Month: April 2016

Let me start by with a definition of GA. It is not some obscure legislation that I’m vehemently opposed to. It’s safe to say this this will be predominantly a non-political blog. The most you’ll get out of me it that Donald Trump’s an ass and we are all doomed if he’s elected.

No, “GA” refers to “General Admission” and relates to a concert with no assigned seating. The quality of your seat is based on how early you get on line. Or, if you are an unscrupulous, evil bastard and/or bitch, it’s based on you snaking your way through the crowd to get near the stage. To these malefactors I’ve one message: you are evil and there is a special place in Hell for you. I think it involves standing behind a pole or a really tall person for an eternity of concerts.(For more on this, see Concert Etiquette.)

I am a strong advocate of the GA option. I am Pro-GA; it may not always be my choice, but I believe that it is every fan’s right to choose what they do with their bodies. (There I go, getting all political again.) And trust me, doing the GA is rough on the body. In some locations, it means lining up several hours before the doors open; even more hours before the headliner takes the stage. For one Wilco show at the Wellmont Theater in Montclair, NJ, I was on line by 1:00 p.m., for a show that started at 8:00 p.m. I was with about 10 other devoted Wilconians who did the line for the chance to be “on the rail.” (“On the rail” means the front row, leaning in the barrier between the crowd and band. Valhalla for the dedicated fan.)  For someone in his/her twenties, sitting on the sidewalk outside the venue for up to five hours is a breeze; it gets a little tricky when you pass that 40-year mark. Then you tack on another two hours pogoing to the music, adds up to eight to nine hours on your feet. The small of your back feels Paul Bunyan reached in and tangled your muscles up in his huge fists. (Obviously, this analogy would not work with Donald Trump and his teeny hands.) Your thighs and calves tremble under your own weight. And your feet! Let’s just say that I’ve abandoned cute shoes for good, study sneakers and yet I can barely stand after the average GA show. But boy, those Wellmont shows (two shows, 10 hours on line; six hours of amazing music) were indeed well worth my humped back and slow pace for the next two days.

 So, yes there is pain, but there is also glory. It’s not just the music, but a unique camaraderie among the diehards. Most people reading this and many, many people in my life, greet my enthusiasm for the ultimate concert experience with skepticism and even a hint of “She’s crazy.” But the delight of being with liked minded-crazies is absolute. These folks “get it”. They don’t question my sanity. In fact, we revel in the insanity of the line. It’s nuts; yeah, we get that. But it’s our joy and you can’t take it.

And here is a con: people. Other fans are the best and worst part of a GA show. Above I mentioned the obnoxious demons who push to the front. I don’t need to discuss their reserved spot in the lowest pits of Hell any more. Let’s chat about talkers. How many times must I give you a nasty look over my shoulder before you zip it? My last comment is a request: if you are going to a sold-out, tight-packed GA show, for the love of God, please remember the deodorant and mouthwash. Please!

Next pro is proximity to our rock-n-roll gods. Depending on the venue, that’s really close. At Maxwell’s, Hoboken, N.J., I was able to count the patterns on Robyn Hitchcock’s psychedelic shirt and how many glasses of wine Peter Buck drank. OH AND PETER BUCK!!!! Let’s talk about that. So many years, I had seen him from a great distance at REM shows in large venues. But to see him – my rock-n-roll Holy Grail – from a few feet away shivered my soul.

Proximity leads to eye contact. If Peter Buck is my Holy Grail, then eye contact is a Viking ship to Avalon. Peter has given me some excellent eye over the years. (I must clarify that this has never been at REM shows, but with his other projects, e.g., The Minus Five.) So much so that I think he recognizes me. At least that’s what I tell myself. Robyn Hitchcock DOES recognize me. At a Maxwell’s show, he pointed out that I was not in my usual spot to his immediate left. Best. Show. Ever.

Proximity > Eye Contact > Personal Contact. That’s the dream, isn’t it? One day Jeff Tweedy will spot me on the rail and decide to be my BFF. (See previous post, Crushing It, on why it will go no further than BFFs.) I theorize that my love for these bands pours out of my hope to be part of that world, and not this mundane world. How exciting would be to break the monotony of corporate living with a rock star BFF? (This can also apply to actors, as in current crush Raúl Esparza.)

Here’s Raúl Esparza, just cos he’s so flipping hot.

On to more pros. Being so close to the music that it’s not just aural, but physical. When I feel the bass lines throb up through the floor, to my legs, up my spine and finally landing in and rattling my rib cage I’m part of the music. And then there is thing that happens with the mass of people, moments when we are all of the same heart and mind. We’re all feeling the music and just swaying to its call. It can look like a wave moving across the ocean. It takes my breath away and leaves me all teary. It’s absolute, pure joy and it takes all the crap of the world and pushes it outside for a few glorious hours.

