All alive and brand new

"You know when Matt goes up to that high note at the end of 'I Saw'? The 'I swea-AH-AAAR'? Whenever I'm in my car. listening to live versions of that song, I crank it loud so I can belt out that note at the top of my lungs. Every single time. So when I'm seeing him live, I'm right there in that moment, shout-singing that note. I forget that other people are there and I wait for it every single time." - In the car, 10.24

I kind of forget that Matt Nathanson can be a rockstar.

Don't get me wrong. He should be one. He certainly deserves to be one. As far as I'm concerned, he is one.

But my version of "rockstar" pertains more to devout underground followings than a fancy light show. My rockstars are dorks more often than badass.

We scampered from the car to the front door of the venue, hurried along by the only-slightly muffled sound of "Sad Songs" audible from out back. A quick run inside, presentation of ID and a stroll through the doors into bliss.

Brightly lit, pulsing neon, Matt before a packed house of fans kind of bliss.

It took me a moment to adjust.

Matt is a rocker.

He then proceeded to play the dork. He elicted lighter waves with a full-length cover of "Don't Stop Believing" that brought singalong shrieks of delight from the typically undercover Journey fans. A "new" song (new, perhaps, to those on hand for Carbon Leaf's panflute rock) was prefaced with the interpretive reading of a romance novel cover; Matt requested that the band bust out "something porny" to back up his saucy reading voice, and it lustily obliged. Three words: I have video.

But the songs were tight as ever. The crowd loved him. And I found myself staring at the stage with that expression reserved specifically for Matt*: eyes wide to take it all in, jaw slightly dropped for both laughter and the sense of awe that washes over me at each of his shows.

By the time he approached the end of "I Saw," I was ready for it.

And I saw pictures in my head
And I swea--AAH-AAAR
I would be heavenly if baby you'd just rescue me now...
I saw pictures in my head of you...

My voice, drowned out by the sound of the rockstar's.

*Adding, of course, to the list of V Facial Expressions That Only Appear For Certain People.

Little things

A kind word can warm three months of winter.
- Japanese proverb

A small gesture lit up my face with a beaming smile and blazing red cheeks.

I knew I was about to have a great night. Syd and Patrick Thomas were beginning a set that was sure to make me smile early and often. I was going to have to regretfully look over my shoulder once more when we left early -- but I would be heading to Higher Ground and a full-band Matt Nathanson set. I would get to enjoy Matt's special blend of sweetness and raunch. I would most likely spend part of the evening singing at least one rock song from the 1980s. I would try to zip from Matt's set back to Syd and Patrick to catch the very end of their set.

Unless laryngitis were to suddenly strike all three at the same time, my enjoyable evening was guaranteed.

But I wasn't thinking about that. I was instead trying to mask my utter dorktitude and joy about a small, unsolicited gesture.

When Patrick stepped up to the microphone, he said that he was going to kick the evening off with "Metaphor." A friend really liked the song, he said with a smile, and he knew she probably had to leave early, so he wanted to play it.

"So after this, you're good to go," he said, looking at my table with a grin.

Big deal. A song. A small gesture.

But a gesture no one else would ever think to make.

That meant a lot to me.

So over this intuitive thing

I'm standing on the dance floor, looking up and over at the stage when I start to feel my weight shift onto one foot.

My head starts to tilt shortly thereafter.

Next thing I know, I'm peering up at the stage with a thinly veiled expression of puzzlement on my face.

Huh.

It is a fundamentally strong performance. The instrumentation is tight. I know that I dig the material. The vocals are on, the audio levels and mix sound just about right...

And yet my instincts are nagging at me. Attempts to ignore are proving futile -- and dulling them with another pint of pumpkin ale certainly didn't work.

Something is off, and now I'm busy dividing my time between second-guessing myself and enjoying the set.

It's been a fun night, the random kind of evening that only seems to unfold at Milly's. The assemblage for this particular gathering includes more circles than usual, but it's been cool -- the friends coming together to laugh and converse are actually in the same place for the first time in at least a few months. A couple of guys with whom friends had been chatting wound up leading my friends in a blush-enducing toast "to blogs!" The New Hampshire equivalent of Turtle on "Entourage" was on the prowl, an encounter that prompted me to flip over my cladagh ring and joke with N and M about which of the boys would be game in pretending to be my boyfriend for the evening. There were warm hugs, kisses on the cheeks, introductions, playful banter and high-fives galore -- as well as a text message or two to folks that we wished could have made it out for the night.

And, true to form, the Soundguy Complex has already made itself evident, peppering TC's set with feedback and frustration, both onstage and off.

It's Milly's. It's how that place rolls and I long ago grew accustomed to it.

