I don’t listen to DMB anymore, but after seeing Red Rocks, this album was the obvious choice for my morning walk. One of my favorites; in heavy rotation in the Jetta during the summer of our wedding, 1998. Lots of good memories at DMB shows back in those days. #thegorge #sandwich #bestofwhatsaround (“The Beginning of the Soundtrack”)
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Isn’t that what all music fans hope for? I know I do.
I love music, and I enjoy thinking of my favorites as personable, everyday guys who would be fun to hang out with.
For the most part, this theory has proven itself to be true. Encounters with Dave Matthews around town are commonplace, and we all seem to agree that he’s just your average Seattle dad. I used to run into him at my gym, and my husband chatted with him at the Greenlake soccer fields a few weeks back – no biggie, just a couple of dads joking about soccer. I’ve lived in the same city as Eddie Vedder for 20+ years but have yet to see him out and about, so I savor the stories I hear from people who have. I recently read an article where a local fan referenced seeing Eddie in Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond (love it!). Years ago, I ran into Jeff Ament coming out of Blockbuster Video on Queen Anne. He was carrying two movies. I’ve always regretted not asking him what he was renting. But I digress.
The point of this story is that I recently found myself sitting in a living room with Chadwick Stokes of Dispatch and State Radio. It was so lovely to learn that he is just as friendly, warm, and funny as I had imagined him to be.
The quick back story: last summer, Chad announced a “living room tour” — just what it sounds like, he would play a show in your living room to around 30 fans. They were looking for hosts in the cities scheduled on the tour, including Seattle. I offered to host and sent in pictures of my house, and I made it to some type of final list. They called and talked to me about my space, and said they’d be making a decision in a few days. I ultimately didn’t win, which was OK, really – then I wouldn’t have to try to clean my house. The consolation prize was that I would get early access to tickets for the Seattle show.
Fast forward a month, to the ONE 5-day chunk of summer when I was out of range of decent cell coverage, and was not checking email. You guessed it – that’s when the email went out with early access to tickets, and then to the general public, and then promptly sold out. I discovered this while sitting on a ferry on our way home. I was not happy. The last ditch effort was a show in Vancouver, Washington. It appeared that tickets were still available. To put a finer point on it, ONE ticket was available, because that’s exactly how many I was able to purchase. I bought it anyway and figured that something would pan out in order for my sister to come with me. I certainly didn’t want to drive to Vancouver by myself and walk into some stranger’s house. I emailed, desperately, a few times over the coming months, figuring that an additional ticket would open up. It didn’t. I resigned myself to not going.
Then suddenly the show was right around the corner. Over the course of the next few days, I flip-flopped a dozen times until finally, with a proper nudge from my husband, I decided to go. I knew I would regret it if I didn’t.
And so, off I went to Vancouver. Nearly as exciting as a night to myself was a long DRIVE by myself. I played the music I wanted to listen to, as loudly as I wanted. No one bickered in the back seat, and no one asked me to play Taylor Swift. Traffic was blissfully easy, even through the usual snarl of south Tacoma. I giggled to myself when I drove by the Sleater-Kinney exit, listening to Sleater-Kinney. Everything clicked along as planned, as if the universe approved of my decision to go. About an hour outside of Vancouver, I switched to a playlist of solid Chad and State Radio. Because that is what you do.
When I arrived at the house, the host, Jon, looked up my name on his guest list. “Oh, it’s just you – right?” Yep, just me. By myself. Thanks for reminding me. (And I’m probably the only one who just drove up in a minivan with a Little League sticker on it, in case you want to point that out too).
Chad was standing near the check-in table in his bare feet, wearing comfy pants, a well-loved shirt, and a hat. He looked up and said hi. It was perfect.
The rest of the evening was fascinating. Fans bonded and competed for a respectable level of street cred. You know how it goes: T-shirts from historic shows (in this case, Dispatch:Zimbabwe), requests for obscure songs, show-and-venue dropping: “Yeah, I saw them way back in 2000 in a small club in blah-blah-blah”. I loved it all. The music is personal to each of us, and that’s one of the best things about fandom: how territorial we are about the bands we love. I’ve only seen Dispatch/Chad/State Radio four times, and am therefore not (yet) too territorial. Recognizing my somewhat junior status in the street cred department, I enjoyed eavesdropping. Which, it turns out, is easy to do when you are at a show by yourself.
