The next performer was a young female singer and a full band with a ridiculous name. They had seen this configuration before; played on the same vill, even. This star had opened for them, and they had most recently (and graciously) opened for her.
Settling down in the darkness for another round of familiar music. Why does he keep doing this to himself?
Music festival. Again. Camping out because it is easier on the wallet. Not that it is unusual for them to go without showers or to be roughing it. It's just nice to be part of a larger audience.
Back with all the smelly hippies.
Oh god, how he misses the 60's.
She had picked a perfect spot on the grass, an incline so steep they didn't need an adjustable lawn-chair. Even with her sun umbrellas, they both got Sun-Sick during the day, that burning sensation that gets into your intestines. This is what is feels like to be baked alive. They traded off and wandered independently and together. Leaving behind their worldly goods on the blanket so they could walk holding hands for a while in the sun. And I love her.
At a hippie music festival, the most valuable of valuables is sun screen or water, and really-if you need it that badly-help yourself. Money and equipment was locked up in the car. Which was now cemented around by baked mud. The first night had a biblical thunderstorm and rumors of a tornado. The dance tent collapsed on Friday, but was resurrected on Saturday morning, which gave the survivors a sense of solidarity and hopefulness that the sun would dry things out.
By Sunday afternoon, the apple cheeked kids would be baked to a crisp. But it was still Saturday night, plenty of time to still Relax and Enjoy. Distant smells of barbeque were enough to tempt a longtime vegetarian like himself. (He had a burger every so often, but never told Her).
And then, there was a perfect view of the sunset earlier that night. As if he had never seen a sunset before. The path of the sun in an arc overhead, and then to the rim of the far mountain, casting a premature shadow on them. Bringing a chill. But the colors kept changing, even when the ball of fire had disappeared over whatever the real horizon was. Further away, mountains beyond mountains, the sky kept changing. Out here in Western Mass, or Eastern New York, or Northwestern Connecticut, whatever you called it. No noxious gasses to enhance the color and the irony. Sweet smelling air, and lots of wondrous slow moving color, like being on acid. Like a being who is trapped in a lava lamp. And I love her.
Being in a car mostly, you dread the change of circumstance between light and dark. You hope to make it to your destination with plenty of time to learn the route from the bar to the motel room. Sometimes you fight it on your own and trust the GPS. This was a thing that had seriously frightened him. It had been on his top 10 list of reasons NOT to tour again. 10 years ago. He always figured if he had 10 reasons NOT to do something, it overruled the Joy of Performing. Why was he doing this to himself? Funny how Her presence drives away all the fears and discomforts. And I love her.
Somehow, he had amnesia. He could never remember being sober when drunk. Or drunk when sober. Never remembered how Glorious he felt when singing and receiving applause, or even the glow after-show of someone giving a genuine compliment. That little girl giving him a flower, saying she really liked that funny song.
That little girl in the loft, dancing, when he played at the Red Barn in Goshen. She kept running in front of the stage and completing the circle backstage. He tried to make a joke about her, gently, after his first song. Adopted by his lesbian friends from some mother with drug abuse and lots of stories that all ended badly. All the kids he'd never have.
Maybe he should pin a hole in the condom. Do it sneaky. Act slightly mad when she turns up surprised and pregnant. Pretend he's jealous of whoever else she has. But he'd raise the kid.
Her kid.
Their kid.
What is he thinking about? Really? Their legacy is The Music. Here, people recognize them. They are a Regular Duo. Opening day they do a set, and a few workshops during the weekend. PR for music. The kid who says: "Someday I'd like to be on that stage!" And he waves that kid up.
"Come on. Now is your chance, don't miss an opportunity!"
And how She looks at him in those moments. She witnesses. And I love her.
She can't play guitar. Doesn't have the elegant hands or the skill. Dylan hates women guitarists. Thinks they look cheap. She has no musical training. She has a lovely voice, that blends away all bad notes, that saves him and his songs.
The song on stage sends out a single word, " . . . tenderly . . . " It lingers in the air somehow, like the sound system had an extend pedal on the microphone.
He looks at her, gazes at her. That's exactly it. She's so tender with me. And I love her.
And lying here, on the blanket with Her, staring up at the stars, listening to a band in the distance, he tears up. Another moment he'll lose. He's forgetting things now, so many things. Losing the thread, where things happened, and with who. It's partly him aging, but he's worried about something larger. Alzheimer's. Or Dementia. Dr. Dementia. It's really not funny.
As if he is so rich with these moments, he can afford to lose it. He collects shit, a packrat in his house and car. But his mental life is spartan.
He needs to remember THIS moment. How beautiful She is, this line of music-the guitar-and then the voices when they sing accapella-a surprise to highlight the beauty of a single line. Taking it from a simple love song to the thing that makes him CRY. And he rarely cries for beauty.
Already, he wants to call it back, to rewind the moment. Panic seizes him. Wanting to keep the music from ending. Don't stop, he thinks-DON'T STOP! As if the music is oxygen, as if he's going underwater-losing light and air without it.
The song travels down the road to where it stops and soon there is silence. And a few more feet of road later, applause. The palate cleanser. The turnoff that takes them off the highway. Bringing them back to the reality of the harsh fluorescents of the motel room.
He should ask her to sing that song. Maybe at the fireside swap-no, it might be awkward-trying to steal mainstage glory. Or as a lullabye tonight, in the tent. He knows she knows the words. If they are both awake. If he remembers to remember. It might just be another song that floats away, lost in the sensory jumble of the festival. A bubble, a scarf in the breeze, a tent carried away by a tornado.
He can barely make out the edge of her nose against the moonlight. She turns and snuggles up to him, and he to her, suddenly worried about falling off the mountain. Trying to find something solid to hold on to as the world spins around.
