A Concert Review?

You're an angel in the pit with her hands in the air
And we're missing you

Paper Street Saints @ the Crofoot, 01/19/2008

She's getting impatient because she wants to get there early, to claim a place near the front, to see all three opening bands (to talk to them). You drag your feet, in no hurry to get there. You still manage to arrive halfway thru the first band's set. She looks pissed but you roll your eyes as if to say "It's the first band, they're gonna suck." They do. She doesn't care, her eyes aren't on the stage, she's scanning the crowd, looking for a familiar tattoo. She hasn't seen them in 4 years but she's confident they'll recognize her.

You know the second the bassist walks in behind you. You don't turn around, just wait for her to realize he's close. There are hellos and hugs and "how old are you now?" She laughs, happier than you've seen her in years. Suddenly you see your baby again, 10 years old, fist pumping in the air, screaming just as loud as the fans around her. For an instant you're glad you came. Your eyes soften as he takes your hand and you agree it's good to see each other.

She grabs her boyfriend's hand (you still shudder over the word "boyfriend") and weaves her way to the front. Your body leans forward involuntarily, ready to follow. You remind yourself she's old enough to wander around on her own and step off in the opposite direction. The band doesn't sound any better from this angle.

A little later, the three of you end up back in the same spot, leaning against the railing by the slightly raised entryway. She's scanning the crowd again, trying not to be too obvious, staring at the door, expecting him to walk in. You know the moment the singer enters the room, feel his presence behind you, passing to your right, his entire focus on the bar and his next beer. She calls his name and he turns. To his credit, he seems to recognize her without even glancing at you. For a second you think you'll get away with just fading into the crowd then he pins you with his eyes and offers an arm for a hug. You whisper "hey buddy" near his ear, not realizing how lame it sounds until he gently mocks you, repeating "hey buddy" until you crack a smile. You never know which Cheyenne you'll get. He can reinforce the animosity with his icy nature and strained politeness or he can break it down with a look. Tonight it's somewhere in-between, and maybe you can live with that.

The second band is pretty good, a little more John Mayer, a little less Rolling Stones. You claim a spot in front of a pole, between the steps and the bar, not quite secluded but somewhat sheltered. You have a clear view of the stage and a glass of ice water and are feeling pleasantly distanced. You let the music flow through you, starting to remember how this is supposed to feel. The lead guitarist wears his guitar comically high and the singer spends as much time looking at the drummer as the crowd. You smile up at the band as they launch into a Michael Jackson cover. (Seriously? Billie Jean?) The beat lulls you with its familiarity and your eyes wander across the sea of people. There doesn't seem to be a common "fan" look, everything is a study in contrasts, ranging from the young teens to the young at heart. Blue jeans and hoodies mingle with dress pants and miniskirts. No one is made to feel uncomfortable just by their presence. Your lips quirk, proud that his band can foster such diversity.

You know he's in the room, can feel him close, but you hope your gaze will flow right past him. It catches, focus sharpens on the familiar black hair, the familiar bend of his neck as he leans in to listen to the girl next to him. Luckily the singer isn't looking at you so you try again, your eyes fanning right this time. You make it as far as the bassist. With a sigh you push away from your secluded corner and head off to find the child. She can entertain you until the next band starts.

The third band pretty much sucks and you're distracted, antsy when you feel him walk back into the room. You turn to look then curse the impulse. He passes by, shaking hands and laughing with fans but intent on moving forward toward...the bassist? You glance right, yep, the bassist. You take a second to wonder that the weird Spidey-sense is still active after all these years. You were always able to sense exactly where the boys are whenever they enter the venue and it still creeps you out. However, given the crowd that's growing around them, maybe it's less your perception and more the vibe they give off, calling the minions to their side. Five years ago you would have yelled at him for calling the fans minions. Today you see the joke.