There are new friends, old friends, those acquaintances who happen to fall somewhere in between...and tonight a person or two to whom I am thinking of walking over to introduce myself and say hello. I hold off, however, cognizant of the potential awkwardness that could follow a "Hi, we know a bunch of the same people, I'm pretty sure we each know who the other is and we've both attended a number of these shindigs. How about I just say hello already?"

So for the moment I'm focused on feeling relaxed and content, standing with dear friends, listening to much-loved music performed by the friends I will be sure to hug at least once more before evening's end...

...and I can't shift that weight off my foot, get that little voice out of my head that's inquiring as to what precisely is wrong.

I hate that voice.

Awk and awe

I extended my hand with a firm grip and ready smile.

I said: "Hi there. It's great to meet you."
I thought: "Thank God you were here tonight and I was here for it."

The evening had been precisely what I'd needed - easy good time filled with laughter, dancing and clap-accented whoops. I couldn't stop smiling, from the time the vamp kicked in until that last wave from the stage.

It felt so foreign, the sensation of relaxing. It had been the first soothing span of time in a week, and I could sense the tension release from my shoulders as I raised my arms to applaud.

Rather amazing, the way a week of frustration and surreality makes you realize a need to almost retrain yourself into simply having fun again. Add to that the fact that I'm so often drawn to the heart-on-sleeve music that elicits thoughtful tears that I manage forget about the joy of laugh-until-you-cry style of performance.

Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers drove into town at just the right time. I relaxed. I felt better.

I rather felt like me again. Just dancing and singing along with friends.

I respect SK6 immensely for the way they are capable of seamlessly blending talent with a flair for the absurd. A musical play-off between kazoos and keytars. Kit's shirtless Sprinkler and "Material Girl." The water-chugging contest and "Bust a Move."

Each time the laughter peaks, a glorious three-part harmony fills the room.

And then Boots wins the movie quote contest by brilliantly delivering "You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha -- TWO THREE FOUR!"

It proved an...interesting juxtaposition to the previous night. Mid-sized room at Higher Ground versus the tiny Radio Bean space. SK6 zaniness versus CP contemplation. Stella versus Switchback. Musicians I don't know versus friends. Full set versus a half hour.

Definitely a change in gears, transitioning from one to the other. Both excellent, but clearly Granny Smiths and tangerines.

I have to wonder if my temprament for most of the rest of the weekend would have been different, had I taken in both performances in an opposite order of appearance.

It's all speculative at this point anyway, but I have to think I would have been better suited to stand on the sidewalk, in a skirt in the cold, waiting for who knows what, had I spent the previous two hours laughing myself silly.

Instead, I found myself up to my eyes in the Awk, realizing that what I'd gone there for -- precisely what I'd come to find one night later, to feel that stress slip away -- was simply a notion fading fast.

(YouTube captures the brilliant dichotomy of this band in...Atlanta? Yeah. View both for the full effect.)

Relaxing the third verse

My subconcious scares me.

VICTORIA: I have "Curbside Prophet" stuck in my head. Random? Yeah.
BETH: That IS random.
VICTORIA: Now I'm relaxing the third verse
without even rehearsing
Lacing up my Converse
and conjugating the verbs

A SHORT TIME LATER
VICTORIA: I KNOW WHY IT'S IN MY HEAD. I'm rather frightened.
BETH: laughing And what anniversary is this?
VICTORIA: October 9, 2003. First time I saw Jason Mraz perform a full set.
BETH: I'm not going to lie, your memory kind of frightens me.
VICTORIA: How did my subconcious KNOW that? That frightens me, too.

My parents surprised me this week with an offer for a lunch getaway and a bag of cider donuts from the autumnal version of Shangri-La. As I halfheartedly prepared to resume my normal afternoon activities, all three of us were looking for reasons to delay the final rounds of hugs and goodbyes.

"Hey, you'd made reference to seeing Tom Petty in Texas, and we saw the photos. But how did he do? What was it like in the...photo pit, right?" God bless my mother. I'd completely forgotten that this was my first face-to-face encounters with the folks since Austin; my telephoned anecdotes had all been quick bursts, not in-depth explanations.

The white paper bag of fall's finest baked items were temporarily set aside atop my parents' car. I needed to talk with both hands.

You know when something big is taking place, but you have to focus on the series of small tasks in order to get the job done?

That was Tom Petty's set. If I were to take it all in, I would have been overwhelmed before the performance even began. I had the roar of at least 50,000 people hitting me in the back as I stood among professional photographers, each seemingly armed with lenses longer than my forearm. The two men who had been overseeing security in the photo pit all weekend were shouting over the cheers, telling us that we would have to clear out of the pit if people in the crowd -- some of whom had been standing in the sunshine and heat for more than eight hours -- started to require medical care. Apparently, the crowd began to drop like flies during the last set at Lollapalooza, and they were worried that this would be the same kind of situation.