And I Love Her, performed by Heather Maloney
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNlp89ebdx0
Settling down in the darkness for another round of familiar music. Why does he keep doing this to himself?
Music festival. Again. Camping out because it is easier on the wallet. Not that it is unusual for them to go without showers or to be roughing it. It's just nice to be part of a larger audience.
Back with all the smelly hippies.
Oh god, how he misses the 60's.
She had picked a perfect spot on the grass, an incline so steep they didn't need an adjustable lawn-chair. Even with her sun umbrellas, they both got Sun-Sick during the day, that burning sensation that gets into your intestines. This is what is feels like to be baked alive. They traded off and wandered independently and together. Leaving behind their worldly goods on the blanket so they could walk holding hands for a while in the sun. And I love her.
At a hippie music festival, the most valuable of valuables is sun screen or water, and really-if you need it that badly-help yourself. Money and equipment was locked up in the car. Which was now cemented around by baked mud. The first night had a biblical thunderstorm and rumors of a tornado. The dance tent collapsed on Friday, but was resurrected on Saturday morning, which gave the survivors a sense of solidarity and hopefulness that the sun would dry things out.
By Sunday afternoon, the apple cheeked kids would be baked to a crisp. But it was still Saturday night, plenty of time to still Relax and Enjoy. Distant smells of barbeque were enough to tempt a longtime vegetarian like himself. (He had a burger every so often, but never told Her).
And then, there was a perfect view of the sunset earlier that night. As if he had never seen a sunset before. The path of the sun in an arc overhead, and then to the rim of the far mountain, casting a premature shadow on them. Bringing a chill. But the colors kept changing, even when the ball of fire had disappeared over whatever the real horizon was. Further away, mountains beyond mountains, the sky kept changing. Out here in Western Mass, or Eastern New York, or Northwestern Connecticut, whatever you called it. No noxious gasses to enhance the color and the irony. Sweet smelling air, and lots of wondrous slow moving color, like being on acid. Like a being who is trapped in a lava lamp. And I love her.
Being in a car mostly, you dread the change of circumstance between light and dark. You hope to make it to your destination with plenty of time to learn the route from the bar to the motel room. Sometimes you fight it on your own and trust the GPS. This was a thing that had seriously frightened him. It had been on his top 10 list of reasons NOT to tour again. 10 years ago. He always figured if he had 10 reasons NOT to do something, it overruled the Joy of Performing. Why was he doing this to himself? Funny how Her presence drives away all the fears and discomforts. And I love her.
Somehow, he had amnesia. He could never remember being sober when drunk. Or drunk when sober. Never remembered how Glorious he felt when singing and receiving applause, or even the glow after-show of someone giving a genuine compliment. That little girl giving him a flower, saying she really liked that funny song.
That little girl in the loft, dancing, when he played at the Red Barn in Goshen. She kept running in front of the stage and completing the circle backstage. He tried to make a joke about her, gently, after his first song. Adopted by his lesbian friends from some mother with drug abuse and lots of stories that all ended badly. All the kids he'd never have.
Maybe he should pin a hole in the condom. Do it sneaky. Act slightly mad when she turns up surprised and pregnant. Pretend he's jealous of whoever else she has. But he'd raise the kid.
Her kid.
Their kid.
What is he thinking about? Really? Their legacy is The Music. Here, people recognize them. They are a Regular Duo. Opening day they do a set, and a few workshops during the weekend. PR for music. The kid who says: "Someday I'd like to be on that stage!" And he waves that kid up.
"Come on. Now is your chance, don't miss an opportunity!"
And how She looks at him in those moments. She witnesses. And I love her.
She can't play guitar. Doesn't have the elegant hands or the skill. Dylan hates women guitarists. Thinks they look cheap. She has no musical training. She has a lovely voice, that blends away all bad notes, that saves him and his songs.
The song on stage sends out a single word, " . . . tenderly . . . " It lingers in the air somehow, like the sound system had an extend pedal on the microphone.
He looks at her, gazes at her. That's exactly it. She's so tender with me. And I love her.
And lying here, on the blanket with Her, staring up at the stars, listening to a band in the distance, he tears up. Another moment he'll lose. He's forgetting things now, so many things. Losing the thread, where things happened, and with who. It's partly him aging, but he's worried about something larger. Alzheimer's. Or Dementia. Dr. Dementia. It's really not funny.
As if he is so rich with these moments, he can afford to lose it. He collects shit, a packrat in his house and car. But his mental life is spartan.
He needs to remember THIS moment. How beautiful She is, this line of music-the guitar-and then the voices when they sing accapella-a surprise to highlight the beauty of a single line. Taking it from a simple love song to the thing that makes him CRY. And he rarely cries for beauty.
Already, he wants to call it back, to rewind the moment. Panic seizes him. Wanting to keep the music from ending. Don't stop, he thinks-DON'T STOP! As if the music is oxygen, as if he's going underwater-losing light and air without it.
The song travels down the road to where it stops and soon there is silence. And a few more feet of road later, applause. The palate cleanser. The turnoff that takes them off the highway. Bringing them back to the reality of the harsh fluorescents of the motel room.
He should ask her to sing that song. Maybe at the fireside swap-no, it might be awkward-trying to steal mainstage glory. Or as a lullabye tonight, in the tent. He knows she knows the words. If they are both awake. If he remembers to remember. It might just be another song that floats away, lost in the sensory jumble of the festival. A bubble, a scarf in the breeze, a tent carried away by a tornado.
He can barely make out the edge of her nose against the moonlight. She turns and snuggles up to him, and he to her, suddenly worried about falling off the mountain. Trying to find something solid to hold on to as the world spins around.
And I Love Her, performed by Heather Maloney
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNlp89ebdx0
