Quick Update

Just dashing something off to let my dwindling readers know that I took an old post and tweaked it a bit so I could send it off to a few places. Today I found out that it has been posted on a local website, Valley411.com and I'm pretty happy about that. I'll keep everyone up to date if it (or anything else of mine for that matter) turns up elsewhere.

In the meantime, I almost finished the Black Crowes story last night, moving into the final paragraphs. It's going to be a long post so I can wrap it all up and move onto shorter and newer tales. Check back in a day or so to reach the end of that one.

Thanks again,

Tony

Plugs And Panties (The Black Crowes Part 6!!)

So we were hungry.

Hunger? Not really. More like some sort of primal urge. I avoid the word instinct because that implies a minimal need. What our bodies cried out for was sustenance of the deep fried species, whether it be of shrimp, chicken, or potato. We were fucking hungry, so yes, hunger does not quite suffice.

But as we dressed for the Black Crowes concert, we briefly discussed what it was we were hungry for, where we could get it, and how much time we had to do it all. Our first unanimous decision was that our traditional Fillmore pre-show meal at Beni-hana was out for two reasons; the first being that we were probably profiled as the "Lucky Cat Americans" and would not only be turned away but possibly accosted by members of the Japanese Consulate as blasphemes to the cultural importance of fortunate kitties. The second and more logical reason being that there was not time for a onion volcano.

So we ended up at a Denny's. Good old reliable Denny's. There we had some light fare from the appetizer side of the multi-fold laminated menu from Heaven. After paying for our grub, we decided we'd better hit the restroom before waiting in line outside the Fillmore (for the Black Crowes if you've forgotten), so in that Denny's we visited California's second most disgusting facilities. The first place winner being a unisex token-taker in a Popeye's Chicken on Market Street in San Francisco circa 1989 that actually rivaled the toilet in Trainspotters. Standing up to pee never had a bigger benefit.

Mary and I crossed the street to the same little bodega from the night before to pick up some pre-show refreshments. Mine was a Coors Light Tall Boy and hers was the cutest little pair of Jameson's bottles (also the same as the night before). While I paid, Mary went next door to get a cup of coffee feeling like she needed a caffeine boost. I guessed the Red Bull wasn't doing its job, but she had a plan. When I took our little brown bag of goodies next door, she was just getting her Joe. She had gotten me the fountain drink cup I asked for and I poured the Tall Boy into it for the walk to and the wait outside the Fillmore. The Barista looked at me with slight contempt, but I just smiled and raised my cup to him as we left.

We both were excited to finally be on our way to the show. The line outside the Fillmore wasn't too long, so we would be assured a pretty good spot in the standing room only auditorium. With Mary standing 5'3" and not wanting to stare at the back of someone's head all night, we always try to find a spot off to the side or in back of the Fillmore. We find it ironic that most people go to a general admission venue early to get a spot up front and we go early to find a good vantage point to see over or past those people.

We got in line and Mary drank one bottle of Jameson's discreetly. I sipped on my beer and we made a little small talk with some folks in line. Earlier in the day, I had excitedly told Mary about Instant Live recordings. Some bands, including The Black Crowes, have struck a deal with Instant Live to produce and sell live recordings of concerts that are available for purchase just moments following the conclusion of the show. CDs are made from the master recording from the board in just minutes. Customers simply sign up and pay at a booth before the concert and pick up the finished product as they leave. The prospect of listening to a CD in the car on the way home of a recording of the concert you just left is pretty mind boggling. Mary and I agreed that we'd have to buy this one.

A fellow in line next to us turned around, not being able to help but overhear our conversation and told us that he didn't think that the show was going to be available as an Instant Live product. When I asked him why, he pointed to a huge RV type of vehicle parked next to the Fillmore. I had seen it, but assumed it was for the band or crew. In fact, it was a mobile recording unit and it was then that I found out that the band was shooting a live DVD that night. As it turned out, the Crowes did not want the material that was going to be on the DVD months later to be available on CD immediately, most likely to avoid competition between the formats and see a potential loss in DVD sales.

I couldn't argue too much with that decision. As it was, I pictured myself fortunate enough just to be there with the way tickets sold so fast, and getting an Instant Live CD would have been icing on the cake. While I now wouldn't get that icing, I would later be treated to a visual and not just aural memory of the evening. The reward would just come much later.

I was still working on my beer and reminded Mary that I still had another tiny bottle of Jameson's for her in my pocket. She sipped a bit more of her coffee and smiled. I handed her the whiskey and she poured the contents into the remaining java. Swirling it all around, she winked at me upon the completion of her master plan. I tried a sip and was surprised that it didn't taste too bad, although it wasn't something I'd drink all night. We talked a bit more with the people in line about past shows, the Fillmore experience, and the usual "get to know you" stuff. Mary seemed to hit it off with the gal in line in front of us in particular and I was happy just to watch her talk to this woman, figuring this would get my wife nice and loosened up for the inevitable crush of humanity that is a general admission show . It took me a moment to figure it out, but then I realized and remarked to Mary that this woman had eyes that were very similar to Mary's sister Janet, my concert buddy. We again lamented the fact that Janet and Scott couldn't join us at this show because we did not consider asking them to join us, thinking they wouldn't enjoy it or want to spend the money (the origin of this reference can be found waaayyy back in Part 2 of this epic).

