Andrew Bird show.
Let me preface this by saying, for all my music geekness and musician worship, I've got problems with approching famous people on the rare occasions that I see them. Well, maybe "famous" is too strong a word, since most "famous" people who send me into a tizz aren't famous beyond a handful of like-minded nerds.
Here are my "famous" musician encounters, in chornological order:
1. March, 1993. I met Joan Baez and had an instant excuse to talk to her: she was a customer in the art gallery where I was working. Since none of my sorority girl co-workers knew who she was, and I was in a puddle behind the counter, biting my fist to keep from squealing, they gladly agreed that I should be the one to help her. She was so sweet, and funny, and within a minute or two I really wanted to leave work and hang out at the nearby coffeehouse with her for the rest of my life. She bought a frog sculpture and some earrings, gave me an autograph and a hug, and was ever-so-gracious when I burbled on and on about what a wonderful human being she is. The sorority girls laughed at me. Fuck 'em. I got a hug from someone who headlined at Woodmotherfuckingstock. I win.
2. July, 1996. With the same friend who joined me in the fool-hearty task of stalking Courtney Love a year earlier, we repeated with Paul Westerberg, formerly of The Replacements, one of my all-time favorite very best bands of all time. We loitered outside his tour bus, where he happily signed autographs and talked to fans. I managed to maintain my cool while he signed my ticket and a poster I'd gotten by flirting with one of the guys who was also standing in line. I thanked him for years of music that had touched my soul like few artists had. He, like Ms. Baez, was most gracious. It was my friend who went all apeshit fan-crazy. And the sad thing is, I had drug her to the show because she had insisted on dragging me to see the Goo Goo Dolls, probably the worst Replacements rip-off band of all time. So impressed was my friend by Paul that she rambled on and on and on about how she got to know his music by hearing it blasting from my room when we were roommates. I physically removed her.
4. November, 2001. A quintuple whammy: while standing on the floor, waiting for U2 to take the stage, Kristina realized that, direcetly behind us, were three members of Weezer (minus Rivers Cuomo, who we later learned was in disguise a few rows behind us) and both members of Tenacious D. Jack Black, People. Do you know how much I love Jack Black? A lot. And there he was, not five feet behind me, but I didn't join the people who had gathered around him. 1) I didn't want to bother, and 2) I didn't want someone stealing my spot close to the stage. This was just a few weeks after the release of Jack's homage to fat girls, Shallow Hal. I settled for making sleazy come-hither faces in his direction. He looked like he might call security, so I stopped.
5. May, 2002. I stood in the rain with some friends after a show in hopes of meeting Martha and Rufus Wainwright. Martha was little more than a back-up singer then, but has since found a bit more much-deserved success. Very sweet gal. As for Rufus, I didn't have to worry about coming up with something non-stupid to say to him. He beat me to the task. We were still quite a way back in the crowd, waiting for autographs and photos, when Rufus pointed at me and started screaming, "Oh my GOD! That shirt! I LOVE your shirt!"
That's right. I managed to impress a man who is not only gay, but also in the music industry, with my wardrobe choice. Granted, in such a situation, it's hard to go wrong with a snug black t-shirt with a bedazzled photo of Marilyn Monroe with a guitar.
6. April, 2007. Angela and I were dining at Thai Cafe prior to the Andrew Bird show. We were waiting ... and waiting and waiting and waiting ... for our check to arrive when a teeny little man with a pointy face, floppy hair and dark denim jacket walked past. Angela was in position to get the first look at his face, while I glimpsed him through the exterior window. We realized simultaneously that - holy shit! - Andrew Bird was having dinner two tables from us! Damn, we missed our chance to talk to him. Oh well.
About fifteen minutes later, while still waiting for our check, he came back.
He came back! We watched him walk into the restaurant and rejoin his bandmates two tables away from us.
And there we sat, heads together, desperately trying to come up with something, anything to give us reason to stop by the table.
How many hundreds, possibly thousands, of people come to Fluid Pudding and Poppymom daily because we're just so damn witty, charming and have such a je'nes ce quas with words? Well, you'll all be disappointed to know that we couldn't come up with a single goddamn thing to say that didn't sound totally stupid.
I sort of wish I'd been wearing Mom jeans, Keds, and had more of a suburban mom vibe about me. Then I could have went to his table and went all apeshit about seeing the real-life Dr. Stringz! Right there in Thai Cafe! Would you mind singing the Dr. Stringz song to my three-year-old on my cell phone? At least that would be funny in a humiliating, ironic way.
