Muchness and Light

What a beautiful mess.

I've been caught in a loop in my head for the last few days.  There's nothing new about that, honestly, but my heart has been especially unrelenting.

There's a lot going on right now.  Some days there are so many balls in the air that even a well-practiced juggler would have trouble keeping track of them all.  And if the actual logistics of my life weren't difficult enough, there is still my shredded heart to contend with.

Tomorrow is October 17^th.  That doesn't mean much, except that I have tickets for a concert.  Hunter Hayes at the Fox Theatre. 

Oh hell.

I have historically loathed country music, but something with that shifted in the summer, directly because of my relationship with Bounder.  I fought the twang as hard and long as I could, but when the man sang (quite off-key, mind you) country songs and danced to said songs with me on my deck in the middle of the night, it was hard not to get caught up in the emotional sap.  A couple of songs in particular became stupidly poignant—Jake Owens' "Anywhere With You" and Hunter Hayes' "I Want Crazy"—and they always seemed to start playing at just the right moment.

When tickets went on sale for Hunter Hayes at the Fox, I bought the tickets and immediately texted Bounder:

October 17^th.  I have plans.

You have an invitation to join me.

You are a brat.

Apparently he was about to buy the tickets himself when the text came through.  They were intended to be for our collective birthdays, which were just days apart at the end of the summer. 

"I'll give you your ticket," I told him.  "Just in case."

"Just in case we break up again," he replied, laughing in the dark on the deck that weekend, in the middle of the summer solstice.  "We'll meet up—"

"—at the show—"

"—October seventeenth."

Oh hell.

So here we are, and I have no idea what to do.  From the night we met, and then at every turn, there was a strange sense of Fate shoving us together.  Typhoon Bounder collided with Hurricane Sassafras in weirdly tragic, romantic perfection.  And every time we think it's over, something else happens that forces us into each other's orbit.  (Fate, you really are a raging bitch.)

We seem constantly drawn back to this place of choice to make, of some junkture in our path.  Is this the place of Fate (divine intervention) or fate (because of choices we've made)?

There are four primary scenarios:

1. I go to the Fox, and he doesn't show.  (In which case I will leave, because I can't see it with anyone but him.)
2. He goes to the Fox, and I don't show up.  (Like doing your homework the night before a possible snow day.)
3. Neither of us shows up, and we never know if the other did.
4. We both show up, which creates a whole new branch of this flow chart of possibilities.

Queen Frostine feels strongly that I should skip it completely.  Her position is that I have come so far (so she says) in getting over this man, that to open myself up to even a moment of heartache again has the potential to set me back.  She says I'm better, that I've shown progress in moving on, but it's hard for me to see it.  A step or two forward, maybe, but mostly I feel like I've stumbled ahead and am still trying to get up from this path with a skinned knee. 

No matter what I do, it will hurt.  My heart will ache, and I will still miss him.  I don't know that I ever won't.  I can remember feeling that way about other men, and I did eventually find a way to move on, given enough time.  But if the time to heal (as best as possible) is proportionate to the depth of emotion felt for another, it will take a damn long time to get over this one completely. 

I loved Bounder.  Deeply.  Maybe more than I've ever loved anyone besides my children.  I still love him and likely always will.  He is never not there, whether in my heart or my thoughts or my dreams.  Most days are okay, but some are hard as hell, when there's a reminder at every damn turn and I can feel him so intensely.  And the nights can be brutal.

No matter how I feel, there are substantial issues with us.  The perfect storm is at times decimating in its cleansing of our worlds.  As beautiful as the lightning is, it sometimes strikes too close and sets the underbrush afire.  Maybe it's just destructive, and maybe it was needed to clear away the dead wood and allow for new growth.  Either way, neither of us will ever be the same again. 

The thought of standing in that darkened theater, listening to those love songs that seemed to mimic our hearts, is terrifyingly beautiful, whether it's with or without him.  Something ingrained in me can't help but love the tragic romance of it all.  But love is not a love song.  My heart will still be racing and aching when the three-minute swell is over.  I just don't know if it'll be dancing with him in the dark. 

