the one about memory

One of my favorite albums is "Green" by what is likely my all time favorite band, REM.  I played my really old CD in so many different cars, dragging it to college twice and otherwise treating it rough, giving it a few serious scars.  The scars didn't become a problem until I copied all my music to iTunes several years ago.  "Green" copied but only one song would play.  My favorite song on the album wasn't there.  I've been without it for years.  ("You Are The Everything" look it up.)

I found a few copies at used record stores and checked them.  All scratched.  A few weeks ago I found one that wasn't scratched and snatched it up.  Back home I discovered it wouldn't copy to iTunes.  Ugh.  I so wanted to have the physical copy of the album instead of a soul-less digital download but I'm at my wits end.  


I saw REM in concert in August of 1999.  I'll admit to being a bit of a concert snob.  I want to see live music in small venues.  I don't want to pay a mortgage payment to see an hour of music and when I do see the music I want to actually be able to see it.  With my eyes, not on a big screen beside the stage.  By the time I got into REM in high school, they were already a stadium band.  The concert in 1999 was a big deal though.  Bill Berry, one of the founding members of the band had recently quit the band to spend time on his farm in Georgia.  The band opted to get guest drummers to fill in and continue on.  This concert though, was going to be a hometown show.  Atlanta was just a short drive from Athens where the band first met and from Berry's farm.  Everyone assumed he would be there.  Everyone hoped he would play a couple of songs with them.  

I was thinking about this concert last week.  August of 1999 was a long time ago.  I had just started grad school and was basically going to have to stay up all night to make the concert and still be at work and school the next day.  I remember being very tired.  I also remember Bill Berry being at the concert.  There was a crazy bunch of hoodlums as the opening act.  They all wore costumes and rubber masks.  When REM started playing they kept mentioning Berry and dedicating songs to him.  They kept looking backstage which made everyone think he was there and was on the verge of coming out to play.  In my memory, he came out to a standing ovation, waved shyly and then sat in on the drums for a couple of songs.  

But what actually happened was he came out to a standing ovation, waved shyly and then ducked backstage, never to be seen again.  And I'm sure about this.  Luckily for me and my memory, there are people dedicated enough to journal these things and post them on the interwebs.

I understand that what I remember is what I want to remember.  It's what I wanted to be true.  I saw it in my mind well enough for it to register as a memory.  I can see him taking his place behind the drum kit right now.  It's just that it never happened.  


I've been thinking about this all week.  I've got a lot of stories in my head.  My dad told great stories to us when we were growing up.  I had a pretty fun childhood and some crazy friends so I've got a few stories of my own.  What's going to happen to them?  

Sometimes we'll be doing something with the kids and a story will pop into my head.  If it's appropriate, I'll tell the story to the kids.  They'll laugh and giggle and ask me to tell it again and again.  Every once in a while I get this weird feeling as we're sharing a story.  I feel it like it's my dad sharing the story with me.  I remember what that felt like as a kid and how it bound us together.  On this side of parenthood I now see it as a way of living on through your children.  When I'm no longer telling stories, my kids will be driving their kids somewhere and they'll remember the story about some midnight teenage shenanigans their dad may or may not have been involved in and they'll share that story with their family.  

And Bill Berry not playing the drums that night has me thinking that it might be a good idea to record these stories somewhere for safe keeping.  I mean, the details are important.  There's a big difference between the founding member playing a song and not playing a song.  If I had kidnapped a life sized concrete dog sculpture and painted it garnet, I wouldn't want time and hazy memory to turn that color to blue.  It would lose the whole Clemson/Carolina angle of the story, you know?  That was a hypothetical situation.  I would never steal or vandalize Kenny McDowell's Dalmatian lawn ornament.  That would be wrong.  But if I did, I'd want someone to tell it right.


I'm going to have to find a way to document some stories.  Maybe I'll tell more to Blue and Violet.  Maybe I'll post some here.  Maybe the sketchbook will have to catch the ones that are not age appropriate or suitable for public consumption.

But Bill Berry was there.  He didn't play but he was there.  The concert was really good, the seats were good and Michael Stipe looked just like me.  He still does.  You can Google it.



A postscript for any students reading:  In August of 1999 I was working full time and attending graduate school.  The concert was on a weeknight.  I drove 4 hours to Atlanta, saw the show, drove 4 hours back, slept an hour or so and was at work at 6am the next morning.  After work I drove 1.5 hours to school and never missed a minute of class.  That's how you concert.  Take note.

A postscript for anyone old enough to appreciate it:  There was an amateur band handing out demo cassette tapes at the exits of the concert.  That band was Train.

my people are the best

December is off to a great start.  The first week was filled with finishing up classes and projects.  Busy is an understatement.  After the second week I was really struck by how awesome the people around me are.  Let me 'splain.

