I am guessing that I intended to edit this somehow. I have no idea why I wouldn't have just posted it otherwise. Maybe I was planning to add the story about running Jello Biafra for Chinese takeout with four other people in a Ford Tempo? I don't know. anyway, it's not polished but it's entertaining enough. Original draft date included because why not?
I found some old notebooks.
I've had a lot of this stuff laying around for a long time. Half-full notebooks, over-stuffed journals, bar napkins and bits of paper with random phrases written on them. I'm not even really sure what my intention was in keeping all . Basically most of it is way too personal and/or poorly written for me to ever want to publish anywhere, but I did run across a couple of stories - not fiction stories, mind you, but hastily scrawled recollections that I think are worth sharing. I figure now is as good a time as any to start.The following story takes place at SXSW, sometime in the middle 90s.
The smoke was killing me, mostly because there was no room for either me or the air in the club to move. I'd been jammed in the same space for over 30 min. basically since the doors had opened. I had to pee very badly, but couldn't possibly give up my spot. I was front and center, less than 5 feet from the stage. Golden Smog was an ever-rotating lineup of incredible musicians from several of my favorite bands: The Replacements, The Jayhawks, Uncle Tupelo, Soul Asylum, Big Star... Mike would know the rest. He was like that. I had conned both of my roommates and my then boyfriend (Mike) into driving the fifteen-plus hours from Champaign, Illinois to Austin, Texas only three days ago. We had already seen eight or 10 great bands in the past 24 hours, but this was clearly the highlight.
So I'm standing there holding our place while Pat is off getting beer, Trish is in the bathroom, and Mike is getting T-shirts. I looked to my left and I noticed that Dave Pirner was just a few feet away chatting up a girl about my age who, based on their conversation,was apparently unaware that he was a musician, much less that he actually used to be in Golden Smog. I figured she just dug his dreadlocks. Anyway, his former bandmate Dave was in the lineup that night. I silently hoped he might join them onstage. His ubiquitous (at the time) star-fucker girlfriend Winona Ryder was nowhere to be seen. I thought perhaps she was once again stalking the Next Big Thing. In fact, that guy's show was in full swing at a much larger club on sixth street at that moment, so it was a definite possibility.
*After what seems like a lifetime, the lights finally go down. Through considerable amount of secondhand smoke and the torpor of nearly two full days in the car, followed by whore's bath in a truckstop restroom north of Dallas, all the while subsisting on the limited vegetarian options at our nation's finest fast food establishments ("Who order a cheeseburger with no meat?" The manager of the McDonald's somewhere in Arkansas had demanded with barely contained rage), I somehow manage to muster not only enthusiasm, but genuine elation. There is a feeling that I get at certain rock shows– one that I cannot and will not attempt to explain to people who have only a passing interest in music. It's the feeling that I suppose sports fans get during the national anthem at the Super Bowl or the World Series. It is an indescribable, spine tingling, ass-clenching, butterflies-in-your-stomach, I'm either going to vomit or have an orgasm thrill that a music fan experiences at certain moments. Fortunately for me it isn't seasonal, nor does it depend on a win or a loss or a region. I cheer for my guys from Minneapolis to Denton, Texas, regardless of my Chicago origins or my current Athens Georgia roots. Moments of greatness, of true, profound, musical bliss are all over the place – you can't rely on the instant replay or tonight's Scores and Highlights at 10. The records can and often are truly great, but even live recordings don't compare. You just have to be there. And tonight, I am.
Mere moments later, Jeff Tweedy emerges from backstage, followed by Dave, Gary, and the rest of the band. Again- you'll have to ask Mike. I am giddy. I'm exhausted. I am sweaty, and I may not have enough money to eat for the next two days, but I made it, and this is the moment when I realize why I do this: the band wordlessly launches into "Red-Headed Stepchild", and no sooner do my roommates and my boyfriend return to my side, clinking beers and beginning to sing along, when the 6 inches directly in front of me is suddenly occupied by a point he, bony, gyrating redhead who stands almost exactly a head taller than me. *
It took me a moment to even process, but then I couldn't see anything and this woman was flailing around spilling my beer and practically burning me with her cigarette. I looked to my right, at my roommates, who were so caught up in the show that they didn't notice even though she was spilling their beers, too. When I looked left, my boyfriend was rolling his eyes and glaring at her. He tried to make room for me in front of him, but it was no use. Then Mike leans over and goes
"Is that Tabitha Soren?"
He was referring to the annoying, omnipresent, and boringly self-important MTV newscaster (a job title that I still can't describe without smirking) who passed for an "informed journalist" for Gen X. I didn't know. In fact, I had no idea what her face looked like, only that she had no rhythm and had perhaps forgotten to apply deodorant that day. I leaned over to my roommates to ask. They nodded in affirmation, Trish looking immediately back at the show while Tom's gaze took in all of TS. He didn't know or care about Soul Asylum, so he was way more interested in TS than Dave Pirner. I stuck my right elbow out in front of me, unmoving but aggressively jabbing her right between her shoulder blade and her spine with each awkward thrust of her bony hips. I started to really enjoy myself. I started dancing, too, and singing along more loudly on "Pecan Pie" than I ever would under normal circumstances. I noticed that Pirner was looking at me and my jutting elbow and laughing.
When she saw him smiling in our direction, TS of course took it as an invitation to join him, and soon I had a clear view of the stage again. After the set was over we waited by the stage so Mike could get his poster autographed. (He was that kind of guy, which is ultimately why I think it didn't work out for us). As we were leaving the club, I saw Pirner at the bar looking bored while Tabitha Soren babbled in his ear. He noticed me looking at them and rolled his eyes a little, grinning at me and shaking his head. I raise my beer to him and thanks, drained it, and moved on to the next club.
