The Meanest Thing
Tonight driving home from work I listened to a live REM recording from a concert they recorded somewhere in England. The venue was obviously really small and I can only imagine that the audience felt pretty damned lucky to be there. The recording was pretty rough and picked up a lot of the audience's chit-chat. It struck me as odd that there would be any chatter at all -- given that it's not every day one might find themselves as a member of a nearly private audience with REM and that it seems like the kind of thing one might give their full attention to. Why would Suzy and Mary, for example, be overheard blah-blahing about snorkeling in Cuba when, say, REM is in the room singing for them.
And then I remembered Warren Zevon. And I cringed.
A few years ago I went to one of the last Warren Zevon concerts in Toronto. It was at The Horseshoe, a funky Toronto landmark and home to some of the best music ever played in the city. Tickets were impossible to get, owing to Warren Zevon's somewhat inexplicable cult following who had hungrily bought every available ticket. My friends, a small cabal of urban hipsters working as graphic artists for Eye -- one of the city's avante garde street-level publications -- had scored comps.
I remember standing next to Will, who, in addition to being a dickhead as you will soon see, is very tall, broadshouldered, and strong. In front of me was some Joe Average guy in an office shirt who obviously had come straight from work and was probably really excited to be seeing Warren.
Warren Zevon's cult was something that, until attending the concert, I was completely unaware of. Joe Whiteshirt was definitely a member. He had had a couple of beers by the time we arrived, but he probably got there before the doors even opened. The concert was something he had probably looked forward to for weeks before the show. He probably planned his whole day around making sure he got there early to get a good view of the stage. He probably left work early. A real fan. As more and more people arrived, the room got tighter and Joe took a step back. I put my hand on his back to let him know he was backing into me. He turned around and smiled.
Will caught this exchange, took me lightly by the shoulders and switched places with me so that he was then standing directly behind Joe. I watched, slightly amused, as Will took a step forward making Joe think that the girl behind him was making a bold move in a crowded room. Joe responded by leaning slightly back into Will, thinking he was rubbing up against the curly-haired girl. This went on for a minute or two and when the guy turned around, probably to introduce himself, he was staring, not at me, but into Will's barrel chest. The next few things happened in slow motion: Joe focused his eyes on Will's chest, as his brain slowly registered that something was amiss, and then looked uuuuuup into Will's broadsmiling face. Will leaned slightly forward and kissed Joe on the forehead, which for the briefest of moments, was quite funny. Joe bristled, formed a fist and took a half-drunken swing at Will that missed him by half a kilometer. Things were moving in slo-mo, so Will lazily sidestepped the punch. That's when the movie picked up in real time. Will fixed his gaze on Joe and delivered a crunching punch to his face. Pow! Then things sped up to doublespeed and got confusing, there was some pushing and jostling and things ended up with the bouncer grabbing Joe and kicking him out of the Horseshoe. He never got to see the show.
Driving home, listening to REM, it occurred to me that this was the meanest thing I've ever been a part of. I just watched without telling Will to stop being such a dick. Warren Zevon has since died and I have to wonder if Joe ever got another chance to see him. Probably not. I wish I could hit the undo key on that one.
Later that night during the concert, Jill and I were blah-blahing about work or some documentary we'd seen when we realized that the atmosphere in the room had suddenly shifted. Warren Zevon had been playing for a while and the noise level was quite high, so we were talking quite loudly. Except that now Warren wasn't playing, and the noise level was no longer high, and people were no longer looking at the stage... they were looking at us. From every direction. Warren Zevon, who I guess was trying to share some quiet time with his diehard fanbase, was looking at us. Warren Zevon was patiently waiting for us to shut the fuck up. And then we got shushhh-ed. At a Warren Zevon concert. Completely missing the significance of the intimate Warren Zevon moment, Jill said sweepingly to the crowd "uh... this is a fucking bar people, not church. Get a life". At which point the crowd actually growled, the fast-mo kicked back in and Jill and I were airlifted by Will and Gord and whisked out of the club before we could be torn apart.