 These are my coworkers.  They are amazing.  They're funny and irreverent and goofy and at the very same time they are experts and geniuses and masters of their fields.  And they're all fine people.  The best.  I'm so lucky I get to work with them.  This photo was from our tacky Christmas attire party last Thursday.  We always take a "serious" photo where we are all supposed to NOT smile.  In each of these photos Sandy is grinning from ear to ear.  Jon and Esnipes are trying to get Sandy to be serious.  Also, there's a Photoshopped framed image of Jon's head on another man's body on the mantle.

  

 These are some of my Avett friends.  Concerts are better in groups.  And to be honest, it takes G and Ginger both to talk me into going to one.  For a person who doesn't especially like hanging out with people, a room filled elbow to elbow with thousands of humans doesn't always sound like a good idea.  But there's always a reason why this one wont be that bad and why we should go.  We first saw the Avett Brothers with Ginger about 10 years ago at a small club in Greenville called The Handlebar.  The room was small and half full.  Langhorne Slim opened.  Since that night the Avetts (and Langhorne) have blown up and if you want to go see them these days you'll be doing so in a large amphitheater.  Somehow G and Ginger got word of a secret fundraising show in a small venue about 20 minutes from our house.  Ashley (The Whisk) was lucky enough to find a ticket as well and we all met to tailgate before the show last Friday.

 The fundraiser was for The Carpenter's Table and the event was at Byrnes High School in Spartanburg.  Ashley's seat was in the back corner.  Our seats were about 30 feet from the front right in the middle.  They were perfect.

 The Avett's collect fan posters from various occasions and tape them to the back of the piano.

 That's my hero Joe Kwon on rock and roll cello.

 That's Seth Avett levitating.

 That's my new friend Mike Marsh on drums in the back.  More on him later.

 Fellow Winthrop Eagle, Bob Crawford with his "This Machine Kills Cancer" bass guitar.  Oh and there's Paul Defiglia on the keyboards.

 Scott Avett singing "Murder in the City".  The venue was small and because there were all sorts of people from every age group and physical ability present, they asked that we remain seated for the entire concert.  To my knowledge this has never happened before.  Even when you have seats, when the brothers come out, you stand.  But everyone was respectful and we all just kinda danced on our seats.

Seth and Scott's sister Bonnie was responsible for organizing this event and they talked her into coming out for a couple of songs.  

 So when we walked in the building I saw a woman who looked familiar.  This happens all the time.  I'm visual and while I do not have a photographic memory, my memory is just good enough to remember most faces but not good enough to remember where I saw those faces.  I think the setting helped me this time though.  See, 8 years ago we saw the Avetts at a little cafe/record store in Greenville for a album release event.  While standing in line to get our CD signed I was holding Blue in his "Little Avett" onesie.  The lady in front of us in line thought it was funny and she asked to take a photo of him.  The familiar face last Friday was her.  A few minutes later she and her family came in and sat down right in front of us.  I leaned up and asked her about the photo and she remembered and said she always wanted to send us that photo.  I gave her my email address and there's the photo.  Avett people are good people.  

The concert was great.  The song selection was superb.  And for me, a person who doesn't like crowds, people getting in my personal space, standing still for hours at a time or drunk people spilling beer on me, this was an ideal situation.  No smoking, no drinking, no standing.  The concert started around 7:20 pm and ended around 9:30 pm.  I saw a great concert in comfort and was still going to find my bed before midnight.

 And just when I didn't think it could get any better, at the end of the show each musician pulled their copy of the set list off the floor in front of them and wadded it up and threw it into the crowd.  When drummer Mike Marsh wadded his up, we locked eyes and I knew this was my moment.  The last set list.  The pressure.  With his drum-muscled arms he drew back his arm and thundered the set list high into the air.  My eyes never left that spinning ball of precious paper.  As it descended every muscle in my body synchronized and prepared for action.  I jumped up and back and I could see every wrinkle in the paper as it landed safely in my hands.  I may have fell back over the seats a little, but I didn't fall.  After celebrating with my slightly embarrassed wife I waited around for Erin Andrews to come interview me about the catch.  When she didn't show up, we just left.

 After dropping Ginger off at home, G and I slowed down for a second to fully appreciate the tallest Christmas Tree in the upstate located in downtown Inman.  40 feet of LED Christmas cheer.  

 And you can make fun of me for being old and wanting to go to bed, but I did outlast both my kids who we found like this at my mom's.