We were all supposed to take seats along the metal benches that were built into the crowd barriers. We had to wait there until the band took the stage; we weren't allowed to approach the stage until we saw Tom. Imagine a slew of photographers playing musical chairs, trying to get a seat as close as they could. Somehow, I wound up with a seat immediately to the right -- and I'm talking about maybe a foot and a half -- of the microphone.

So we're waiting, the crowd is chanting (and some photographers are joining in), and I'm busy trying to keep my energy contained by checking my battery, chatting with another photographer who tells me he shot off 500 frames during The Flaming Lips. I'd been psyched to get 50 shots, some of which were blurred. The difference between a point-and-shoot and the real thing. Yeah.

The lights go down and the crowd is whipped into more of a frenzy than I've experienced live. I'm craning my neck, trying to look up onto the stage and off to the stage right side...and then I see the band walking out. A moment later, I see the light fall on the blond hair. We've already stood up by this point, and now we walk up to get the best spots each of us can get.

I'm pointing my camera up, and Tom Petty is right there in the frame. I start taking photographs and then it hits me that there is absolutely no one - nothing but a level of stage - between me and Tom Petty. Someone I never even thought I'd see live is right in front of me, smiling out over my head at the thousands upon thousands of people who are screaming as if Jesus Christ had taken the stage.

When the band starts playing, I'm trying to get shots AND groove at the same time. I'm not the only one. Lots of the photographers are enjoying the vantage point. The band is tight and, were there anybody in the crowd not into Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, they would have been excited simply feeding off of the crowd's energy. The singalongs are intense -- his voice is drowned out by the audience and he appears to be absolutely loving it.

It was insane. Unbelievable. This huge spectacle of light and sound and lenses, and then just me, fully aware of the fact that if I don't focus on working with the light and getting these shots, my head really might explode from the utter shock of it all.

But then my camera's battery is dying, so I get out of the pit and meet up with Michelle. We had a good spot already picked out, right near where the exit to the photo pit, so it was relatively easy to reach her. We're dancing like mad, along with the rest of the people in our area, when we start to see the lightning flickering in the distance.

We're hoping that the storm will bypass us, but soon the wind is picking up, whipping the band members' hair as they continue to play. It adds to the weird, crazy nature of the experience -- kind of like that time I saw Grace Potter in Boston and it felt as if she was channeling nature, you know? It makes them look all the more like rock stars.

The rain starts slowly, a few drops here and there. All of a sudden, drops become drizzle, which morphs into a light shower. The band plays as long as they can, before the water threatens to ruin the equipment and pose a safety hazard. But during those two songs when they kept playing? It felt almost Dionysian -- everyone just frolicking in the storm.

Tom promised everyone that the band would be back, but they hid out back as the rains really started to come down. It was cold! We just laughed and looked up and whooped about the fact that this was happening. How was this happening? How were we here? For this?

Ultimately, the band came back and we continued to rock out and be amazed. There were a lot of the hits, as to be expected, but I didn't expect "Refugee" to be a highlight. Huh. Anyway, then the band covers Van's "Mystic Eyes" and I am just so damn excited that I jump up and down with delight. Michelle laughs at me, of course, then joins in the rockout.

And then it was over.

My parents are grinning, as I've been jumping around, providing near interpretive dance of the experience. I laugh at myself, fix my hair and shrug my shoulders.

"So yeah. It was cool. Yep."

Yawn.

Bloggers all over are in a twitter about the fact that OMG! Clear Channel posted a list of band prices for private shows! Hot damn, I so wanna have Death Cab play at my birthday parteeeeeee! LOL!

Yeah. And?

Guys and dolls, this list has been out there for a nice long time. To the point that the most surprise registered with me was that the price for Jason Mraz's onstage presence had dropped and how much Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!'s price has increased. Well no, actually, neither were surprises at all, but hey.

This has been, for at least a couple of years now, a good way to measure the mainstream popularity of an artist. For example, the aforementioned Mraz used to command a higher total (I'd include the figure, but I can't recall it), with the specification that the cost covered the entire show, production and all. Bands such as Rilo Kiley are now costing more, because people listened to "More Adventurous," realized (finally) that the band didn't suck and started clamoring for live gigs.

It's simply that no one knew it was there. Except for, of course, college SA officials, venue bookers and tend-to-just-be-curious folks such as myself.

You know. A lot of people.

Why is everyone flipping out?

Seriously. I'm curious. It's how I roll.

For the sake of clarification

Fun times at Skybar in Somerville on Saturday night.

The Official Joe Feloni Sendoff Extravaganza featured a lineup of Skybar standouts -- Jen Murdza, Jude Nemo, Cahill, Tommy Dempsey and Tides -- gathered to say thank you to Feloni, whose myspace suggests is leaving the night-to-night club business to focus on his own creative endeavors, including his music.