And of course, there was the music – a great mix of classic Dispatch, State Radio, and solo stuff, infused with all the genuine and personal charm you would hope for in such an intimate setting. He stopped mid-song to tell a story about his daughter’s new haircut. He joked about the bony part of the top of his foot, how it’s a thing that “1 in 5” people have (is it?). (I wanted to kick off my boots and say – hey, Chad – me too! There’s a certain style of shoe you can’t wear, right? With the strap across the top? Come on, let’s be bony-foot buddies!) He answered questions and took requests, and when someone jokingly yelled out “Freebird!”, he actually played it. Hilarious and awesome. The room was filled with love.
When it was over, he got down from his stool to go back stage – you know, otherwise known as the kitchen. Fans stood around and chatted with him in an easy, casual way. I shook his hand, thanked him, and told him what a wonderful experience it had been. Luckily, I had already forgotten my sassy, opinionated rant from a year ago (“Territorial Pissings – Yes, That’s a Nirvana Reference”), so I didn’t lecture him on anything. I admit that I did have occasional pangs of jealousy – I wished I had hosted barefoot Chad in MY house – not just for me, but for my kids, because they love his music too. But I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to see him in such a small venue, and I’ll remember it forever.
P.S. I rarely take pictures at shows, and I never take videos, because I don’t want to watch the show through a screen. But Chad said it was OK and I knew it was once-in-a-lifetime, so I recorded the second half of “Elias”. Simply wonderful:
Thirteen years ago this morning, I awoke in a hotel room, walked tentatively to the window and opened the blinds, and was relieved to see a perfectly blue August sky. We had planned an outdoor wedding on the side of a mountain at a spot we had both fallen in love with, and there was no contingency plan for bad weather. The gamble, thankfully, had paid off.
A few hours later, I cruised LBJ (‘Little Black Jetta’) down I-90 with my sisters, wedding dress laid across the back seat….Dave Matthews Band “Live at Red Rocks”, disc one. My car didn’t have a CD player, but, being the resourceful type, I had taped my CD so that I could listen in the car: Seek Up, Proudest Monkey……Two Step, with my favorite jam in the middle. My husband hates those jams that make the song drag on forever; just one of our many differences that help us to balance each other.
12:00pm is not exactly the time for a dancy, party kind of wedding. Our plan was to get hitched, have some food and cake, then get the heck out of Dodge and fly to San Francisco for the night, before heading out the next morning on our Italian honeymoon.
No dance floor, but I did feel compelled to hire a DJ to play background music during the reception. He gave me a list of suggested standards, and asked that I edit it to let him know what I wanted him to play. I made big X’s across most of the list and gave it back to him, along with lawyerly-typed instructions of what not to play (“under NO circumstances are you to play that Celine Dion song from ‘Titanic'”). Looking back on it, I suppose it was a little Bridezilla-ish, but why did he give me a list if he didn’t want input on it? During the reception, he sat solemnly off to the side of the bar. Someone must have requested an obnoxious song, because I learned later that he was overheard explaining “sorry, I’m just here to play background music”.
The weather held. I did not slip on the grass while walking down the aisle. We made promises to each other in front of our family and friends, Mount Si bearing witness in the background.
Hours later, we were whisked away to the airport by our oldest and dearest friend, who had been my husband’s best man. Sunburned and shiny, we boarded the plane, and the adventure began. What a trip it’s been so far….and always with background music.
Here’s the problem with sharing an iTunes library with a spouse: much like moving in together and commingling your CD’s, the lines of “yours, mine, and ours” become inexorably blurred. As a result, you can be enjoying a lovely morning run, accompanied by a perfectly crafted playlist (“The Sweatiest Music”), when – BAM! – on comes your musical nemesis, Pink Floyd. All momentum grinds to a halt as you hurriedly skip it in order to right the ship.
After an initial accusation in my head, I now know that my husband didn’t do this to sabotage my workout. He knows of my disdain towards Pink Floyd, but he likes them, and probably will think it’s funny that they ended up on my workout playlist (whether he did it intentionally or not).
It’s always been interesting to me how certain music can make the reject pile, just by its association with a certain person or situation. It’s possible that under different circumstances I could have been a fan of Pink Floyd, but a college neighbor who played it at all hours of the night sealed that deal. Jimmy Buffett and Hootie and the Blowfish have suffered similar fates, not that I am particularly mourning the loss of any of them.