Come a little bit closer before we begin.

 

Growler and I went to a show this week at the Masquerade in Atlanta.  We were supposed to be there to see In This Moment, but there was a 6:00 door, which we didn't realize until 7:15.  We got there just in time to see the stage being broken down and set up for the main act, Stone Sour.  (They were okay.  I'm not a huge fan, but it was a good show.)

I was surprised, though, that even in this environment—music show, my ideal demographic—the only guy who talked to me was in his early 20s and gay.  I got stared at a lot, but not one other guy really spoke to me.  I still had a great time with Growler, as always, but I was a bit flabbergasted, if totally used to it.  I was dressed down—black sundress, Chuck Taylors, and pigtails—so I wasn't even really trying to attract anyone.  Even when I do get really dressed up, though, it's rare that men actually approach and talk to me.

It's starting to make me feel like a freak.

It's not that I'm so enamored of myself that I'm appalled that men could turn down this hot chick.  (Really, I don't think that at all, at least not of strangers.)  But several men as of late, when I've mentioned this, have said that I'm a bit intimidating.

Me?  Seriously?

I can understand it if you've actually talked to me.  I'm bawdy and loud and smart and sarcastic—generally a big ball of glittery batshit.  But until you get to know me, I'm often just that quiet blonde over there. 

According to this informal survey, the fact that I am tall and blonde and busty in my general Amazonianness leads men to think they'll get shot down.  One woman told me that a guy once told her that men are actually more afraid of rejection than women are, if only because they've been more likely to be rejected than a woman. 

So I started thinking about this idea of women having to attract men.  In social situations, there's a definite expectation that women act a certain way.  There are all kinds of blogs and articles advising us to tone it down when we are meeting men, to be a little coy and pliant and make them feel special.  I see women, especially younger women, playing this flirty game of dumb blonde that drives me insane.  I know damn well that girl won't be anything like that once you get into her head, unless she really is that stupid.

Fuck that.

I can be quiet and coy and even pliant, but that's almost always reserved for the guy I'm actually with.  I am who I am (see above), and I've been adamant that I refuse to hide that from anyone, especially from myself and from potential romantic interests.  It feels dishonest for so many reasons. 

But are men actually afraid to talk to me?  Why?

I'm a nice girl.  Really.  I can carry on a conversation about almost anything.  I'm pleasant and funny and do know how to be socially appropriate most of the time.  (I know the inner circle will laugh at that, but they also know they're most often the direct target of my inappropriateness.)  I have a nice smile, and you might even get to see my dimple if you make me laugh. 

I'm also very sociable and will at least try to chat with almost anyone.  The worst thing that happens is that I don't hit it off with you and we say goodnight and move on.  Big deal.  But if you want my attention, you'd better be willing to at least meet me halfway.  Be nice.  Be funny.  Be pleasant.  Show me your smile.  Don't expect me to do all the work to put you at ease.  I'm just as nervous at the thought of being rejected—and maybe moreso given my personal history. 

And the truth is, I expect to be too much for most men to handle, so I do tend to kind of stay back and revert to my natural introversion until I feel like there's something worth exploring.  Maybe it's standoffish on my part.  I'm really no damn good and just walking up to a guy and introducing myself, especially when I'm surrounded by non-Amazon girls.  I'm not that tiny, cute thing and never will be.  I still constantly compare myself to those women, even though I know I am and have so much to offer. 

Dating is weird.  Men are weird.  Women are crazy.  How the hell this thing ever works and relationships can move forward into something longer-lasting is just baffling to me.  If you don't actually talk to me, you'll never know if I'm worth your time.  And vice versa. 

Well I know you will remember, 'cause the music is forever.

It's been a really busy year for me. 