 I also got up earlier than them on Saturday for a run before heading off to graduation.  That's Travis Monroe Taylor rocking his sculpture tshirt under his cap and gown.  Travis is good people.  We are so going to miss him.

the time that kid from forest gump spilled beer on me

Several months ago G somehow managed to get an email announcing a special invitation only ticket sale for a concert.  Mumford and Sons, it said, was coming to Simpsonville, SC.  That's right, Simpsonville, South Carolina.

Of course we dismissed it as spam or a joke because, well, they're Mumford and Sons and this was, well, Simpsonville.  

But we were curious enough to look it up and sure enough, it seemed to be true. We really enjoy Mumford's music and they are the type of high energy band we like to see live.  So then the real question came:  Were we willing to endure the large venue?

If you've read any of my concert rambles here, you know that while I'm a big fan of music, I'm not a big fan of crowds.  And concert crowds are worse than regular crowds.  Generally speaking, they're drunk, obnoxious, loud and sweaty.  Not a few of my favorite things.

Maybe it was the lure of seeing the spectacle of a band this big play in such a small town or maybe it was the laid back attitude of summer, but for whatever reason, I agreed and G signed up for the "chance" to be invited to purchase tickets.  She enlisted her friend to also sign up just in case.  That proved to be a good move since G never got invited but the friend did.  Tickets were purchased and I tried not to think about it.  Back then September was a long way away.

Over the last few weeks, emails started coming in to ticket holders with weird alerts and warnings in them.  There were traffic advisories for the entire town of Simpsonville and rules stating that the outdoor venue would not be allowing the normal lawn chairs and blankets.  It seems the place sold out in minutes and apparently the number of tickets sold translated into that number of humans only fitting in the place if they were stacked upright, shoulder to shoulder.

Dread set in.  We strongly considered selling our tickets.

Again, not sure why, but we procured a babysitter and went full speed ahead with concert plans.  

That was the crowd to my left during the second opening act.  That's a lot of humans.  When we arrived, much later than the emails encouraged, we walked in with no line and staked out a good spot.  We had plenty of room and we spread out our group of Alicia, Austin, Ali, G and me in battle formation ready to defend our territory.  Every once in a while people would push forward into our airspace and dance and bump into us but usually they moved on after the old bald guy started at them for a few minutes.  Still, ever so slightly, the crowd encroached on us until we were surrounded and our space was shrinking.

We all saw people we knew.  Some spoke, others waved, and still others just saluted through Instagram.  One guy wandered into our zone and spotted Ali and began to chit chat as if they were long lost pals.  When he wandered off again Ali explained that she had not seen him since high school and that he was in the movie Forest Gump when he was a child.  He was apparently one of the southern boys who teased Gump about his leg braces.  A while later on a beer run, the same guy happens back into our space and speaks to Ali again.  Then it happened again.  It was starting to be a thing...where he was going to keep doing this accidentally on purpose as a joke all night.  But suddenly it stopped.

I don't drink beer.  I don't care for the taste and I abhor the smell.  Of course this means that I always get beer spilled on me.  Always.  The first concert I ever attended - a full cup spilled down my back by Sir Drinks Alot.  The second concert - beer down my back.  I think maybe there have been two shows, maybe three where I got out un-beered.  

The kid from Forest Gump was several beers in by the time of his last visit.  He was loud and staggering and was apparently attempting to balance by having a full cup of beer in each hand.  You don't need a map to see where this is going, huh?  He speaks again to Ali and stumbles on by me where, right on cue, he loses his balance and begins to fall right where I'm seated on the grass.  I knew it was coming and I made contact with him just as the first drop of beer made contact with my skin.  I shoved him up off of me and held him there until he got his balance.  He didn't seem to like what happened but he must have realized that I didn't like it either.  When I told him to "Go." he moved right along and that was the last time we saw him.  A very kind man behind me handed me a couple of clean napkins and I was able to remove most of the beer from my arm.  This act of kindness softened my anger and saved my mood.  Thanks nice guy behind me.  

  

Eventually Mumford and Sons took the stage.  As soon as they did, I was reminded of another human trait I dislike.  In the photo above they've started singing the first song.  The stage lights are out and those thousands of lights you see in the photo are phones and cameras lifted high in the air.  We do love our phones, don't we?  So much so that we prefer to experience the great moments of life through that tiny little rectangular screen.  If you're an alert reader you've already noted that I must have had my phone up in the air too.  And you're right, but someone had to document this silliness didn't they?

Then, to add insult to injury, most of us in the crowd were so far away, we resorted to watching the four monitor screens mounted above the stage for close-up views.  So then people were using their tiny rectangular screens to take photos of larger rectangular screens that were recording what was happening live right in front of them.  It all makes my head hurt.