Still, it’s apparent that my workout playlist needs some editing. And I might as well throw in a little payback while I’m at it. Someone should warn my husband that an extended fiddle jam from the Dave Matthews Band is coming his way soon.
I recently saw The Black Keys in concert. They totally blew me away. When others have asked me how it was, I can only describe it by saying that it was the most life-altering show I’ve seen in a long time. This is not a designation that I award lightly. In fact, only two other times.
The first Life Altering Concert, and really the only one that matters in the grand scheme of things: the first time I saw Pearl Jam. Lollapalooza 1992, Kitsap County Fair Grounds. The lineup, even then, was phenomenal: Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Jesus and Mary Chain, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Ministry, Ice Cube (who dropped more F-bombs in a sentence than I had ever heard, then or since — he had been stopped at the U.S./Canadian border, and barely made it in time for his set. But that’s another story).
Come to think of it, these life-changing concerts have always occurred at the intersection of a major life change. The Pearl Jam show was a month before I started law school. DMB (Life Altering Concert #2) was around the time of my wedding. The Black Keys show came right before the Big Birthday. Skeptics would say that it’s not really the music that is life-changing, it’s just the timing of the concert. But of course I know differently.
On that July day so long ago, my main reason for coming to Lollapalooza was Pearl Jam. I was a huge fan, but hadn’t seen them live yet. My friend and I thought they were taking the stage later, but as we sat eating lunch, we heard the roar of the crowd and…..Eddie. We literally dropped everything (the gyro was terrible anyway), and sprinted over.
It’s funny that in a concert setting, your concept of personal space is miniscule. Standing shoulder to shoulder with sweaty strangers is not only acceptable, it’s preferred. We got pretty close to the stage, and while I couldn’t tell you the playlist, I do remember very clearly thinking: these are my people.
That is what concerts are all about. Live music is collective yet private, public but intimate, all at once. And aren’t we all, throughout life, just looking for our people? Our village? We are lucky to find it in different contexts along the way – in friendships, in our profession, in our kids’ schools – people who share a similar world view, and make our daily lives better.
But a love of live music bonds us in a way like no other. To the dude at the Gorge with the Pearl Jam tattoo, and the guy with the tattered “Drop in the Park” t-shirt (“Buttercup! Buttercup!”), I say: I get you. You are my people; you are my friend, even if I don’t know you.
And the friend who was at the Pearl Jam show with me that day — that life-changing show cemented our friendship, forever. He’s always been my friend, even when we didn’t see each other for nine years. That’s just the way it works.
……asked John Butler of the Moore Theatre crowd, when we all cheered as a stagehand brought one to him. “Well then, let’s have a little hoedown”. Best line of the night; totally cracked me up. My sisters and I have called his shows ‘hippie hoedowns’ for a long time. It seems to be the only way to describe their concert scene.
Recently I was popping off to some friends about how you shouldn’t go to a concert if you intend to sit down, and how it irritates me to see people sitting like deadbeats at a show. I think my actual words were, “if you intend to sit down, you don’t deserve your ticket. Go home and listen to a CD”. This is mostly true, but of course I don’t really have that extreme a view on it. I fully support sitting down when it’s a really shitty song or as a form of social protest, such as when DMB plays any of their new crap.
I just want everyone to have their Concert Moment. That’s what I’m in it for — the one moment in the concert where you say to yourself- YES, this is why I am here. I usually get that Moment, and if I don’t, I never go back to see the band again.
So at the John Butler Trio show, my sisters and I had the requisite group of ex-frat boys in front of us. A small price to pay for otherwise awesome Row 6 seats, I must say. And watching those dudes was almost as much fun as watching the band. They danced, they sang, they did fist pumps and high fives for songs they liked. They were having their Concert Moment, and I loved it.
My sisters loved watching them too, but more as spectacle. Together, we have been known to wreak some havoc on fellow concert goers. Two that come to mind are 1) the Gum Butt incident, and 2) the pelting of a couple who were making out during an entire Pearl Jam show. Lucky for the frat boys, however, we all behaved ourselves this time.
And the hippie hoedown was a blast for all three of us, even with our differing views of the Perfect Concert. While I love standing shoulder to shoulder with sweaty, dancing strangers, my youngest sister would really prefer not to. She’d like to sit down, and once proclaimed that anyone standing and dancing should be banished to a “designated dancing section”.
