SHARING THE SHOWS
So after bopping around the Harley-Davidson Museum, I walked around downtown Milwaukee and found a Dunkin Donuts in which I could charge my phone while reading and drinking coffee. At around 5:00, I texted my friend (whose name will not be used here) who was supposed to meet me for the show, and possibly dinner beforehand, but she had some personal issues come up, so she couldn’t make it. I was really looking forward to spending time with her, as I don’t get to see her that often, so I was bummed out. But that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying the show.
I tried to sell the ticket, but there was nobody buying, and there were about ten sellers. So I decided to engage in some good “karma” and miracle someone the ticket, to which he seemed grateful. I didn’t see him during the show, so I’m guessing he snuck into another seat. I was a little peeved to find out that I couldn’t bring my bookbag into the show; moreover, there was no bag check. That’s on me for not looking at the website. So I took a cab down to my Airbnb in Bay View, dropped off my bookbag, and took the cab back to the theater. Bobby, the driver, was sympathetic to my plight (gotta get as much of the show in as possible), so he was finding ways to skirt around cars. After leaving him a $13 tip on a $22 bill (he really hustled it for me), I was in at 8:15, and had only missed the first 15 minutes of Charlie Parr’s opening act. I had been bummed about my friend cancelling, even though she was very apologetic in her cancellation and had a legitimate reason. As I jammed out to the main act, I started trying to work my way through the emotions. Before writing this blog, I wrote an unsent letter in which I express my emotions and try to understand her point of view. Tonight, I’ll have to sleep on it. Anyway, the crowd for this show was a sitting crowd, and they don’t seem to like dancers too much. When I took the risk of standing up and dancing, someone a few rows behind me yelled “Sit down!” This happens to me about once a year. So I did. “Thank you!” they yelled. I saw people in the back row grooving (note to self, get back row next time in theater). So I walked up and found a spot, grooving with a couple of people. During the encore, “Bound for Glory,” someone stomped out of the aisle, pushed through me, stomped downstairs, and flipped me off as he walked downstairs. Someone’s having a bad night, I thought. At least it wasn’t me; the music had me in a higher place.
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Actually, there were five bands: Behemoth, Testament, Anthrax, Lamb of God, and Slayer, two of which Alan and I actually saw. I was a little bummed we didn’t get to see Anthrax, but Lamb of God and Slayer both put on excellent shows.
Tinley Park is a bit of a distance outside Chicago, but well worth the trip, especially since Alan provided the wheels. After getting in and scarfing down some garbage pulled pork nachos (me) and some ugly-looking sausage pizza (Alan), we made our way to the seats. The crowd was filled with people wearing black and sporting multi-colored hair, and they’re a lot wilder and more aggressive than the hippies I’m used to congregating with at my usual Phishy shows. But, I can roll with it thanks to my high school “metal” years. In fact, I remember practically wearing the heads out on Slayer’s 1994 Divine Intervention tape I bought and attempting to learn to play “Dittohead” on the guitar (epic fail). Anyway, we were in Section 202, which was right next to the walkway leading to the bathroom, meaning no crowds to go through. Some highlights include the repeated yelling of “Slayer” by members of the crowd. Between the Lamb of God and Slayer sets, I was waiting on what felt like the world’s longest line to the Men’s room, I found myself yelling “Slayer,” and following it with “I can’t help it! It’s contagious!” I yelled it the rest of the night. There’s also something about metal that gets me amped. The lady in front of me was taking video of the people around her, and when it came in my direction, I couldn’t resist the urge to flash the peace sign – both times. At the end, I apologized, saying “Something just comes over me when they start playing metal.” Alan said, “Never apologize for photobombing. When they look at the photos, you’ll be the entertainment.” It was a good argument. Now the biggest challenge of the night took place after the show. It came in two parts: 1) finding the car; and 2) getting out of the venue. I’d say the whole process took about an hour and a half. It was reminiscent of the 15 hours we spent at Big Cypress, the big Phish Y2K event in the Florida Everglades, trying to get out of the venue. I mean, the car was parked in a line for hours. Anyway, it was good meeting a new Internet friend. I’ll have another blog on my other page about bromances and how they’re often better than traditional romances. I’m gonna start calling Alan “Brolan,” an honor I reserve for Drew (Brometheus) and Mark (Brodysseus). When I add the word “bro” to your name, you’d better believe I hold you in high regard. So all I can say is that I’m glad I wrote a good portion of this blog posting before the show because I knew much of what I wanted to say before the show. Anyway, I took off for my first trip of five for the summer at 6 a.m. EST. After arriving in Chicago and hopping on the Blue Line form O’Hare International Airport mistakenly typing in 2400 West Congress Street instead of 24 East Congress Parkway, which was where my hostel was, and ending up in the type of area a tourist carrying a suitcase probably shouldn’t hang out (you could practically see the target on my back), I quickly realized my mistake and headed toward the right spot.