• I finished losing 115 pounds.
• I had three surgeries to removed 120+ square inches of skin.
• I went to South by Southwest for the first time.
• I got to see both my beloved The Gracious Few and LIVE with their new lead singer on the same night.  (Plus some other band.  I forget.)
• I fell in love with the Mynabirds.  (Missing Patsy Cline song – "We Made a Mountain")
• I finally got to see the Afghan Whigs live and to meet Greg Dulli in a dark alley behind the Masquerade.  (And Ric McCollum and John Curley.)
• I filed for divorce.
• I released my first novel. 

Even with all of that, there's still something missing.

Wednesday night, I will finally get to see Concrete Blonde live. 

"What's the big deal?" you ask. 

Well, let me tell you. 

Sometime during my freshman year of high school, I went one weekend afternoon to the Southside Festival, which was a great little outdoor music and arts thing that used to take place in Five Points South in my hometown of Birmingham, Alabama.  Five Points is a funky little area, artsy and eclectic—and it was much less dirty then than it is now.  (At least it seemed that way.)  My friends and I hung out there on weekends and sometimes after school, sitting around the fountain, bullshitting and getting into far less trouble than we probably deserved. 

So this specific day when I was 14, some record label promo people were passing out albums to the crowd.  Yes, vinyl, in the 12x12 sleeve, and for free.  They handed me two: Pleased To Meet Me by the Replacements—who I saw play at Sloss Furnaces a couple of years later—and Concrete Blonde's self-titled debut.  I tromped up the rickety stairs to Charlemagne Records and also bought a Billie Holiday best-of collection, as well as Metal Circus by Hüsker Dü. 

(It was a very eclectic day.  For those in the know, I ran into Broderick Brakefield and Bryan Simmons, who'd missed their ride the night before and had been running around down there, barefoot, for a couple of days.)

I went home and locked myself away in my bedroom, planting myself on the floor in front my stereo.  I might even have stacked the records on the turntable.  I loved them all, each in their own way, but I adored Concrete Blonde. 

It was the first day of a now-26-year love affair from afar with the incomparable Johnette Napolitano. 

As I've discussed before, I'm an alto.  (Really, a contralto.)  I don't have a lot of patience for wimpy soprano voices.  And Johnette's voice was the farthest from wimpy I'd ever heard.  It was deeply female with the most amazing breath control ever.  Ever.  (Those booming notes aren't higher; they're simply bigger.) 

I was blown away.

So this goes on for years, but somehow I miss them live, over and over and over.  I was too young for the clubs they played.  My ex-boyfriend was an asshole who beat me up the night before we were supposed to go to Atlanta to see them.  I lived in Huntsville where they never played anymore.  They broke up. 

I was supposed to see them two summers ago during their Bloodletting anniversary tour.  I had ruptured two discs in my back and was in so much pain that I had to give the tickets away.  (I cried.  A lot.)

So when I went to Variety Playhouse with Growler and Mandypants a few weeks ago (for the Psychedelic Furs, thank you very much), I was thrilled to see that Concrete Blonde would be playing on December 19^th.  Finally, finally!, I get to do this shit after twenty-six years. 

It's the voice and the lyrics and the fact that she plays bass.  She does the most wonderful covers of Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, in part because her voice lends itself to that.  But my favorites, undoubtedly, are the ones with the complicated harmonies, where Johnette seems to wrap her own voice around itself. 

And, ultimately, I owe Johnette Napolitano my life. 

There are a couple of people who know this story.  If you're one of them and you're hearing (reading) it for the dozenth time, I apologize.  This anecdote was in the first draft of what would become Persona Non Grata: A Story of Junkture.  It was cut entirely when I fictionalized the book, though Concrete Blonde still made mention.  (page 81, at the end of chapter 6—you can search inside the book on Amazon, btw) 

NOTE:  This is still incredibly difficult for me to go back to, to put myself in the place where I felt the things I write about below.  I can deal with a lot of my shit, but this is one of the most personally-shameful moments of emotion in my forty years, and I'm not callous about this. 