Given that she’s entitled to her Concert Moment too, she might actually be on to something.
In honor of my youngest sister’s 31st birthday, and in an effort to forget how old that will soon make me, here are, in no particular order, my Top Five Favorite Musical Memories of her:
1. “Sara Smile” by Hall & Oates. She hates this song. I mean really, really hates it. Which makes it all the more fun to sing it to her, or to call her and leave it on her answering machine. Or to play it at a wedding and dedicate it to her.
2. “Pour Some Sugar on Me”, Def Leppard. My middle sister’s bachelorette party and a little place called the Grizzly Bar, she danced like nobody’s business, and I’ve got the pictures to prove it.
3. “Best of What’s Around”, DMB. A show at the Gorge in 2000, they opened with Don’t Drink the Water. Towards the end of the song, I told her that I really hoped that they played Best of What’s Around. Two seconds later, they launched into it. I turned and punched her in the arm. Hard. And she’s never let me forget it. Every time I hear the opening beats of that song, I think of throwing a right hook.
4. “Are You Gonna Go My Way”, Lenny Kravitz. A sister weekend at her apartment in Bellingham, and some cookies. And that’s about all I can say.
5. Theme song from Jurassic Park. The summer that Jurassic Park came out, we had a blast together. I was home from college, and we spent the summer doing crafty projects and being goofy. We saw Jurassic Park and were genuinely scared in the middle of the afternoon, dissecting how we would handle it if a velociraptor appeared next to the car on the way home. To this day, she does an awesome impersonation of a dilophosaur.
Happy Birthday, Janie. I love you!
For anyone who has ever said that I am too structured, check out how I’m living on the edge these days:
Instead of listening to designated playlists, or “shuffle” on my ipod, lately I’ve been listening to songs in alphabetical order.
I love things in groups of three, and I love juxtaposition (both the word, and the actual effect). Imagine my delight when the following three songs played in this order:
1. Don’t Disturb This Groove (The Station);
2. Don’t Drink the Water (DMB); and
3. Don’t Stop Believing (Journey)
I laughed out loud at how different these three songs are, and how I love them all nearly equally, for very different reasons:
“Don’t Disturb This Groove” conjures visions of my middle sister, cruising her Honda with the sunroof open, the wind fluttering through her big hair. I don’t know if she ever actually listened to this song (as opposed to the Color Me Badd that I know for a fact was blared), but it’s all within the same genre….the 80’s/90’s slow groove….whatever happened to that?
“Don’t Drink the Water”…..both of my sisters, numerous DMB shows at The Gorge (“there’s plutonium in the water”?). Dave opened my favorite show ever, in Vegas, with this one. Good times all around.
“Don’t Stop Believing”…..again, my sisters, this time with a K-Tel tape and a boombox, and a family camping trip to Yellowstone, listening over and over until the batteries warbled it to a stop.
Three little tunes, different stages of my life, peacefully co-existing side by side in the digital age. Perfect.
Today I listened to an old Dave Matthews Band show from August 9, 1995. This was the day that Jerry Garcia died, I had just taken the Bar Exam, and, three years later, it would be my wedding day.
This is what music is all about for me. I remember that exact day so clearly — driving in my old car, a.k.a. “Solid Gold”, when I heard that Jerry had died. I was bummed that I had never gotten around to seeing the Dead in concert. I was never really into their music, but I have always loved the pot-smoking Dead Heads. It was on my list of things to do, but darn law school got in the way.
The other thing that occurred to me was that, in 1995, I was barely a DMB fan yet. Otherwise, I probably would have been at that show, which was in Eugene….and was a great show. My DMB memories of that 1995 summer, though, consist of a Madison Park apartment and the guy who would, exactly three years later, become my husband.
On that August day in 1995, I had no idea where I was heading, or how big a part of my life DMB’s music would become. What if I had been at that Eugene show? Or what if I had gone to a Dead show before Jerry died? Would things have turned out differently somehow? (or, to borrow a line from Dave…..”could I have been anyone other than me?”)
And yet, of course, the beauty was in not knowing what would unfold. The years since then have been filled with love, great music, and more happiness than I could have asked for. Many years and countless concerts, and two kids later — I listen to Dave from long ago, and marvel at it all.
Corduroy Notes 