You try to focus back on the band, watch the crowd, anything to fend off the boredom hovering just over your shoulder. You chew the last of your ice and turn to walk over to the trash can, belatedly realizing he's closer than you thought and on a trajectory to intercept you just outside the door. From years of practice in smoky bars, you've honed your "do not approach me" attitude and can project it all the way across the room. Of course he ignores it, bumping your shoulder and grinning. He takes a sip of his beer, still not saying anything, leaving you to fill the empty silences. You mumble something about the second band being pretty decent, knowing he'll disagree because that's what he does. It's an old familiar dance bringing with it an easy comfort. Too easy. Suddenly you're noticing how thin he is. You gave up worrying about him years ago but my word is he thin. He laughs it off, claiming it's so very 'rock star'. "Heroin chic" you mutter, wondering when you lost your brain-to-mouth filter. His eyes don't lose the laughter and you figure you're forgiven. A girl presses against his side and steals his focus. You seize the opportunity and slide away. Not that you don't want to talk to him, just that you're wary of spending too much time, knowing you'll say something stupid and blow the easy camaraderie you've managed to find tonight. You'd rather just let past friendship echo into the space between you.

You spot a couple of friends, fans from way back that you haven't seen in years. You wander over and reminisce for a few minutes, bemoaning the fact that the Monster is 16 now and how that makes you all feel so old. Suddenly you feel more than old, ancient and out of place. You excuse yourself to go find the child, needing to hug her and pretend she's your baby for just one minute more.

Of course she's positioned herself dead center, up against the stage. You wait until the third band finishes their set and the crowd loosens up a bit before you thread your way to the front. She remembers this all too well, is caught up in the drama of pushing fans, camera flashes and screaming girls. You laugh at her excitement and her glowing eyes. Your friends make their way up front too and suddenly everything shifts. It's familiar, comfortable. You start making bargains with yourself, just one song then you'll slip out to the back of the room. Maybe you can stay here just until they play 'Hopeless'. You've always wanted to hear that one live.

The boys start filtering on stage, two new (not new) guitarists that you've never met. Your favorite bassist looking more comfortable on stage than you've ever seen before. Suddenly a rush of teenage girls shout "Cheyenne!"...including yours. You laugh at her, catch her forcing the blush from her cheeks, refusing to be embarrassed by her love for this band. She always had a stronger sense of self than anyone you've ever met. It's one of the many things you admire about this child that you raised but didn’t shape.

They start to play and you're blown away. Forgot how good they were, pretty sure they were never this good. When did Donny become a motherfucking rock star? He's strutting across the stage all confidence and peek-a-boo tattoos. You can't stop grinning, huge smile plastered across your face, staring wide-eyed at the drummer, the bassist, both guitarists. Especially the guitarists, they're good, so very good. You can't believe you stayed away so long, never heard them play. You don't look up, not directly in front of you. You don't want to ruin this spell.

A couple songs in you can't help it, you glance up, catch the singer's eye and...damn if he doesn't grin right back at you. You make a mental note to tease him about losing his rock star cred the next time you talk. But now he's strutting to the back of the stage, trying to trip the bass player with his microphone cord. He teases the cymbals and worships the drummer who has apparently grown two extra arms, all of them moving at a blur. The wave of sound blasts into the crowd and they surge forward on the undertow. The guitarist on the left has been watching the people in front of him, feeding off their energy and now he reaches down to scoop up a handful, touching hands, bumping fists. His eyes on everyone all at once, connection, connection, connection.

The song ends and a new one starts. You've completely forgotten about leaving the front, can't imagine watching this from anywhere but right here. Your child is reaching up, looking directly at the singer. He reaches down and grasps her hand. You're touched, remembering that he always had a soft spot for her. Knowing she'll be blogging about this in the morning. Knowing you will too.

Another song, another. You know all the words, sing along, voice lost in the crowd. Then suddenly everything's a little quieter, suddenly it's 'Hopeless'. You thought you'd feel just a little sad, maybe a twinge of nostalgia. Instead you're in awe. Never sounded so good, never believed it more. He trusts this song, no shame as he throws a "shout out to the savior". And suddenly you can't lie to yourself anymore. This is why you came. Forget that the child begged for weeks. Forget that this is the first all ages show in years. You needed to hear this song.

A few more songs and they wrap up with warnings to drive carefully. Your child joins the crowd at the backstage door, needing to say goodbye, to wrap this up with one big happy bow. You hit the restroom, wander around, shuffle back and ask the child if she's ready to go. She's said goodbye to the singer but is waiting for the bass player, needs full closure. You concede, still floating on a comfortable high.