The horrible ex-boyfriend (Damien) and I had broken up for what would be the last time.  After four tumultuous years with him, I was a mess.  I was devastated when we broke up.  For the third or fourth time since I'd known him, I decided that ending my life was the only way I would ever be able to deal with the pain. 

I had a plan.  I had the implements.  I was crying vicious tears while driving on I-65 north in Birmingham, determined to do it as soon as possible.  My little car had a cassette deck, and my very favorite tape was a home-recorded, 90-minute thing that had Concrete Blonde on one side and Bloodletting on the other—my two favorite Concrete Blonde records.  Bawling my head off, I intended to listen to "Bloodletting" and all of the subsequent tracks from that records, all so dark and somber.  It's an amazing record, but all I wanted was to let my own heart find its reprieve in that sadness. 

Instead, what I got was "True", the first track from the other side of the tape. 

Well when I've had enough

I'll get a pick-up truck and I'll drive away,

I'll take my last ten bucks just as far as it will go.

 

Well sometimes I'm easily fooled,

Take a painful step and I get knocked back two.

I do all I can and it's all I can do to be true.

And if I had the choice I'd take the voice I got

Cause it was hard to find.

You know I've come too far to wind up right back where I started.

And they tell me who I should be,

I'll never let those monkeys make a mess of me.

I am who I am and it's all I can do,

But I'm true.

One more sunrise

Open my eyes up – true

One more sunset

Lay my head down – true

They talk you up and then they talk you down

And you begin to doubt.

Sometimes the reasons seem so very far away.

But I'd stop breathing today,

Cause if I can't walk proud, I'd rather walk away.

I do all I am and it's all I can do,

But I'm true.

I'd give all I am and I'd give it to you.

So true.

That was what I heard, instead of a song of a crack in the mirror and a bloodstain on the bed, about being turned into the walking dead. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" I screamed into the otherwise-empty car tearfully. 

I went home instead.

So every time I get really down, feel really lost and can't find my inner compass, that's where I go back, to that piece of time (still so fresh inside my mind) and remember that moment of pause that saved my life. 

Was it really Johnette Napolitano that saved my life?  Not directly.  But I don't know that I would've been listening to anything else, or that I could've heard anyone else quite so clearly that late afternoon.  But I did hear it, thankfully.

So now, twenty-six years into this love affair, her music is still so often the soundtrack of my life.  And of Tierney's.  Six Concrete Blonde songs were included in my playlists.  All of my friends know how much I love her.  Half of them love her, too, because I introduced them. 

Tickets for Concrete Blonde at Variety Playhouse are still available.  Wednesday, December 19^th, at 8:00 p.m.  I'll be the first show for me and Growler, as well as for Tierney.  Come say hi.  I'll be the glittery Amazon belting out every last song. 

SXSW - Day 4

Day 4 in Austin came way the hell too early, as usual, but I dragged my ass toward a shower and breakfast before catching my shuttle back downtown.  I hit one panel on licensing, a Day Stage set by the Big Pink, and then decided, "Screw it!  It's St. Patrick's Day!"

By noon, 6^th Street was painted with all shades of green.  I'm a good Irish girl and made a point to find a good Kelly green tank top to brighten my day.  I wandered for a while, listening and watching, and was surprised to realize I was ravenous.  Chupacabra Cantina it was for some great Tex-Mex tacos.  And some Jack.  The hot bartender bought me a second round.  Turns out he used to play hockey for the former Atlanta Thrashers' feeder team, and his ex-wife used to babysit for Ed Kowalczyk, former LIVE frontman.  (More on that later.)

Jack and Ginger and I danced our way down 6^th, and we were immediately drawn to this voice coming from inside Friends.  It was sand-in-your-ass-crack gritty and awesome.  Turns out it belonged to Austin blues singer Rachael Crawford, and it was totally worth the chafing.  She did the best version of "Folsom Prison Blues" I've heard since the original. 