Every time I leave a GA show pained, hunched and with ringing ears, I swear I will never do the line again. But it’s a safe bet that that next time Wilco’s in town, I will be on the rail.

I’ve always had crushes. I mean always. Not just when I was a preteen. I. Mean. Always. I think I may have come out of the womb crushing on the doctor.  If he had some big blue eyes and played guitar, I definitely had a crush on him.

I embarked on my crushing lifestyle with Johnny Cage (AKA Randolph Mantooth) from the 1970s show “Emergency”. I was four. In fact, I have a vivid memory of being furious at my parents when my younger brother was born because: A. He was a boy and B. After the slap-in-the-face no little sister, they had the audacity of of not naming him after my favorite make-believe paramedic. They named him after my Uncle Bill who just had open heart surgery. Those cruel tyrants.

And I was four was Bill was born. So before I could spell my name without a cheat sheet, I was attracted to a man. This is one girl who has never doubted her sexuality. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

Once I hit five and had the spelling of my name down pat, I discovered music and the beautiful, addictive world of musicians. I started with Davy Jones (so the whole “musician” thing is kind of argumentative). Then proceeded with the obvious, Paul McCartney. Although I had to conceal that. My two older sisters, Liz and Mary, and cousin, Jeannie had a rule that since I was the youngest, I got last pick of The Beatles. When we played Haunted Honeymoon, Liz got Paul and I was stuck with Ringo. There was also another rule when I played dolls with Mary that I had to be the boy, since – as Mary said – I had a deeper voice. I think my sisters may have been taking advantage of me.

My path through the forest of celebrity crushes took me to the age and era appropriate: Sting, ages 14-16, the mid-eighties. Then there was the age and era greatly inappropriate: Pete Townsend, ages 12-13, early eighties. (What?!!? Quadrophenia is genius.) I also flirted (in my dreams) with Harrison Ford and there were brief imaginary interludes with other 1980s New Wave/Alternative music icons such as John Taylor, Bono, and Peter Gabriel.

As I matured, so did my musical tastes and my crushes began to be based on talent, not just good looks. Thus began the era of average looking fellas such as Robyn Hitchcock and Peter Buck. Average looking, but brilliant musicians and/or songwriters. This carried me through college and into adulthood.

During that time, I had crushes on men that I had actually met, but had the same chances as I did with say, Davy Jones. There were those guys who were waaaayyyyyyy outta my league. Then there was the occasional attractive executive I’d see across the room, but never met. Then of course the obligatory married guy. But most of these were not reciprocated. So I would fall back on my celebrity crushes. How could a guy I never met reject me?

The most current musician crush has been Jeff Tweedy. Never heard of him? Oh, he is only this generation’s greatest songwriter. Gorgeous voice, too, and pretty darn good at that guitaring thing. Unfortunately, my dear Jeffy has let himself go over the past few years. This came crashing down on me when I attended a small concert of just about 30 people. There he was, singing his heart out about a foot away from me. But, slightly tubby with a shaggy beard and a stained t-shirt. I was left with the horrible realization that I was not physically attracted to him. When he’s onstage, he’s a cross between Han Solo, Indiana Jones and Eric from True Blood. Up close, not so much.

All this celebrity crushing has me wondering What the What!?!??! Here I am, a 45-year old woman, barreling down on 46, yet I still get these crazy crushes on dudes that I’ve a snowball’s chance in Hell with. Shouldn’t this have stopped when my teens years ended? What is the psychology that drives me to this?

I’ve been contemplating this a bit with my current celebrity crush, Raúl Espraza, the green-eyed, Cuban-American el tipo* who portrays ADA Barba on Law & Order: SVU. I blame this on my current status as unemployed. Why, you ask. Well, as you may know, binge TV is the unemployed girl’s best friend and worst enemy. I plowed through SVU’s seasons 15-17 in two weeks. Followed by three seasons of Hannibal in just over a week. (A disturbing show, but totally kept me on my diet.) I was keeping it all in check, when a Google search revealed that Mr. Espraza sings. Good God, acts AND sings, I was doomed to crushing.

All this bingeing and Google searches compound the fact that, being among the non-working population, there’s just not a lot going on in my brain. I have all this free mental space that’s occupied by inappropriate thoughts of the ADA.

Back to the psychology of all these pointless crushes. We have the first factor of excess mental space filled with images of Raúl Esparza singing a sexy, salsa version of “O Holy Night”. (Is it a sin to think “O Holy Night” is sexy?)  The second factor may be the huge disappointment of what has been my romantic history. Long story short, lots and lots of rejection. Maybe celebrity crushes are my defense mechanism against getting hurt again. Maybe it’s about maintaining my independence and not have to be accountable to anyone else. Maybe I just have way to high standards.

Who knows? I’ll think on this more as I set up my Google Alert for “Raúl Esparza”.

*El Tipo is Spanish for “Hunk”.