It was a musical roast, in that everyone good-naturedly teased the guy and then invited him on stage to jam during their sets.

Must admit that my presence at the show had more to do with the headliner than the man of the hour, as I've met Joe exactly once -- and that was only a couple of weeks ago. But hey, I was there, I was cheering and then I was happily taking in the sounds coming from Tides.

But shortly before that set* began, M provided a terrifying thought.

"If a child was born the day you met Andrew, he or she would be able to legally drink by now."

What the hell???

Amazing, how a reference to alcohol will make me realize my age. My jaw dropped, I started laughing and, later, passed along the newsflash to Andrew, who responded similarly.

(Side note: it's nice to have maintained ties to someone who's known you since you were five. I believe he's one of the only people, family aside, with whom I still have that connection, even on a very periphery sort of way.)

But during my drive last night, I did the math again and realized that that little factoid wasn't accurate.

That child would be 20 this year. Which means that he or she isn't quite yet strolling into bars with proper ID.

That said, he or she will surely be out tonight, doing keg stands at a frat party.

I'm so proud.

*I've always found Tides dynamic and engaging, but Saturday's set kicked things up a few notches, much to my delight. The new material presented is tight, filled with strong hooks and more of that "You can tell we all dig U2, but we're branching off in our own direction of pop rock" style the band has honed over the last couple of years. It's the same sound I've come to enjoy, but it felt as if the band has matured infinitely over the latest recording process.

Sometimes you simply can't be where you want to be. But that doesn't stop you from trying to help other people get to where you want to go.

Victoria: Say that in the original script for "Garden State," Natalie Portman was supposed to tell Zach Braff that listening to the Ryan Montbleau Band would change his life. Unfortunately, Zach couldn't get permission to use that band, so he went with The Shins instead.
Nicole: WHAT?!? Really?
V: No, blatant lie. But it sounds good, doesn't it?
N: laughing to the point of gasping cackle I completely believed you.
V: And if you did, you know that he will. Use it. Get him there.
N: Gasping cackles
V: And if that doesn't work, tell him that I'll shiv him if he doesn't go. And we're not talking about a pleasant shivving.
N: No batting his eyes to get out of it.
V: No. He will be incapable of enjoying the process of shiv.

Ahh, hello big world

"Goodbye Little World" closes out the brilliance that is Remy Zero's "Villa Ellaine." After the exhilerating musical rollercoaster of the previous ten tracks, the closer is a charming little ditty that leaves one bobbing one's head with a smile on one's face.

Well, in our little house
There's always room
For all the friends
That help us through
These struggling days

It was in my head last night, shortly before The Damnwells took the stage at TT the Bear's in Cambridge.

I'd moved to the bar to order a beer when I cast a glance back, to the spot to which I'd soon return. Five people were gathered into a loose clump, some standing, others leaning against the partition that separated bar from performance/dancefloor space.

They composed my group for the night. Familiar and friendly faces that have played roles in shaping my experiences in this area over the years - in one case, well before even that. Demonstrating the deceptively tiny nature of that which is the music scene I delve into, all had traveled to Cambridge for the night, arriving in pairs or solo, gradually meshing together with smiles and hugs of greeting.

Others that I knew were interspersed throughout the crowd. It was difficult to scan the audience without letting my gaze fall on a recognizable face.

A random, whirlwind impulse had prompted me to throw clothing into two bags and head to Massachusetts a night earlier than originally planned. It was the prospect of seeing one of my closest friends, bolstered by the promise of a good show by one of my favorite bands.

But as I returned to my spot and shared a smile or two, it felt most as if I had simply come home.

And we got heavy traffic on the stairs
With darlin' Sherrie over there and Sarah's back in town
Kim and Kay sit on the floor
While Zelda hides the closet doors,
Never to be found
See John smile and Mia sigh
Katie cries
Mia plays the violin.

This little world is all I need
And hey, this little world needs
Not much more to be a
Completely perfect world
We will be leaving soon
And we might never get back to you
But before we do
Goodbye and fare thee well

I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.

As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.

Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.

I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.

The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."

It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.

I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.

So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?

Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.

(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)

Texas, baby. Texas.

Unsurprisingly, Sunday's Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show in Shelburne proved to be perhaps The social event of the summer.

It's always rather odd, concert run-ins. I can think nothing of traveling three and a half hours from "home" and waving at familiar faces; I find it crazy to see their Vermont counterparts when I'm a short drive from my house.

The logic? Well, it often seems as if I hit up more Boston shows than Vermont -- and the Boston scene circles tend to run smaller than one might think.