But Jack and Ginger and I had big plans for the evening.  After four good dances, we decided to shuttle our way back to the hotel for a shower and a quick nap.  Candlebox was doing a short acoustic set at the Bayou Lounge at 7 p.m.  I watched them do "Cover Me" and "Far Behind" then walked with Kevin and Sean over to Antone's for the Microsoft Big App on Campus party, hosted by the Gracious Few.

I was in the door quickly, at the front of the stage where Chad Taylor normally stomps.  The Canvas Waiting opened, their set including a fabulous cover of New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle", which holds a very special place in my heart.  I totally approved. 

Then my groupie love, the Gracious Few, took to the stage.  I hadn't seen them since May and was thrilled that they opened with "Silly Thing".  It's my song.  I loved it long before my path intertwined with theirs, and it's one of those songs that can sweep me away to a deeply, personally happy place, every single time I hear it.  TGF holds the spot for two of my top-five favorite songs (the other being "Labor of Love"), so it made me stupidly happy to start the night with it.  (No, Kevin, I don't blame you for not singing it with me this time.  For so many reasons.)  They were good.  They were my band.  And I was overjoyed to feel that pulsing rhythm that has been the soundtrack to so many miles of the most recent part of my journey. 

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 Blahblahblahblah from Microsoft.  Then came LIVE.

 

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 So, the boys from LIVE had been on a hiatus for nearly three years, mutually cutting ties with Ed Kowalczyk.  This was their first public show with their new lead singer, Chris Shinn.  They'd played a private event in York, PA, on Monday night.  I was supposed to have been at that show but had a last-minute family emergency that prevented me from going.  I was heartbroken at having missed such a special event in the life of the band I've loved for nearly twenty years, but it was unavoidable.

Chris had previously been with Unified Theory.  He also released a self-titled solo record in January that I really love.  It's a grown-up album and wasn't at all what I expected when DH gifted it to me during surgery recovery.  But I was concerned that Chris was too first tenor for the LIVE catalog.  (Later in his career, Ed's voice settled more toward his falsetto, but there are certain songs that even my natural contralto can't quite reach, when I have to pop up an octave to maintain the melody.) 

The guys came out to the first strains of "The Dam at Otter Creek", which was the song to open the best LIVE shows I've ever seen.  The whole set list was good—though I was very surprised to see "Freaks" on it.  There was nothing from Mental Jewelry, which was a little disappointing, but there was also nothing from V or Birds of Pray or the wretched Songs from Ed's Big Head Black Mountain.  It was fantastic to see Chad Taylor stomping and playing Ruby Lou.  Chad Gracey was out from behind the Plexi panel and pounded the fuck out of his drums.  I saw Patrick Dahlheimer smiling more on stage than I can remember having seen in years.  Sean Hennesy was kind enough to play the part of Adam Kowalczyk for the evening, even though that meant he had three straight sets with three different bands.

Chris seemed visibly nervous, and who can blame him?  The LIVE fans are rabidly split about whether or not they can support "their" band without Ed.  I wondered about it two years ago, too.  But this is totally up to Chad and Chad and Patrick, and I was more than willing to give a chance to any singer with the balls to step into that groupie firestorm.  Does he sound just like Ed?  No.  But there's a similarity there that lends his voice to the old songs.  Having been to dozens of LIVE shows over the years, I couldn't help but see the shaven ghost of Ed stepping across the stage, passing through and around Chris as he did his own thing.  But he did his own thing, and it was good.  I am looking forward to seeing where these guys go now that they're really opening a new chapter of their career. 

More Microsoft blahblahblah.

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Strangely, it was my first Candlebox show.  I was never a huge Cbox fan (Kevin, you were right—I always loved LIVE more.), but it was interesting to see how different he is on stage from one band to the next.  You don't notice it as much with guitarists, who can hide behind their instruments, but there was a different onstage persona that came out of him for each band.  My heart is still with TGF, but I knew enough Cbox to sing along and have him put his mic in my face, like he always has.  Okay, yeah, so it was "Far Behind", but I have my strangely personal reasons for liking that song, just like everyone else does.  (Well, except that I didn't get laid to it.)