Tonight driving home from work I listened to a live REM recording from a concert they recorded somewhere in England. The venue was obviously really small and I can only imagine that the audience felt pretty damned lucky to be there. The recording was pretty rough and picked up a lot of the audience's chit-chat. It struck me as odd that there would be any chatter at all -- given that it's not every day one might find themselves as a member of a nearly private audience with REM and that it seems like the kind of thing one might give their full attention to. Why would Suzy and Mary, for example, be overheard blah-blahing about snorkeling in Cuba when, say, REM is in the room singing for them.
And then I remembered Warren Zevon. And I cringed.
A few years ago I went to one of the last Warren Zevon concerts in Toronto. It was at The Horseshoe, a funky Toronto landmark and home to some of the best music ever played in the city. Tickets were impossible to get, owing to Warren Zevon's somewhat inexplicable cult following who had hungrily bought every available ticket. My friends, a small cabal of urban hipsters working as graphic artists for Eye -- one of the city's avante garde street-level publications -- had scored comps.
I remember standing next to Will, who, in addition to being a dickhead as you will soon see, is very tall, broadshouldered, and strong. In front of me was some Joe Average guy in an office shirt who obviously had come straight from work and was probably really excited to be seeing Warren.
Warren Zevon's cult was something that, until attending the concert, I was completely unaware of. Joe Whiteshirt was definitely a member. He had had a couple of beers by the time we arrived, but he probably got there before the doors even opened. The concert was something he had probably looked forward to for weeks before the show. He probably planned his whole day around making sure he got there early to get a good view of the stage. He probably left work early. A real fan. As more and more people arrived, the room got tighter and Joe took a step back. I put my hand on his back to let him know he was backing into me. He turned around and smiled.
Will caught this exchange, took me lightly by the shoulders and switched places with me so that he was then standing directly behind Joe. I watched, slightly amused, as Will took a step forward making Joe think that the girl behind him was making a bold move in a crowded room. Joe responded by leaning slightly back into Will, thinking he was rubbing up against the curly-haired girl. This went on for a minute or two and when the guy turned around, probably to introduce himself, he was staring, not at me, but into Will's barrel chest. The next few things happened in slow motion: Joe focused his eyes on Will's chest, as his brain slowly registered that something was amiss, and then looked uuuuuup into Will's broadsmiling face. Will leaned slightly forward and kissed Joe on the forehead, which for the briefest of moments, was quite funny. Joe bristled, formed a fist and took a half-drunken swing at Will that missed him by half a kilometer. Things were moving in slo-mo, so Will lazily sidestepped the punch. That's when the movie picked up in real time. Will fixed his gaze on Joe and delivered a crunching punch to his face. Pow! Then things sped up to doublespeed and got confusing, there was some pushing and jostling and things ended up with the bouncer grabbing Joe and kicking him out of the Horseshoe. He never got to see the show.
Driving home, listening to REM, it occurred to me that this was the meanest thing I've ever been a part of. I just watched without telling Will to stop being such a dick. Warren Zevon has since died and I have to wonder if Joe ever got another chance to see him. Probably not. I wish I could hit the undo key on that one.
Later that night during the concert, Jill and I were blah-blahing about work or some documentary we'd seen when we realized that the atmosphere in the room had suddenly shifted. Warren Zevon had been playing for a while and the noise level was quite high, so we were talking quite loudly. Except that now Warren wasn't playing, and the noise level was no longer high, and people were no longer looking at the stage... they were looking at us. From every direction. Warren Zevon, who I guess was trying to share some quiet time with his diehard fanbase, was looking at us. Warren Zevon was patiently waiting for us to shut the fuck up. And then we got shushhh-ed. At a Warren Zevon concert. Completely missing the significance of the intimate Warren Zevon moment, Jill said sweepingly to the crowd "uh... this is a fucking bar people, not church. Get a life". At which point the crowd actually growled, the fast-mo kicked back in and Jill and I were airlifted by Will and Gord and whisked out of the club before we could be torn apart.
posted by Penless Artist at 9:29 p.m.
1 Comments:
This is a great story. I really laughed.
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