Anyway. Back to the sloping greens of Shelburne. It seemed as if everyone in the surrounding communities packed up and moved over to the stage-adorned hill for the night. I found myself busy offering greetings and offering commentary on who was who.

Hi! Helloooooo! Oh, hi there. Yo! Hey, you!

It was nice for a girl accustomed to knowing of people who don't know her to receive many a greeting. Refreshing. A change of pace.

It should have been expected, though, as people had been waiting for this show for at least several months. The homestate boys and girl GPatN have been off traveling the country, bringing the blues/rock/soul sound from Vermont to new ears and seemingly enthusiastic crowds. The buzz has been growing, the label is getting ready to bring the band in for new recording sessions, and the Green Mountain folk have patiently counted down the days until we got another dose of the music.

The rains that had threatened all weekend held off just long enough for a long, tight, energetic set. New material indicated the band's foray into more of a rock sound, but with the storytelling lyrics for which Potter has grown renowned. Some of the older tunes are being reworked -- my personal favorite, "Stop the Bus," continues to take an electric slant and gets better each time I hear it.

(Which is why a bystander looking into the third row during that song's performance would have seen me, huge grin on my face, joyously singing along.)

The rules for the concert series specifically limit dancing to the sides of the stage, and the band held off provoking the crowd as long as they could. But as the skies deepened in hue, Potter told the crowd that she thought it was time they stood and danced -- which meant that a few thousand people sighed of relief, jumped up and boogied away. An older (and by that I mean Old) man a row ahead did all but flash the band the devil horns.

It was pretty goddamn glorious.

Apparently, the band will be back for a few Higher Ground shows leading up to New Year's Eve -- I'm playing around with that idea, as well as the Paradise gigs lined up for (I believe) at the end of this month. My favorite Vermont band at my favorite Boston venue?

I know. How could I resist that?

In other news, sorry for my absense. Unintentional, and I'm returning with some anecdotes and ramblings in the next couple of days. Some news, too, but I can't really share that yet.

In the meantime, how are you guys doing?



(in the fine tradition that is photo posts in blog entries, click above to go to the rest of the set.)

But as of today, I'm around...

I don't know precisely when I decided that it was my goal to document all four weeks of the Ryan Montbleau Band residency (with slight blur, due to refusal to blind the band with flashes), but nevertheless, here I am, with another set of photographs.



Click on the mosaic to go the rest of the set. And know that I was pummeled in the stomach, left dazed and grinning, during my first listen to "Love and Love Lost." One of those songs that you listen to and instantly know that it's going to be appreciated en masse.

(Much like how I felt the first time I heard "Collide" live - back in the pre-Ohmigodit'sHowieDay days.)

Jesus on the radio

It's not that I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of bold-faced names; I'm worried about looking like a moron in front of just about anyone, bold-faced name or not. I've met famous people and I've met complete strangers - I consider each equal opportunity to wind up coming off as an ass.

Which is why I found it so funny to have the question thrown my way. Or, frankly, more of a request to confirm than anything else.

"You've MET THEM?"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Yes, I've met them."

The girl dropped the corner of the six-foot wide sign she was helping to carry. Her jaw dropped in time.

There's something to be said about the sheer joy (and wonder, terror and everything else) that comes across some people's faces when they realize that one or some of their idols are actually meetable. That people do in fact have the opportunity to say hello, shake a hand, exchange names and chat about the weather or whatever the hell they would like to discuss.

You can do that???? Yes. You can. And kudos to you for having good taste; these idols are worthy of your star-struck eyes.

The trio (two girls and a guy) had pieced together multiple sheets of posterboard -- neon orange, of course -- to request a song. The six-foot-by-four-foot sign requested "Jesus on the Radio," complete with an image of Christ hovering above, well, a radio. A boombox, really. On the back of the sign, they'd added a second option. "Or...Two Points."

Contingency plan. I liked it.

When I told them about how everything worked with the raffle, they descended upon the table. As much money as they could. They singlehandedly contributed to about a quarter of the proceeds. Which meant that none of us were surprised when one of their names was drawn.

Turns out, they kind of won twice. As they had tried to wrap their brains around the idea of meeting the band, Adam had walked right behind them, smiling at the huge sign on the ground. They'd been completely unaware of this, of course.

And at show's end, when the band returned for their second encore, Ryan made reference to the "huge sign" shortly before the band launched into "Jesus on the Radio." The girls screeched and ran to grab the sign, pulling it back into the center of the crowd as they pumped their fists in the air and clutched at each other.

Had anything happened to them at that moment, they truly would have died utterly happy. One tried not to cry, the other stared raptly at the stage. The token male of the group hugged each, a huge, beaming smile threatening to crack his face.

It was a great rendition of the song, but I kept my eyes on this little group of Canadian fans that, while a bit louder than I tend to be, managed to strike a chord. People so wrapped up in a song or a band, alternating between disbelief and joy that That Band was playing That Song and mentioned Their Sign.