After the show, though, was my favorite part.  Walking past the bar, I heard, "Stephanie!"  I turned to see Chad Taylor standing there, who I hadn't seen since May.  Big hugs and laughter.  "Gracey said to me, 'I think that skinny girl is Stephanie,' and I said, 'No way!'  Oh my God!  Look at you!  You were right in front of me for the entire Gracious Few set, and it wasn't until I came out with LIVE that I realized it was you!"  He promptly took me by the hand and twirled me around to see the difference that even the last forty-five pounds (and a new belly button) had made.  I knew I must be doing something right if even the rock stars can see the difference. 

I was exhausted, having stood and danced in the same spot for five hours.  Two of my very favorite songs were played that night ("I Alone" is on that list, too.  Strangely, Chad and Chad and Patrick, you have four of my five favorites.) , and it was exhilarating to be swept up in the music and the moments I love the most. 

I bravely stomped around Austin in my Big Girl panties and my persona non grata t-shirt, on my own for five days, and I loved every second of it.  Even my nervousness and being in a strange city, on my own, served only to invigorate me, and I splashed my muchness all over that fucking town—in my own way, sparkled with purple, just like I always do.

So make your siren's call and sing all you want.

I knew the first time I heard "Little Lion Man" that I really liked Mumford & Sons.  It was a darkly catchy little tune with huge, open harmonies, and I love nothing more than a great harmony to hook my voice around.  The entire debut CD, Sigh No More, is really fantastic, with its heavily-accented British folk sound. 

When Brits use a banjo, is it bluebloodgrass music?

When tickets went on sale for Mumford & Sons at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, I was in the midst of Spring Break travel.  I knew I wouldn't be available to get tickets during the regular sale time, so I opted to buy presale tickets a couple of days before.  In theory, they were shitty upper-tier, dress circle seats.  In reality, there's really not a bad seat at the Fox.  The acoustics are so good, and you really can see everything going on.  Yes, I would've preferred to be closer to the stage, but I'm glad I even got a ticket to the sold-out show.

I got to the Fox in time to see the opening acts, Matthew and the Atlas and The Low Anthem.  It was more if the same indie folk pseudo-rock.  Both acts were very talented, certainly, but it wasn't enough to blow me away.  Except for The Low Anthem doing a song called "This God Damn House".  Singer Ben Knox Miller asked the audience to use their cell phones to call the person next to them when he gave a signal toward the end of the show.  It created a beautiful multi-lights effect, but it also created this strange reverb/static/noise/feedback that was breathtaking over this hauntingly sad song. 

 

Mumford & Sons took to the stage to thunderous applause.  I don't have the set list (I never keep up with that, you know.), but I think they played the entire album during their two-hour set.  I couldn't think of a track they didn't play.  Marcus Mumford (Marcus Yumford) plays guitar and a kick drum at the front of the stage.  He took to a full kit for one of the last songs of the evening, and it was amazing.  (Beware, Kevin Martin.  I may have a new singer-drummer groupie love crush.)

They did several new songs, as well, including one during the encore that I really wish I'd been able to record.  It was a still-untitled track that Mumford said they were still in the process of writing.  He said they'd been working on it during sound check and that the crowd would become part of the writing process.  Spin me 'round/just to pin me down/on the cover of this strange bed/Spin me 'round/just to pin me down....  Everyone leaving agreed it was the best new song of the night.

The most amazing part of the show was when they managed to quiet 8,000+ people to perform two songs, "Timshel" and "Sister", totally and perfectly as acoustic songs.  No mic, no PA—just Mumford, his guitar, and four interwoven voices. 