I've had a lot of this stuff laying around for a long time. Half-full notebooks, over-stuffed journals, bar napkins and bits of paper with random phrases written on them. I'm not even really sure what my intention was in keeping all . Basically most of it is way too personal and/or poorly written for me to ever want to publish anywhere, but I did run across a couple of stories - not fiction stories, mind you, but hastily scrawled recollections that I think are worth sharing. I figure now is as good a time as any to start.The following story takes place at SXSW, sometime in the middle 90s.
The smoke was killing me, mostly because there was no room for either me or the air in the club to move. I'd been jammed in the same space for over 30 min. basically since the doors had opened. I had to pee very badly, but couldn't possibly give up my spot. I was front and center, less than 5 feet from the stage. Golden Smog was an ever-rotating lineup of incredible musicians from several of my favorite bands: The Replacements, The Jayhawks, Uncle Tupelo, Soul Asylum, Big Star... Mike would know the rest. He was like that. I had conned both of my roommates and my then boyfriend (Mike) into driving the fifteen-plus hours from Champaign, Illinois to Austin, Texas only three days ago. We had already seen eight or 10 great bands in the past 24 hours, but this was clearly the highlight.
So I'm standing there holding our place while Pat is off getting beer, Trish is in the bathroom, and Mike is getting T-shirts. I looked to my left and I noticed that Dave Pirner was just a few feet away chatting up a girl about my age who, based on their conversation,was apparently unaware that he was a musician, much less that he actually used to be in Golden Smog. I figured she just dug his dreadlocks. Anyway, his former bandmate Dave was in the lineup that night. I silently hoped he might join them onstage. His ubiquitous (at the time) star-fucker girlfriend Winona Ryder was nowhere to be seen. I thought perhaps she was once again stalking the Next Big Thing. In fact, that guy's show was in full swing at a much larger club on sixth street at that moment, so it was a definite possibility.
*After what seems like a lifetime, the lights finally go down. Through considerable amount of secondhand smoke and the torpor of nearly two full days in the car, followed by whore's bath in a truckstop restroom north of Dallas, all the while subsisting on the limited vegetarian options at our nation's finest fast food establishments ("Who order a cheeseburger with no meat?" The manager of the McDonald's somewhere in Arkansas had demanded with barely contained rage), I somehow manage to muster not only enthusiasm, but genuine elation. There is a feeling that I get at certain rock shows– one that I cannot and will not attempt to explain to people who have only a passing interest in music. It's the feeling that I suppose sports fans get during the national anthem at the Super Bowl or the World Series. It is an indescribable, spine tingling, ass-clenching, butterflies-in-your-stomach, I'm either going to vomit or have an orgasm thrill that a music fan experiences at certain moments. Fortunately for me it isn't seasonal, nor does it depend on a win or a loss or a region. I cheer for my guys from Minneapolis to Denton, Texas, regardless of my Chicago origins or my current Athens Georgia roots. Moments of greatness, of true, profound, musical bliss are all over the place – you can't rely on the instant replay or tonight's Scores and Highlights at 10. The records can and often are truly great, but even live recordings don't compare. You just have to be there. And tonight, I am.
Mere moments later, Jeff Tweedy emerges from backstage, followed by Dave, Gary, and the rest of the band. Again- you'll have to ask Mike. I am giddy. I'm exhausted. I am sweaty, and I may not have enough money to eat for the next two days, but I made it, and this is the moment when I realize why I do this: the band wordlessly launches into "Red-Headed Stepchild", and no sooner do my roommates and my boyfriend return to my side, clinking beers and beginning to sing along, when the 6 inches directly in front of me is suddenly occupied by a point he, bony, gyrating redhead who stands almost exactly a head taller than me. *
It took me a moment to even process, but then I couldn't see anything and this woman was flailing around spilling my beer and practically burning me with her cigarette. I looked to my right, at my roommates, who were so caught up in the show that they didn't notice even though she was spilling their beers, too. When I looked left, my boyfriend was rolling his eyes and glaring at her. He tried to make room for me in front of him, but it was no use. Then Mike leans over and goes
"Is that Tabitha Soren?"
He was referring to the annoying, omnipresent, and boringly self-important MTV newscaster (a job title that I still can't describe without smirking) who passed for an "informed journalist" for Gen X. I didn't know. In fact, I had no idea what her face looked like, only that she had no rhythm and had perhaps forgotten to apply deodorant that day. I leaned over to my roommates to ask. They nodded in affirmation, Trish looking immediately back at the show while Tom's gaze took in all of TS. He didn't know or care about Soul Asylum, so he was way more interested in TS than Dave Pirner. I stuck my right elbow out in front of me, unmoving but aggressively jabbing her right between her shoulder blade and her spine with each awkward thrust of her bony hips. I started to really enjoy myself. I started dancing, too, and singing along more loudly on "Pecan Pie" than I ever would under normal circumstances. I noticed that Pirner was looking at me and my jutting elbow and laughing.
When she saw him smiling in our direction, TS of course took it as an invitation to join him, and soon I had a clear view of the stage again. After the set was over we waited by the stage so Mike could get his poster autographed. (He was that kind of guy, which is ultimately why I think it didn't work out for us). As we were leaving the club, I saw Pirner at the bar looking bored while Tabitha Soren babbled in his ear. He noticed me looking at them and rolled his eyes a little, grinning at me and shaking his head. I raise my beer to him and thanks, drained it, and moved on to the next club.
No comments:
Post a Comment