And that they were actually going to MEET THEM in just a few minutes' time.

Ruh roh

The next month of Tuesdays are going to be painfully difficult. In a good, set-up-the-coffee-IV sort of way.




Bleary eyes are the order of the day. Bleary eyes and multiple lattes (I'm on my second already, with at least one more to come). True to form, the evening's performance did not wrap up until the morning, with a 2 am. sendoff of "See you next week!"

Oh God. Next week. This happens again. And again. And then once more, for good measure.

I'm not complaining. It's the lack of sleep that's talking, and even that is with a dopey grin that can't quite translate onto the page.

Music and friends have seemed to be everywhere I turn. "Glorious" does not even begin to describe.

Truth is, there's been so much fun crammed into the last few days that my brain is reeling. And my body isn't overly pleased with me.

Memo
To: V
From: Your Body
Subject: What the hell?

You're not in college anymore, dipshit. You need to give yourself some rest. Seriously. Hello. Do you copy?

To: My Body
From: V
Subject: Re: What the hell?

Oh, shut up, you wuss. You can take it. You're the first to complain about being bored when there isn't enough to do.

One more show tomorrow, then a few days of relaxation. During those days, I sleep. And work on other projects.

In the meantime, keeping conscious is my chief objective.

And continuing to dance.

Chronicles of a Go-Go Dancer

There are no bad seats in the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion, but I've actually grown rather fond of the space behind all of the crowds.

See, when you're dealing with seats and seatmates, there's an issue of common courtesy. You have to worry about your personal space, others' personal space...let's face it, there's nothing worse -- for both parties involved -- than an unexpected run-in between an elbow and a solar plexus. Painful, awkward, bad, bad, bad.

But beyond the seats? That, dear friends, is the land of dancing magic, in which energetic music enthusiasts can get their goofy rockout going on.

It had already been a great evening. I was working the RFAR table with three of my favorite women in the world, and concertgoers strongly supported our Greater Boston Food Band fundraising endeavors. $2 for a chance to meet Guster and help out a good cause? Yes, please. Can I get two? Rogue Wave and the Yonder Mountain String Band had set the happy mood, and I'd spent my time collecting tickets and chatting with the (surprising, delightful) multitude of familiar faces that I'd seen.

By the time the house lights dimmed and the audience began to roar, all but a few stragglers had made their way to their seats. We stood on chairs to look out at the stage to witness the first Guster Takes on Boston entrance I'd ever actually seen.

Lights out, sound cued. "Born to Be Wild" pulsed through the speakers as four blinking red lights emerged on the house right aisle.

The most dorky, glorious quartet of Segway riders ever made its way up the side, around the back and down the center right aisle, slapping hands with the screaming audience members before moving up a ramp and onto stage. Helmets and all. Brian kept his on. We went wild.

As the band kicked off "Barrel of a Gun," my friends and I were so excited -- about being together, about being on the water, about being at this show, hell, about being alive -- that we did what anyone else would do, given the space and carefree attitudes.

We began to jump around, dance, sing at the top of our lungs and otherwise just completely let loose. At one point, a friend from college M and I had seen earlier came over and joined our little line of dancing fools. As he left, he informed M that "you girls look like go-go dancers. I dig it."

Guster's Go-Go Girls. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

We continued for two hours. We probably would have tired at some point, had Guster lowered the energy for a song or two, but the band instead decided to unleash the best set I've ever seen them perform -- and complete the single most enjoyable concert experience I've had. Impeccable energy, musicianship and fun. The crowd loved it, and joyously booed the band back onstage for its encore (band's idea: Let's do an anti-encore. If you like us and want us to come back, boo us. Turn your backs to us and flip us off. The audience added to it by breaking into a chant of "Guster Sucks." Lovely. Charming. Awesome.)

Barrel of a Gun
The Captain
Backyard
Satellite
Amsterdam
I Spy
Manifest Destiny
C'mon
Airport Song (now less Vincent Price, more straight up Satan)
Careful
The Beginning of the End
Ruby Falls
(Nothing But) Flowers (featuring former Guster drum tech and Lowell, Mass., native Sean Lynde on drums)
Demons
Center of Attention
Come Downstairs & Say Hello
------
e:
So Long (the evening's "one time this tour" treat)
The New Underground
Happier
Keep It Together

By the end of the regular set, we were busy dancing our way through breakdown, folding tables, packing boxes, cleaning up. L and I, both thrilled to hear the "Flowers" surprise, danced in time to the beat as we rolled up banners.

Roll it roll it roll it up, "now it's all covered with daisies" -- roll it, roll it.