 

The sound was great, the light show was fantastic, and they worked the crowd into an intimate frenzy.  It was truly like an 8,000-person drunken pub sing-a-long.  The energy reminded me a lot of the first time I saw Dave Matthews Band, in Birmingham in 1995 or so.  Under the Table and Dreaming had just come out, and he was playing with Dionne Farris, half of whose band was from Alabama.  They collectively did a ten-minute version of Bob Marley's "Exodus" that was mind-blowing.  I was on the front row for that show.

I've been to a lot of concerts in my life, and this Mumford & Sons show has jumped high on the list of best shows ever.  Nothing will likely ever beat Leonard Cohen at the Fox in October 2009, but what the hell could, honestly?  There's also a LIVE show, the week The Distance to Here came out, and we were on the front row.  It was the last night they were touring with Jimmie's Chicken Shack, and it was a ton of pure, raw fun in the steamy, pouring October-in-Alabama rain.  And then there's that Gracious Few show in Chicago, but it's special to me for so many other reasons that have nothing to do with the show itself, so I don't know if I even include it in my list.  (Sometimes my love for The Gracious Few has nothing to do with my fandom, you know.) 

If you get the chance to catch Mumford & Sons on this or any tour, do it.  I will be there next time they're close, and I will do whatever it takes to be in front.  I'm at a point in my life where I can afford to be elitist and spend too much money for better seats, and I fully intend to do so.  It was a spectacularly wonderful musical evening that I will remember for a very, very long time.

Nights, they sway like you do

I'm an impatient girl.  I always have been.  I like things to happen when I decide--when I make up my mind that it's time for them to happen. 

I was notoriously bad as a child and teen to tear the house apart before Christmas, looking for the stash of presents.  If my mom managed to get them wrapped and under the tree before I found them, I'd spend hours shaking and turning and pondering.  Eventually I learned how to slice the tape open at the seam of the paper and put fresh tape over it, so no one knew I'd been peeking. 

You'd think that kind of looking ahead would spoil the surprise.  Not so much.  Sometimes it made it worse, because now I had all this time to anticipate the actual opening of the gift, plus the using of it.  Of course, if it was something that sucked, then I just had more time to imagine all the ways I would hate it.  Or maybe what I would get at the store when I exchanged it. 

So here we are, in early March, and spring has totally sprung in Atlanta.  Everything's mostly blooming and shining and beautiful.  The weather is getting warmer, and now nightfall is later.  Like a kid, I'm anticipating summer.  Although "summer vacation" has taken on a whole new meaning now that I'm a mom, it's still a really great time of warmth and ease and fun.  Even when it's sticky and hot and I feel like praying for snow, it reminds me of all those summer breaks with my friends, hanging out and doing a thousand things we weren't supposed to be doing, probably in places where we weren't supposed to be. 

Part of the fun of warm weather was always concerts.  Maybe it was a huge outdoor festival, a small club show, or lawn seats on our favorite old blankets.  It didn't matter, because we were all together, in that moment, and sharing that music and that experience.  Even during the crazy electrical storm at one of many Pink Floyd laser shows, or the night some guy got struck by lightning twenty feet from us at the Steve Miller concert, it didn't matter how insane the conditions were--we stuck it out 'til the bitter end and then hung in the parking lot, waiting for traffic to die down and laughing at our inside jokes.  (Okay, so we were probably trying to sober up a bit, too, but it was still social.)

The weather's getting warm, and it makes me want the music.

I am absolutely that girl in the car next to you, who's singing at the top of her lungs, windows down 'cause she doesn't care who sees or hears her.  There's rarely ever a day that goes by that I'm not plugged in to my iPod or CD player or just my own memories of song, my voice fully embracing the vocal challenge before me. 

But the very, very best is when I'm at a show, and I'm right up front, and the music's so loud I can barely hear my own fortississimo voice over the singer's.  I thrive on the uber-bass that thumps so deep that I can't tell if it's my heart or the drums beating in my chest.  It's exciting and enticing and it drives my soul in ways that absolutely nothing else can.  Usually, if I'm that close, it's a band I love--especially if it's a general admission show where you're all-but-guaranteed a few sore ribs if you're against the rail.

