Going to big concerts with him was always a trip. They had lots of comp tickets, more than they could use, often. Especially for concerts that weren't very popular. Sometimes they couldn't give tickets away, and they tried.
He preferred "up and coming" acts; i.e. scenes where he was adored as one of the Rock Elders. He took such pleasure from being the most famous person in the room. And to his credit, he liked supporting groups that needed a leg up. When he curled up alone with a secret glass of wine on those cold nights in the Farmhouse, it was his Greenwich Village days he thought about. Cheap red wine, apartments with the shower in the kitchen and the toilet in a closet. And friends, always friends, just downstairs or around the corner at Washington Square Park. When all he had was his guitar. Before the invention of electricity.
He was more interesting to watch when he was lost in the crowd. She saw him melt into his anonymous mask. Where nobody recognized him, but where it also didn't consume him. Arena shows, mixing into the crowds on 7th Avenue, the escalators, touching grimy things that other mere mortals had touched. These handrails, these ushers, where the world showed up and the arena was the belly of a ship. The performers themselves were just priests, or captains, or the sacrificed. The music was the ocean they all rode on.
In the dark, they were all lost on the ocean, under the stars. She imagined the soloists were the performers who inherited the trance of the great piano players of the last century. The front men only had lyrics, their voices and faces. Perfect for the teenybopper girls or drunk gloryboys who wanted the vicarious experience. But it was the backup performers, the bass player, the 10 minute guitar solo that held her in the middle of the air, that impossible space where she lived in that dream last night where she could fly.
The concert was nice, she felt herself "lost" during only a few moments. Where nothing else mattered. Where she expected him to lean over and kiss her. And she wouldn't have minded. She might have even liked it. But looking over at him, she felt completely ignored. The music wasn't an aphrodisiac for him, it was a language that he understood better than she realized.
Most of the music brought her back to her childhood all right, just like the hippies a generation older than her. They had high school glory days. But she only remembered moments in the back of her parents' car, a powerless child. Or wandering around in a mall, or a grocery store. The song "American Pie" reminded her of processed food in square containers, plastered with words like "bakery fresh" or "homemade". The taste of processed strawberry flavor, overly sweet and syrupy. A flavor distinct from the fruit itself.
The music was over, but the roar was still in her ears. The jumbotron went back from the live feed to the repetition of ads and future acts, looking especially lively, next to their names and dates. The movie was over and she felt nothing but a great disappointment. The surrounding humanity made her feel incredibly lonely and the music was loud enough to only be noise. She was relieved when they got up from their seats to head backstage.
At the tender age of 19, she was expecting to be literally plucked out of the crowd. And if not her, then at least HIM. Wasn't he the Great Unknown? He was the one to be recognized. And even then, it was only by a duo of balding brothers, who had inherited the same male pattern combover. They seemed to vary in their bathing habits, but only slightly. The younger one was carrying a supply of square files under his arm in a white battered plastic bag from The Colony. "I Found It!" shouted the bag, and a girl from the 50's seemed to be crippled in mid leap, the plastic stretching and crumpled in ways that made her original body appear grotesque.
There was a rehearsed dance between The Brothers. One album was selected and removed with great difficulty from the overstuffed plastic bag. Then the cardboard album was removed from the plastic bag in which it was encased. Unfortunately, this was one of those complicated fold out-fold over novelty covers which exploded like a map of Northeastern Suburbia.
P always considered the act of autographing as a piece of his own performance. Instead of hugging the tunnel wall, he nudged out into the center of the space, like an actor centering himself onstage. The remaining trickle of the crowd had to exit around them, making him feel like Moses. Or at least someone important enough to disturb traffic.
He used the unfolding as a "piece of business", as the vaudeville actors used to say. He seemed careful not to let the actual record fall out, juggling the folds back and forth, trying to find just the right spot for his name on another band's record.
"Y'know, I've always thought their music was light, but this is ridiculous!" He stuck his face into the envelope of the empty cover.
"Oh, we never carry the original records with us!" The Brothers cried in discordant attempted unison.
"Too heavy or too valuable?" P asked.
They blinked as if confused. The more normal looking brother said, "We file the records separately from the album covers. Prevents scratches to the records and bending of the covers."
As if every household in America had a room dedicated to record storage and classification.
"Are you sure I'm adding to the value of this one? I'm not even on it." He asked as he attempted to read the back cover without his glasses.
"Well, Chip produced you guys and he worked with the Bass Player on cut number 7," the Ugly Brother continued on a long rant about the "all too obvious connection". Her new shoes were cutting into her ankles and her polite attention was losing all sense of propriety. She tried to pay attention to the conversation, but it was more of an exchange of obscure details. Maybe a surreal tennis match, between cartoon Russian spies.
"For the Sun Record sessions, they had to ...."
"Of course, Paul plays upside down,"
The more they talked about Ginger Baker, the more she had a craving for crisp cookies shaped like men.