By the walk back to the cars at the end of the night, after gathering, chatting and saying hellos, I was still bobbing my heads and laughing over the sheer joy of the night. I don't like to say that nights or events -- anything, really -- are perfect.

But this came awfully close.

Stop the boat

Another thing I can check off the list of Things I Never Particularly Wanted To Do But Should Probably Have the Experience of Doing for Life Lessons' Sake:

Sprint down a pier, in heels, trying to catch a boat (ship? dinghy?) before it departs for locations unknown (i.e. Boston Harbor). In this challenge, the pier pathway, of course, is alternately cobblestone and sand - you are, of course, wearing a wrap dress and occasionally showing a bit too much leg for anyone who might be observing the debacle from either of the cruises preparing to set off.

Nicole and I were late. Showed up just barely on time at the wrong pier kind of late. What are we going to do with our evening kind of late. And yet we still put in the effort, jumping out of the car in the parking lot, running in our heels down stairs, out a door, across a couple of streets, down a pier, across the aforementioned cobblestone and sand, to the gate and onto the boat.

It pulled away from shore about 30 seconds later. Hell of an entrance? You bet. Particularly as we breathlessly boarded, laughed, hugged each other to champion our success and then leaned against the railing, the very picture of nonchalance.

Another day, another crazy adventure.

We were rewarded with an amazing set. Truly. As we stood inside the main room, drinks in hand, I realized that I felt so proud of the band that has taken shape over time. Chad, Dennis, Steve and now drummer Max are locked into the same mode. The energy's there, the focus -- the addition of the drums takes already impressive tunes to the next level. During a performance of "Somewhere Beside Me," it seemed everyone -- onstage, in the audience -- couldn't help but bob their heads in time. It was electrifyingly good.

The boat itself was also a good time. Less sunset this time around (August, you kill me with your early to bed crap), but good conversation, good times. Good bad Chinese food, even -- bonus. A lot of faces I knew of (thanks, myspace, you evil thing you), some faces I definitely knew, and then a few that made my night (Hi, G!). And with the exceptions of 1) being hit by an obnoxiously drunk girl's purse -- twice -- and 2) reeling in disbelief at some Jekyll/Hyde behavior, it was a gorgeously friendly, funny sort of occasion.

Worth the wincing that occurred the next morning, when I awoke and instantly realized that my de-heeled feet were going to be angry with me for a long, long time.

Will you catch me if I'm falling

I know, I know, it's a cliched song to freak out over. Oh well.

I'm standing on the lawn at SPAC, to which thousands of others have flocked to take in the spectacle, and I'm giddy. Beyond giddy. Think of a small child so excited and overjoyed that she can't express it. Instead, she stands still - hushed so as to not ruin the moment.

It's "Round Here." Adam Duritz is so far into his own head (seemingly moreso than usual, if you can believe it) that he's just spouting. He's going off into tangents that have stretched the song out into a glorious improvisation.

The moment is poignant and exhilerating all at once, and I can feel the joys and disappointments that have come over a short period of time fight each other, racing to get to the surface first. There's nowhere I'd rather be at that moment than under a hazy summer sky, standing on the grass with flouresent lights dimly burning off to my side, listening to someone wrench the emotions out of his mind and into the microphone...but at the same point, I can feel my heart breaking bit by bit as he continues on.

Few musicians or bands can tear my heart out. Counting Crows does it every single goddamn time. I just want it to stop...but not really. I just want Adam to keep on going. I want the band to keep him going.

I can feel the energy in the crowd, how they've been taking in the band's performance and are ready to give the proper, sungalong approval. We are all waiting to wail away with "round here we stay up very, very, very, very late."

I'm ready to belt out the words myself. But I don't want this moment to go away.

I mean, uh, yeah. Caught Counting Crows tonight and they, er, were pretty OK.

You know.

Whatever.

Sigh.

Catching up

When a lot of activity is crushed into a short period of time, it proves tricky to sort it all out in proper chronological order. It winds up getting all mixed up and coming off something like this:

I answered the phone with "I haven't been so happy to see your state in a loooooong time" and then realized we may or may not be in the same bar/restaurant as a couple of Red Sox players. Which is funny, because I was indignantly debating just what losing Mike Lowell would do to wreak havoc on the current Red Sox dynamic. I ordered us another round of the special on tap as I realized that this version of "Stop the Bus" was crazy differnt than the song I'd fallen in love with last year - but this version was still pretty amazing. T accompanied us on our walk to the car, and the show was over just as I finally realized that I'd had more to drink over the course of the night than I'd realized. I smiled as I heard piano playing in the other room, and I was busy packing slices of pineapple and red pepper pizza into a takeaway box as N was informed that she leads a double life as Hazel Mae. As I lay on my temporary bed, I became certain that the fan would cool me as long as I stayed as still as humanly possible. An emergency of some sort forced me to take a detour and get lost before I droped a cool, damp washcloth over my forehead and eyes, dozing for an hour before I headed off to catch my train.