When you're that close to the stage, you can see everything, just not at once.  You have to make a pointed effort to watch each musician, to look at the lights as they turn and sway above you blindingly, or to try to ignore the crew (and sometimes families) running around at the sides of the stage.  But you get to see the process.  You get to see what happens when the guitarist breaks a string (which seems to happen to Dave Matthews all the freaking time).  You get to see the close-up interactions of band mates, good or bad.  You get to see who drinks beer and who drinks water. 

You forget sometimes, from that vantage point, that the band can see everything you're doing.  The lights aren't always in their face like they're in yours when you're in the crowd, though spotlights can suck, I'm sure.  And when you're at the front like that, you get a lot of eye-to-eye contact, especially with the singers who really work their crowds.  Some are better at it than others, and some just have bad nights, certainly.  Honestly, it makes you feel special when the singer acknowledges you with a wink or a nod or a smile--it's just a heart-fluttering moment to be caught up in.

And then!  There are the most spectacular of evenings, when the singer (or the guitarist or the bassist, if that's where your groove is) comes to you as part of the show.  They'll stop right in front of you, singing or playing while they have your undivided attention.  It's this amazing little moment where you've connected with a virtual stranger.  You both get it, and--the crazy thing about it--everyone who sees you gets it. 

I'm a singer groupie chick (though I used to be a drummer groupie chick, but they don't move around the stage much), so I'm usually watching the singer and (gasp!) singing along, word for word and note for note to the very, very best of my abilities.  You never know when they might be watching you, you know? 

It's an especially intense moment if the singer gets someone from the crowd to sing with them.  Usually it's a mic held down to the fan for a few seconds.  But sometimes you'll see a singer who gets right in the fan's face with the microphone, singing to them and with them at the same time. 

To be that person... is MAGNIFICENT.  There's an incredible flow of energy that happens between the two of you.  No matter how many times you've heard him sing the song, no matter how many times you've sung along in your car or your shower, he's creating that version of that music in that moment with his voice.  He's putting it out there for the audience as a whole, but for you specifically, and you're taking it in and letting it wash over and through you and feeding it right back to him with your own voice.  There are a million thoughts in your head at once, and you're trying hard to remember the lyrics and to remember to breathe.  It's intensely intimate and fun and scary as hell, because you don't want to fuck it up in front of this person whose music obviously means something to you.

And if you're at one of those shows where the singer picks someone out of the crowd to entertain personally, it's always crazy to watch.  Sometimes you feel like you're intruding on their moment.  The truth is, you're not.  The singing fan probably has very little realization that you're even still there, that there's anything but them and the singer and the song, which is almost guaranteed to become their new favorite. 

So now it's almost time for summer and concerts and the music that I so adore.  I start next week with Adam Taylor at Smith's Olde Bar.  I have tickets for The Twilight Singers at Masquerade in May.  Cage the Elephant is about to go on sale, and I'm hoping to get news soon of Mumford & Sons, Taddy Porter, and I know They Might Be Giants will be on tour again later this year.  And, of course, my year won't be complete without a couple (dozen) of shows from The Gracious Few.  (There'd better be some singing involved, Kevin....)

The problem is, I'm impatient.  I want all of those shows now.  I don't like waiting for booking agents and bands and promoters to coordinate their schedules and fill their calendars.  I know how it works, I know what it takes to book tour dates, but it's worse than waiting for Christmas, really.  I always know when to expect the tree and the wrapping.  I don't know when I'll see the flashing par cans and lightly-scented fog, or when I'll hear the roar of the crowd as the house lights go down and the first strains of the opening song blast from the huge speakers, dragging my beating heart into the band's rhythm. 

I'm biding my time, plugged into the iPod, going on about my day as pleasantly as possible.  Smiling but impatient, breath abated.  And every time there's a new update via email or Twitter or Facebook, it's like sneaking a peek at the presents and just hoping it's the special surprise I want the most.