Even the More Normal Brother wasn't paying attention to her. Usually, she'd follow her policy of flirting with the underdogs, but she had no interest in the resulting gossip. She was the assumed girlfriend or sex slave, and if she as much as spoke to the More Normal Brother, they'd have masturbatory fantasies about secondhand sex.
She tried to imagine taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and running her finger through his greasy hair. When he caught her looking at him, it was clear that even as a potential sex object she didn't register. He looked away, into the crowd, his attention excited by the security guard that seemed to be approaching.
He had his Smile-Mask turned up to 5. Modest Former Rock Star, blending with the Plebians, glad to sign something for the few who found his star amid the crowds. It would have mattered more if The Brothers weren't at every single show. She knew he was disappointed that not a single other person even gave him a second glance. Not even when he was signing. She wondered how much of this performance was for her. Or for The Brothers. Or for his own ego. Or just because he couldn't help himself.
Finally, the security guard caught P's eye and with a few clever hand motions, indicated that they were to be led into the inner sanctum. His fame worked again. She was always afraid that it wouldn't.
He introduced her as his . . . "friend", but she quickly jumped in. "We work together at the radio station," careful to introduce herself professionally, and not as an ambiguous lover or groupie, and to replace the dreaded euphemism of "friend". Careful to say she worked "with" and not "for" him, for all the innuendo that would inspire. She wanted to make it clear that she got backstage on official professional business, and not as a female sacrifice to the rock gods. The musicians blew scented smoke in her direction and talked only to him. The women just rolled their eyes at her, one led her to the snack table. There was a cooler of soda and beer, some fruit and an elaborate round tray which started the evening shaped vaguely like a wagon wheel. Chocolates wrapped in silver paper in concentric circles with rolled joints acting as spokes. It was a mastery of Busby Berkeley precision. Except for the empty areas which had already been raided.
Her strategy was always to underplay her awe. If everyone backstage was a groupie of one form or another, so she was going to be the one who never gave compliments. After 10,000 screaming fans, she was not so worried about their egos.
(This backfired in the world of comedy. Her opening line to a very famous comedian who had clearly killed onstage, "You were terrible," was received with less enthusiasm than she had predicted. She tried to turn it into a joke. But she had also killed his sense of humor.)
When they emerged 3 hours later, The Brothers were still there, talking to an exhausted looking overweight mother and daughter in matching outfits. She urged the Bass Player to sign the album, but he just kept walking.
Boxer-Simon & Garfunkle
He preferred "up and coming" acts; i.e. scenes where he was adored as one of the Rock Elders. He took such pleasure from being the most famous person in the room. And to his credit, he liked supporting groups that needed a leg up. When he curled up alone with a secret glass of wine on those cold nights in the Farmhouse, it was his Greenwich Village days he thought about. Cheap red wine, apartments with the shower in the kitchen and the toilet in a closet. And friends, always friends, just downstairs or around the corner at Washington Square Park. When all he had was his guitar. Before the invention of electricity.
He was more interesting to watch when he was lost in the crowd. She saw him melt into his anonymous mask. Where nobody recognized him, but where it also didn't consume him. Arena shows, mixing into the crowds on 7th Avenue, the escalators, touching grimy things that other mere mortals had touched. These handrails, these ushers, where the world showed up and the arena was the belly of a ship. The performers themselves were just priests, or captains, or the sacrificed. The music was the ocean they all rode on.
In the dark, they were all lost on the ocean, under the stars. She imagined the soloists were the performers who inherited the trance of the great piano players of the last century. The front men only had lyrics, their voices and faces. Perfect for the teenybopper girls or drunk gloryboys who wanted the vicarious experience. But it was the backup performers, the bass player, the 10 minute guitar solo that held her in the middle of the air, that impossible space where she lived in that dream last night where she could fly.
The concert was nice, she felt herself "lost" during only a few moments. Where nothing else mattered. Where she expected him to lean over and kiss her. And she wouldn't have minded. She might have even liked it. But looking over at him, she felt completely ignored. The music wasn't an aphrodisiac for him, it was a language that he understood better than she realized.
Most of the music brought her back to her childhood all right, just like the hippies a generation older than her. They had high school glory days. But she only remembered moments in the back of her parents' car, a powerless child. Or wandering around in a mall, or a grocery store. The song "American Pie" reminded her of processed food in square containers, plastered with words like "bakery fresh" or "homemade". The taste of processed strawberry flavor, overly sweet and syrupy. A flavor distinct from the fruit itself.
The music was over, but the roar was still in her ears. The jumbotron went back from the live feed to the repetition of ads and future acts, looking especially lively, next to their names and dates. The movie was over and she felt nothing but a great disappointment. The surrounding humanity made her feel incredibly lonely and the music was loud enough to only be noise. She was relieved when they got up from their seats to head backstage.
