My sister called to tell me something. She didn't tell me the something because I was too busy prattling on about last night's concert. She had been polite and asked how my night was - that was her first mistake. If you have something important to convey, it's best to just leap right in without giving the other person a chance to derail you. With caller ID you don't even have to say "hello."
I have been thinking about They Might Be Giants all day. Well, I spent some time thinking about lunch, but even then I was humming "Twisting" or something else from Flood. I couldn't get the show out of my mind, probably since I don't see much live music anymore. Because now it costs more.
No, no, the shows themselves don't cost any more. I can still get in for free with my charm, connections, and ability to climb through a bathroom window. But the babysitters are killing me. Last night I bartered with our sitter, so it wasn't such a shock to the bank account. I told her I usually bill at $175/hour. She countered that she bills at $160/hour, plus a $20/hour hazard charge for each additional child. We agreed to call it even.
Gloating over my well-struck deal, I peeled out of the driveway and headed for the club.
I didn't even have to agonize over what to wear because, well, I'm married and old and no one cares what I wear.
I wish I had taken a small notebook with me, to record the geeky-smart-coolness factor. For starters, there were great t-shirts. One had a functioning graphic equalizer on it. I googled it to make sure I wasn't hallucinating (it wasn't that kind of rock show - the hallucinating sort - but you never know). Furthermore, people smiled at each other. Smiled! At a concert! Ridiculous. Fortunately the love-fest was kept short by the blazing white lights that suddenly turned on us, while the band filed grandly onto the stage.
Let me say that band members must not be prone to seizures. Flashing lights! Strobes! Disco Balls! No really, there was a disco ball involved. Smoke machines! Wait, that's just the humidity wafting in the spotlights.
In short, it was a real, stadium-type rock show.... in a 380 capacity beach club. Weezer did the same thing there. Their flashing "W" took up the whole stage. That's "W" for "Weezer" in case you are suddenly questioning the underlying politics of this post.
Honestly, it felt a little silly when Weezer did it. But last night was Freaking Brilliant. They had Cool Equipment. They employed an entire AV department. It was good. And I was right up front to watch it - to see that unmistakable voice in action. I always wondered what he looked like (which John is it who plays accordian? Linnell, I think. He's the voice behind "Birdhouse"). Their guitar player, Dan Miller, was stupendous on acoustic.
They were personable and funny and great and then they were... gone. John and John hid in their tour bus immediately after the show. Truly, hid. The woman I went with is friends with one of them and she pretty near needed a retina scan to gain access.
They must be awfully darn famous. Or pooped. Or maybe the bus is really cool inside and their tour manager has to beg and cajole them out of it for shows. I can see this happening.
At some point I let my sister talk. She's getting a new car. A very sweet new car. A very loaded new car. Which means her minivan is available for purchase.
I think not.