In all seriousness, Mumford and Sons put on a great show.  They go at their instruments fiercely and they play and sing very well live.  During song breaks they indicated that this was their first time ever in South Carolina.  I tried to imagine them walking around Target during the boring afternoon hours and hijacking the tour bus to run through the Taco Bell drive through at midnight.

We fought the sea of cars and eventually got out of the parking lot and made the trip back down the interstate just in time for about four hours of sleep before the next workday.  As usual, G and I both swore this was our last large venue concert.  We agreed we were too old for this sort of nonsense.  But Langhorne Slim is playing near us soon and G tried earlier today to talk me into another large venue Avett show.  Maybe I'll hold out and this will be our last concert.  If so, I'm going to blame that kid from Forest Gump.  

outlaws and old folks

Last Tuesday G and I put on our young people disguises and went out to have our eardrums pounded by four bands at The Outlaw Roadshow.  We had been informed by our much younger friend that the Counting Crows were coming to Simpsonville, SC of all places.  I figured this was a typographical error or at the very least, a booking error on the part of a recently fired band manager.  Luckily I was wrong and there really is a large outdoor concert venue in the middle of nowhere. 

G and I have sworn off going to concerts about a hundred times now.  We'll hear that someone we like is touring close and we'll forget our previous bad experience and we'll buy tickets.  The music is almost always great but we'll have to stand near the drunken guy in the cowboy hat who thinks the crowded area in front of the stage is a good place to dance while swinging his splashing beer around over everyone's heads.  Or the birthday princess surrounded by a gaggle of loud talking ladies in waiting who feel that yelling a conversation over the loud music is a great way to spend an evening.  Or that one really sweaty guy at the House of Blues who dripped sweat and body odor on me for an hour.  When you stack those experiences on top of the fact that I hate large groups of people....you normally get G and me driving home, way past our bed time swearing we're too old for concerting and promising each other that we'll never go again.


But this was the Counting Crows.  And it was really close to us.  So we bought tickets.  Since this is the summer of living on the cheap, I should tell you that by waiting to the last minute to finally commit to this event we got our tickets half price.  With that bonus we were sure to have a good time.

And we did have a good time.  It was a surprisingly good concert situation and a really strong performance by the Crows.  The photo above was stolen from one of G's Facebook friends who had really good/expensive seats.  Our view featured a much smaller version of the band.  On the other hand, our view also featured a much smaller group of fans.  We were in the lawn area of the ampitheater and the lawn was not crowded at all.  We sat with our much younger friend and her boyfriend and we had lots of distance around us to protect us from the more annoying concert goers.  The drunks were not obnoxious, the loud people were not too loud and with the extra space we even got to enjoy the sideshows of old people (people my age) attempting to dance.  There was the weeble-wobble lady in front of us, the awkward limbed guy on our right, and the sporatic single dirty dancer to our left.  Very entertaining. 

Since everyone in the lawn area brought blankets or lawn chairs, I didn't have to feel old because I didn't stand for the hours we were there.  In fact, I only felt old once during the night.  That was when we were talking to our younger friends about the times we'd seen the Counting Crows in the past.  I told them that the first time I saw them was during my undergraduate college years in the early 1990s.  They both got this puzzled look on their faces like they didn't know the band had been around that long and one of them said something about not being born at that time.  Ouch.  For the record, I think it was 1994 at some gymnasium in Charlotte and a drunk frat boy spilled his entire beer down my back while trying to dance in his seat.  I'm not bitter. 

So why endure the torment of public interaction, the ill behavior of mannerless concerters and the mocking of the elderly by today's youths?  Because the Crows have produced a huge body of inspiring work and they are still worth going to see.  That guy is Adam Duritz, the lead singer, and talented as he is, he's never tried to hide the fact that he's got himself some issues.  Those issues more often that not become the subjects of his songs and even though he's on stage in the middle of nowhere singing them for the millionth time, he sings those songs like he still feels them and still believes the words in them.  With no guitar to hide behind, he stands up in front of the crowd of strangers and spills what seems to be his heart out on stage. 

And while his problems are not usually my problems, his honesty and genuine approach to sharing his thoughts without a filter provides inspiration for my own ideas.  I can remember having the Crows in heavy rotation while I planned and created my MFA thesis work.  Some of the lines of their songs echoed in my head as I dealt with frustrations and breakthroughs.  When you see this guy sharing his life through his talent you realize that his issues fuel his creativity and his creativity keeps his issues manageable.  He's a productive human because of his craft. 



As a note of perspective for your younger readers, Adam is about 8 years older than me.

And yes, he has more hair.