At the tender age of 19, she was expecting to be literally plucked out of the crowd. And if not her, then at least HIM. Wasn't he the Great Unknown? He was the one to be recognized. And even then, it was only by a duo of balding brothers, who had inherited the same male pattern combover. They seemed to vary in their bathing habits, but only slightly. The younger one was carrying a supply of square files under his arm in a white battered plastic bag from The Colony. "I Found It!" shouted the bag, and a girl from the 50's seemed to be crippled in mid leap, the plastic stretching and crumpled in ways that made her original body appear grotesque.
There was a rehearsed dance between The Brothers. One album was selected and removed with great difficulty from the overstuffed plastic bag. Then the cardboard album was removed from the plastic bag in which it was encased. Unfortunately, this was one of those complicated fold out-fold over novelty covers which exploded like a map of Northeastern Suburbia.
P always considered the act of autographing as a piece of his own performance. Instead of hugging the tunnel wall, he nudged out into the center of the space, like an actor centering himself onstage. The remaining trickle of the crowd had to exit around them, making him feel like Moses. Or at least someone important enough to disturb traffic.
He used the unfolding as a "piece of business", as the vaudeville actors used to say. He seemed careful not to let the actual record fall out, juggling the folds back and forth, trying to find just the right spot for his name on another band's record.
"Y'know, I've always thought their music was light, but this is ridiculous!" He stuck his face into the envelope of the empty cover.
"Oh, we never carry the original records with us!" The Brothers cried in discordant attempted unison.
"Too heavy or too valuable?" P asked.
They blinked as if confused. The more normal looking brother said, "We file the records separately from the album covers. Prevents scratches to the records and bending of the covers."
As if every household in America had a room dedicated to record storage and classification.
"Are you sure I'm adding to the value of this one? I'm not even on it." He asked as he attempted to read the back cover without his glasses.
"Well, Chip produced you guys and he worked with the Bass Player on cut number 7," the Ugly Brother continued on a long rant about the "all too obvious connection". Her new shoes were cutting into her ankles and her polite attention was losing all sense of propriety. She tried to pay attention to the conversation, but it was more of an exchange of obscure details. Maybe a surreal tennis match, between cartoon Russian spies.
"For the Sun Record sessions, they had to ...."
"Of course, Paul plays upside down,"
The more they talked about Ginger Baker, the more she had a craving for crisp cookies shaped like men.
Even the More Normal Brother wasn't paying attention to her. Usually, she'd follow her policy of flirting with the underdogs, but she had no interest in the resulting gossip. She was the assumed girlfriend or sex slave, and if she as much as spoke to the More Normal Brother, they'd have masturbatory fantasies about secondhand sex.
She tried to imagine taking off his horn-rimmed glasses and running her finger through his greasy hair. When he caught her looking at him, it was clear that even as a potential sex object she didn't register. He looked away, into the crowd, his attention excited by the security guard that seemed to be approaching.
He had his Smile-Mask turned up to 5. Modest Former Rock Star, blending with the Plebians, glad to sign something for the few who found his star amid the crowds. It would have mattered more if The Brothers weren't at every single show. She knew he was disappointed that not a single other person even gave him a second glance. Not even when he was signing. She wondered how much of this performance was for her. Or for The Brothers. Or for his own ego. Or just because he couldn't help himself.
Finally, the security guard caught P's eye and with a few clever hand motions, indicated that they were to be led into the inner sanctum. His fame worked again. She was always afraid that it wouldn't.
He introduced her as his . . . "friend", but she quickly jumped in. "We work together at the radio station," careful to introduce herself professionally, and not as an ambiguous lover or groupie, and to replace the dreaded euphemism of "friend". Careful to say she worked "with" and not "for" him, for all the innuendo that would inspire. She wanted to make it clear that she got backstage on official professional business, and not as a female sacrifice to the rock gods. The musicians blew scented smoke in her direction and talked only to him. The women just rolled their eyes at her, one led her to the snack table. There was a cooler of soda and beer, some fruit and an elaborate round tray which started the evening shaped vaguely like a wagon wheel. Chocolates wrapped in silver paper in concentric circles with rolled joints acting as spokes. It was a mastery of Busby Berkeley precision. Except for the empty areas which had already been raided.
Her strategy was always to underplay her awe. If everyone backstage was a groupie of one form or another, so she was going to be the one who never gave compliments. After 10,000 screaming fans, she was not so worried about their egos.
(This backfired in the world of comedy. Her opening line to a very famous comedian who had clearly killed onstage, "You were terrible," was received with less enthusiasm than she had predicted. She tried to turn it into a joke. But she had also killed his sense of humor.)
When they emerged 3 hours later, The Brothers were still there, talking to an exhausted looking overweight mother and daughter in matching outfits. She urged the Bass Player to sign the album, but he just kept walking.
Boxer-Simon & Garfunkle
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