You surprise yourself by grabbing the singer's arm when he walks by. He pulls in, you maybe murmur good-bye, he kisses your cheek and scoots off. Yeah, closure is good.

Finally she spots the bassist. He's warm and genuine. Thanking all of you for coming, letting you know how much it means to him. Then just before you turn to go, he flips your world upside down. "You're coming to the Bliss reunion, right? I'm not saying when but keep your ears open."

So much for closure. So much for one last time. They call, you'll go. Those are the rules. You just didn't know it when you signed up so very long ago.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


You won't understand. You never do. I don't expect you to.

Well Seasoned

Pete's latest blog makes me feel so old. I actually saw Michael Jackson (well the Jackson brothers) on the Victory tour right after Thriller came out. I was like 13? Not too long after that, we also saw Prince. I'm sorry but Prince > MJ x 1,000. Although I have to admit, we practiced our moon walk for days. Ah, Pete, you asshole. Thanks for making me feel every bit my age.

Porn in my head makes the workday creep by

Ah holy crap! Why does my mp3 player hate me? Had to turn it up to hear Patrick Stump's cover of 'So Sick' (gorgeous song) got lost back in my work and then shuffle decided that Arma Angelus would be a good follow up. REALLY REALLY LOUD! It's possible I screamed a little and pulled out the earphones. My co-workers just roll their eyes at me. A lot.

And now it's stuck on old Fall Out Boy and The Academy Is... Five TAI songs practically in a row. Patrick's voice has changed a lot. It's amazing how good Pete is at seeing potential. I'd like to be him for a day and see all the possibilities of the world. Wonder if the depressing flip-side is that you also see everything that will never shine, no matter how much it tries. Or the constant missed opportunities, thrown away or snorted up your nose. *notbitter*

Have I mentioned how much I love the White Stripes? Because duh. And also because gaelic and ruby shoes. Plus some angst. Someone mentioned the new video has bulls and a matador? Remind me to search You Tube.

Discussing fanfic with my best friend:

Me: T...can I ask you something? I...do you have any porn?
Him: Jenn, I'm gay.
Me: *blushing* I know. I need gay porn. See, I've been reading a bunch of stories and I have questions.
Him: Stories? Questions?
Me: *mumbles* Nevermind...it was stupid...I just didn't want to look dumb...
Him: No, no, it's ok. We'll watch together and you can ask your questions. Then you can explain about these stories.

Because bandom is all about the gay. Especially when they practically ship themselves. *I'm looking at you Gabe Saporta and Pete Wentz.* So T and I are meeting up Sunday and I'm trying to put together a list of questions that don't make me sound too stupid or cause me to burst into flames from rampant blush. It's not going so well. I keep hoping he just loves the subject so much he'll start babbling and I won't have to ask a thing.

If Pete would go back to fanboying Patrick, I wouldn't need to resort to artificial stimulation for my Pete/Patrick love. No one really writes good buddy stories. Or if they do, it's always buddybuddyPORNangstbuddymaybesomemoreporn. On the other side of the fandom, Jon and Spencer are totally in love and I could watch them make cow eyes at each other all day long. I practically have been what with all the new Panic clips popping up all over the place. Damn that exclamation point. I have to keep deleting it. It refuses to die.

Wish me luck with the questions...oh yeah, no one knows about this journal. Maybe I'll ask for some help compiling a list over at LJ.

Too much Bowie on my mp3 player, never thought that was possible

If you came searching for the discussion on Golden: It was the reverence. The way Patrick (assuming it was Patrick) ignored the usual flippant sarcasm found in everything Pete writes and instead found the raw emotion. Usually the music is a protective coating over top of the lyrics, enhancing the implied sneer or dry wit. In Golden, the music is the scalpel that lays open the very soul of the words. I don't know if the emotion is Pete's, Patrick's or both but it's beautiful, needy and full of regret. And apparently I felt the need to discuss this with myself for about 10 minutes this morning.

Plus, I have porn in my head while I'm working. Makes me feel very guilty. But I can't help it. I'll explain later.