Since my hostel wouldn’t let me check in until 4, I dropped my luggage off and meandered around downtown for a bit. My first stop was at Lou Malnati’s for some deep dish pizza. After walking around Lake Michigan for a bit, I saw people eating ice cream and indulged in that. After finding a coffee shop and reading/writing for a bit, I checked in, took a nap, and met up with my new friend/bro Alan. The dinner of wings and a greasy Reuben sandwich with even greasier fries had me feeling my arteries, and by the time the show rolled around, I was in a food coma. My immediate association of a live U2 show was “Trash of the Titans,” that Simpsons episode where Homer runs for sanitation commissioner and he tries to get votes at their show, only to get dragged off stage and beaten up while U2 plays “(Pride) In the Name of Love.” My brother and I are such hardcore Simpsons obsessives (the 90s episodes anyway) that whenever that song comes on, we start making punching motions to re-enact that episode. When the song came on, I had to take video and text “punch, punch, punch” to him while trying not to crack up. He then sent me a GIF of Homer getting beaten up. Yep, we have a totally normal relationship, much of which consists of sending Simpsons quotes via text. Here’s the sequence involving the U2 show: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5JAd8-qqNI I had the chance to see them in Tampa last year when I worked the Advanced Placement reading, and I didn’t go because I didn’t feel like paying $80something for tickets. Besides, Iron Maiden was playing that week too, and I saw it as an either-or option. And I was a big Maiden fan growing up, and, well, U2 ain’t Phish or Widespread Panic, so the choice seemed pretty obvious at the time. However, I’m glad I got to see them. Their performances of hits like “Vertigo,” “Desire,” and “I Will Follow,” had me dancing. And the video they had in the background was one of a kind, particularly in “Sunday Bloody Sunday.” Bono is known for his political leanings in his shows, which came out in the visual history of Bloody Sunday. Another nice thing was the upgrades. This was the second time I had tickets upgraded (the first was for a Chris Rock show in Richmond, VA, where my crew and I were seated in the nosebleeds and the kind folks at the Altria Theater gave us upgrades to the first floor. This time, this girl named Joselyn gave me and Alan tickets on the same level (300s) but facing the stage (we had an obstructed view previously. My friend Alan had some pretty interesting insights about the show. I tend to let the music get me into my own world (not hard to do), but Alan was more observant. He noticed a couple of Rolling Stones teases, including one sequence where the band is driving, they meet the devil, and and say “Pleased to meet you.” He also wondered why the band would encore with something mellow, when it’s usually best practice to close with something upbeat, a critique I can get on board with. There were a couple of sequences where the band’s 1995 hit “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” from the Batman Forever soundtrack (this song always brings back memories of high school) played over the speakers while they apparently were preparing for their next tune. Alan: “it’s like watching MTV.” I found that a strange artistic choice, but I guess when you make the money they do, you can afford to be experimental on occasion. Alan also pointed the Teleprompter off which Bono appeared to be singing the lyrics to “One,” which I didn’t notice until he mentioned it. It’s always cool to have some critical insights into the show that I might not get while in my zone. Waking up the morning after dancing at a show to go for a run isn’t easy, but I managed to pull it off. Afterwards, I had a nice egg and cheese on a bagel (I love cheat days!), read and wrote, took two naps, had a couple of slices of leftover pizza, and took a long trek (read: five-minute walk) from my apartment at City Center to Tradition Brewing Company (it’s nice having a concert venue five minutes from my house, especially since I really don’t go to enough of them J).