Many thanks to the fabulous individuals who contributed to the jumble - the time there proved to be precisely what I'd been needing.

From about Wednesday on, the days have all proven extraordinarily random, but in a pleasant sort of way. Faced with surprises at seemingly every turn, I've decided to temporarily abandon my perfectionistic ways and just go with it.

So far? It's working out well.

Dispatches

We leaned our backs against the ship's stern railing, looking over the top deck at the skyline as it peeked over at us. The band began to kick into "The Boat Song" just as we felt the gentle thrust of the engines kick in.

I had to chuckle along with the rest. Odds were good that at least three-quarters of those both onboard and on myspace had set that song as their default for the day. Hell, I'd done it, too. How could you not?

What if we were in the same boat
Rolling on a green sea
Listening to the water
No ordered future, no sorted old, wet memories?

The setup wasn't what I'd expected. I'd envisioned the band on the top deck, playing for the crowds assembled on three levels. But placing the band inside the main room made sense upon factoring in that not every boat cruise benefited from the gorgeous sunset beginning to glow in the distance. After a 45-second foray into the sauna-like crush inside, I settled into our friendly cluster of birthday revelers at the back, where we could lean, dance, sing or converse as we deemed fit.

We snapped photos, laughed and swooned over the skyline as the ship cut through the water - I realized that it finally felt like summer as I sipped a pineapple martini and pushed the hair back from my face. I don't find myself on the water often, but I love it each time I do. It was my first harbor cruise, and I was often found staring at the skyline, seeing it for the first time from a two-lantern point of view.

The band was on, as is seemingly always the case, with a vibe that seemed to compliment the crowd. Ready for a good time, but a little more laid-back than normal, just letting the music go where it wanted and smiling along the way. Or, at least, I have to imagine the guys were smiling. I felt as if I could hear Ryan's smile through the speakers.

It was odd, though, chatting my way through a Montbleau show. The music was what had brought everyone together, but it was background music, something I'd never found the music to be before. I guess it's because I'd never listened to it on a boat before. We sang along with some of the music, of course, and there was a crazy corner dance elicited by "You Crazy You," but there was a definite disconnect. Not in a bad way, either, although I'd always prefer to see them in a traditional club setting.

This was just different. And nice. More than a little surreal, particularly as the ship pulled back into the docks after our three-hour tour and several hundred voices could be heard singing along with "Stretch"'s chorus.

You just don't come across that too often, and I was glad to be there.

***
Yeah, I'm pretty much burning in hell.

This is nothing new, of course. My highway to hell was paved a long time ago, and the proper signage was put in place the moment I accidentally took my First Communion during a Sunday evening service early into my college career.

(True story, swear to God. Wait. I shouldn't be swearing to God - see? I'm doing it again!)

But I couldn't help it. I really and truly couldn't resist the opportunity that presented itself to B and I.

See, a morning in Beverly had turned into a meandering walking tour of Salem. There were five of us, and L served as our designated North Shore tourgide, pointing out spots and sights and whatnot.

It was rather odd for me. Having spent so much of my time only a town or two away, there were spots that jumped out at me, and I could explain how they'd popped into my life at various points.

("Ah, the Hawthorne Hotel was fun" sounds particularly eyebrow-raising until I add that "I was 9," "it was a wedding reception" and "get your head out of the gutter.")

But I'd never actually explored Salem. I'd enjoyed Salem Willows flavored popcorn, but I'd never been there myself. I knew of specific witch-related points, but I didn't know where they were. The House of Seven Gables could be on Plymouth Rock, for all I knew of how to find it.

After walking about, our group briefly broke up. Three went off to have their cards read (fitting, no?), and B and I decided to keep on exploring. As we sat in a juice bar, rehydrating, the idea struck.

We headed to the car, grabbed my iPod and headed back to the Old Burying Point.

Now, keep in mind that I do not disrespect the dead. At all. But I'm wandering around Witch Town, USA, in the baking sunshine, at a cemetery that has become a tourist attraction, right down the street from a wax museum and signs offering vampire tours.

This isn't exactly the most somber place.

And we followed every rule. Stay on the trails. Keep quiet.

I saw absolutely nothing that forbid cuing up "Thriller" on the iPod and sharing the earbuds. And there was no signage that prohibited a quick bustout of a music video dance move or two - out of view of everyone else.

C'mon, I think the ye olde folke of Salem would have totally dug it. I mean, Witchstock was supposedly going on right down the street.

But, that said, I suppose the whole thing came up because witches were supposedly going to go to hell anyway.

Hmm.

Oh well. Hell it is.

(more photos on flickr)