Funny thing, late in the show several people called out requests for his Dr. Stringz song, but he declined for fear that Viacom would come shut him down. Then he muttered the first line under his breath and I fell in little in love.
As is always the case, we were flooded with things we could have said to him much after the fact. Like, during the horrendous opening act, I considered storming back to Thai Cafe, marching right up to his table and yelling, "Do you have any idea what's happening on your stage? Do you? It's horrible, I tell you! Make her stop!"
I don't even know what her name is. I don't want to know because if I know, the urge to send hate mail will certainly be stronger than me. Angela nailed it by describing her as "crestfallen Cocteau Twins meets down in the dumps Edie Brickell meets really below standard My Bloody Valentine." I thought she was a lot like Morrissey, but without the joy and talent.
She made me laugh, and I don't think she meant to.
Her synthesizer player kept laying on the note that makes people inadvertantly lose control of their bowels. I feared for my pants, and I noticed a lot of people jumping from the seats and running away.
She played a teeny tiny little white keyboard. No good ever comes from that.
She drove me to drink. I was going to just have one beer, but after that set I sat with my credit card in hand so I could fling it at the first server to walk past me while screaming, "Beer! I need beer! Or a fifth of vodka! Anything that will kill the brain cells damaged by that set! You've got to help me erase her from my brain!" Which made me realize why so many opening acts are so utterly awful: it's good business for the bar.
Had I known he wasn't going to do Fake Palindromes during the show, I certainly would have lifted my rule about making requests at concerts: "The musician is not a jukebox. Leave him alone," and I would have said please, please, "Fake Palindromes"? Please? I have red lipstick, an old death kit I've been meaning to use, and see? I've got blood. Blood in my eyes for you. I'll let you swap my blood with formaldehyde if you do."
On second thought, it's just as well I didn't do that because it almost certainly would have been another security near-miss.
He told a tale about a raccoon getting into his chicken coop and creating great carnage. Had we known that, Angela could have empathized with her rodent problems. Are raccoons rodents? If so, are pandas rodents? This is why I have blood in my eyes, from entertaining thoughts like this.
The show, after the whiny, shrieky lady with the Casio? Stupendous. Mind-blowing. I'm going to echo Angela and say stunning. Instead of describing the show, go watch his network television debut from Letterman last week. During last night's show he mentioned that they had tons of equipment failure on Letterman, as they only had a few minutes to set up, so you won't get to see the double-grammophone spinning, or get to hear the brilliant Doppler sound effect it creates on the violin loops. Just imagine it, okay?
And if you happen to see Mr. Bird somewhere, please ask him what he had for dinner last night. Because that's what I always want to know - what people eat.
Posted by Robin at April 18, 2007 03:50 PM
Comments
You always do the coolest things and I notice that Angie is often with you when it's going on. That's it. I'm coming to live next door to you.
Ummm...I mean after you move to a less crazy ass neighborhood.
Posted by: Dixie at April 18, 2007 07:01 PM
I almost killed Kathy Bates when she ran out in front of my car in NYC. She was hailing a cab, and I was an innocent driver. She scared the hell out of me.
I also once spoke to the Amazon on Xena who gave birth to a centaur. hahahaha I told her she was the first centaur birthin' woman I had ever met. She was so high that I doubt she remembers the interaction.
Posted by: Kathie at April 18, 2007 07:50 PM
You forgot to mention that Jack Black was wearing a Cosby Sweater that night.
A Cozzzzby SWEATUH!
Posted by: Exena at April 18, 2007 09:24 PM
I've never had a brush with the famous. When I lived in Charleston, SC I was always hearing that someone famous had been spotted shopping downtown, but I never saw them. Wait, if I've never had a brush with someone famous; maybe I'm the famous one?!?
Posted by: Amy in StL at April 19, 2007 10:24 AM
I cannot believe that you met Joan Baez.
Diamonds and Rust never fails to make me sob to the nth degree - the whole album (except the one about being tired)
Posted by: Zoe at April 19, 2007 12:49 PM
I met Moby and some guy from Fishbone and Reverend Horton Heat.
I really wanna meet Mike Ness, but no good can come of that.
Posted by: Beqi at April 21, 2007 01:03 PM