The doors opened soon and all of us in line began the penguin-like shuffle towards the entrance. It's funny to watch; humans seem to feel the need to keep moving forward and when we can't motor at the speed that we want, we tend to wobble a bit to at least keep the notion of moving ahead and not idling. Sometimes the "steps" are mere inches in distance, but the energy spent in the pendulum act probably equals a full stride. We downed the remainder of our drinks and watched as concert-goers tucked various contraband into their nether regions. Those who didn't want to risk the pat down at the door swallowed, smoked, or chugged their reality altering substances on the spot. I was glad that my drug of choice was alcohol because I knew my dealer was right inside.

Once inside, we did the "shortest distance between two points" dash to Mary's favorite perch; a waist-high rail that separates the main floor from the bar area. It is there that she can sit comfortably and just about see over the heads of average sized patrons. I can stand by her and see just fine in most cases and if need be, I just bob and weave between the head and shoulder view in front of me. When I look back on many of my concert experiences, I realize that a good percentage of them were seen between mullets and mohawks.

Mary climbed up on the rail and I walked over to the bar to get a couple of beers. When I returned, our new friend from the line was talking to Mary. I offered to get her a beer and she politely declined, but hung around to talk some more. After more small talk, we found out that we shared a similar taste in music--besides The Black Crowes. She actually blew me away when she was ranking guitarists and said that Warren Haynes was her favorite. (Haynes is the guitarist/vocalist of Gov't Mule, a band whose name when mentioned to the uninitiated almost always garners a resounding "who?") We talked some more to uncover that she had amazingly heard of and been through Fresno. She was a bicyclist that had done some of the rides in our area. Jean and Scott are avid riders and when we mentioned some of the organized rides they go on, our new friend told us that she'd been involved in a few of them. Mary and I could see us all getting along swimmingly sometime down the road. We'd have to exchange email addresses and phone numbers, we noted.

I strode off to look at the merchandise table. I liked a few of the shirts, including the exclusive Fillmore 5 night engagement shirt, but I was mature in my thinking that I'd probably not wear it that often. So many times, I buy a shirt impulsively thinking I'll wear it as often as I wore my Y&T shirt in high school, only to have it hang in my closet, begging me to take it out for a stroll. Sometimes, I actually put one on, look in the mirror, and wonder what the fuck I was thinking when I gave the addict behind the folding table more cash than I paid to get in to see the band whose logo adorns the garish shirt I cannot now bring myself to wear. I was proud of myself for having such foresight in not buying a shirt that night.

So, instead, I bought my wife a pair of "Shake Your Money Maker" panties. Easily the best concert purchase I've made since..........well, ever.

I returned to Mary's Perch (as we refer to it from now on) and produced the panties. She smiled and raised her eyebrows. Our new friend had gone to join her husband, a man ten years her junior who'd stationed himself in his youthful vigor up front in what at a metal concert would be considered the mosh pit. At a jamband concert, the most physical contact you can expect up front would be a wayward noodle-dancer's backhand or a stumbling drunk's charge at the end of the show in his effort to attain a setlist. We figured she'd be safe, but were sorry that we hadn't exchanged contact information.

The lights went down and the band came on. In the past, I'd only known them to crank up the volume so I had my earplugs at the ready. After a few bars of (Only) Halfway To Everywhere, we were both assured that our ears needed no impediment and I stowed away the tiny containers that held our foam Hammer, Anvil, and Stirrup protectors. The groove was on and we both nodded our heads in approval of the beat and the vibe. We toasted ourselves and the Fillmore. Then the Crowes. Then San Francisco. Then ourselves again with a deep kiss. By the time the band moved into No Speak No Slave I knew it was going to be a special night.

What I wasn't sure of, but hoping for, is that it would get louder, longer, and even more memorable.

The final chapter of this tale only furthers my stance that I live an enchanted life. It goes longer, definitely gets louder, and becomes more memorable than I would have imagined on that sleepy morning when I purchased the Fillmore tickets over coffee months before.

Are you with me still?

Sucker.



Finale and epilogue next and soon.............

The Hazy One....

Reality Doesn't Bite. It Sucks. (Normally)

Are you watching Rockstar: Supernova? I am too. Read all about it over on the other blog. The link is over there on the right. You can't miss it.

Thanks.

Just so you know, the Black Crowes might be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame before I finish the story. The last installment is in the editing phase right now. Really.

Hazy Tony