So I bought a ticket assuming most of my friends would. Then, this past Monday, my friend Gary PMed me telling me they were sold out. Then, Sonya told me the same thing. Then Maggie. So I assumed I’d be riding this one solo, which is fine. I’m comfortable enough in my own skin where I can go to a concert solo. Except I wasn’t solo. The minute I walked in, I was greeted by a 60s psychedelic-like fuzz from the speakers. When I walked over to the merch table, I learned they were a group called The Southern Belles, based out of Richmond. I always buy the CDs of the lesser-known bands I see; I’m old-school like that, and I like to support the smaller acts where I can, so I did the same thing for the Marcus King Band, who I had seen once before at Manhattan’s Gramercy Theater during the Phish NYE run this past year. This venue was a little more tightly packed than the night before, and I generally don’t like to jostle through crowds just to get to the front; I wait it out. After about 20 minutes of bopping along with the Belles and slowly making my way toward the front, I saw my friend Dean, and in front of him, my friend Dave and his girlfriend Pat. So I politely slithered toward the front (slithering is a helpful skill in these venues) where I was greeted by hugs and fist-bumps, both righteous mating calls for us concertgoing folk. During my conversation with Dean, he jokingly said, “I think you need to go to more concerts, dude.” I sadly had to agree that I don’t go to enough. I would stay in front of the stage for the remainder of the night, save a trip to hydrate. The remainder of the night had some amazing highlights. Good conversation about future travel plans, the drunken 60ish-year-old woman who grabbed my buttocks and tried to place her hands around my waist before I subtly slithered to a spot on the right with the help of a fellow dancer. Other than that, it involved a little light flirtation, a bunch of high-fives, some ecstatic screams that only come when the music really hits your soul, and some tired feet. Oh, and did I mention great music? And the following conversation took place between me and Dean after the encore, a beautiful, fitting song called “Virginia.” Me: I think I’ve come to an epiphany. Dean: What’s that? Me: I don’t go to enough shows. Dean (laughing): Yeah, I think you could use one or two more. I do admit I need to get on my game with shows, so there will be more this summer. Fortunately, the walk home was carried by my spirit, which is always touched after an inspiring show. Great times, great friends, great music. So the school year ended today, and I officially stepped down as Interim Chairperson of my department. It was a good experience, but I’m officially ready to go back to my old role as faculty come fall. And I have plenty of ideas for teaching and research. But this Friday night was about dancing.
I originally wanted to stay home, but my friend and fellow concert hound Maggie cajoled me into going to see this local Grateful Dead cover band called Blind and Dirty, a band that got me back into the music scene in 2015, after a hiatus. I wasn’t even wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt or most of my jewelry, which I typically sport at a show. I was wearing a shirt from the Muse Writers Center in Norfolk, where I took a screenwriting class. The back of my shirt says “Write Where You Are,” which seemed fitting for where I’ve been in the moment, trying to step it up in the area of writing. After driving through a characteristic southeast Virginia thunderstorm, we parked in a tight space and made our way into the venue. The place is your classic dive bar, offering an aroma that’s essentially a combination of beer, crab cakes, and macaroni and cheese. Being on the low-carb diet, I had to resist some temptation. After saying our hellos to some of the band members, the band teased us with about 53 seconds of “Deep Elem Blues,” a good song to tune up to. “One more song!” I yelled facetiously. After a few minutes of tuning and greeting the audience, they began with “Cold Rain and Snow,” a fitting dude, one the Dead often started with during crappy weather. From there, they went into Bob Dylan’s “Quinn the Eskimo,” a song that always gets me spinning. In between, they teased AC/DC’s “TNT,” which got me thinking about both times I saw them in New York. Maggie and I agreed that AC/DC just couldn’t possibly be the same with Axl Rose as the frontman (shudders). This was the first time I heard the band bust out Joe Cocker’s “Feelin’ Alright.” During that song, this dude started blowing bubbles and I spun around pretending I was being rained on. “Ramble on Rose” is a good tune, but a slower tempo generally has me going toward the bar to get hydrated, which I did. After the “breather” song, they went into The Band’s “Up on Cripple Creek.” That’s an okay tune, but the band really brought that to life, sending me into some serious high-stepping. “Sugaree,” another good tune with a slower tempo, had me refilling on water, and this time, Diet Coke, because I needed something sweet. Other highlights include “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” “Franklin’s Tower,” and “Tangled Up in Blue.” The songs aren’t the only entertainment at these shows; the people also make up part of the act, especially for those who aren’t part of the “Deadhead” scene. There was the dude with the Hawaiian shirt I kept bumping into, the tall guy blowing bubbles, and various styles of freeform dancing. The highlight for me (and for many others) is this older lady (I think she’s in her 70s), who just “gets down.” I’m told she’s a regular, and an inspiration to some of the women in the audience (“when I’m in my 70s, I hope I can still dance like that”). So does this dude. And a dialogue exchange that took place toward the end of the first set: Me (with a serious countenance): Maggie, I just came to a realization. Maggie: What’s that? Me: I don’t go to enough shows. (Bursts out laughing). (Maggie laughs.) Since I have to get up early tomorrow and don’t like dealing with the drunks later in the night, we took off at the end of the first set. All in all, a fun way to celebrate my fourth year at my job and kick off the summer. |
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