The day was wild, almost three days at once for me really. Maybe even four. Good ol’ Erica!! sat through a Palm Sunday Mass with me at my church God love her (Hey, I missed mass the week before!), and then we had to figure out how to fix her homework so she could print it out. THEN, my mother drover her home—yes, I tagged along, she’s my friend, why would I leave her with my mother alone?!? (I love you Mom J See her X-Files fanfic at TCS1121 Fanfic Forvm.)
It was about 3:30pm and then my friend/co-worker called me saying she’s stuck in Annapolis and needs to take her friend to the bus station and then take her to work!Problem was I had to be at The Avenue in White Marsh by 5:00 to meet my friends so I could be permitted to enter the bar area at Bayou Blues Café since I’m 19 and all (stupid drinking laws…).BUT I figured, I had a leeway of 5:00-6:30, I had some time to spare, so I picked up my friend and dropped her off at work. Aren’t I the best?
(Note: Annapolis is about 20 minutes South from my house and White Marsh is about 45 minutes North of my house. See the dilemma?).
I stopped home quickly to make myself up—in make-up no less—and see if I couldn’t put a few more gulps of power in my one working video camera battery, and then rush off to The Avenue.
I had decided to wait outside the café since I was rather late, and wait for my friends to turn up and walk in with them, buy tickets, and whatnot. In the mean time, it was getting colder and I was sitting there looking innocent in my now trademark Batman hat (trust me, you’ll recognize me), new Saved by the Blues long sleeve shirt, and denim jacket clutching my purse and camera bag. I’ve been outside for, oh, say 20 minutes give or take saying hi to people going in, people I’d met the night before and so on. Then John Palmer walked out to, I dunno, get some fresh air—Good Ol’ Maryland Air, we should patent and package the stuff [note the sarcasm].
Following shortly behind is Mr. Michael Sunday. He turned and pointed to me.
“Stephanie,” I think he said
“No,” I know I replied.
“You were the one with the camera last night, right?”
“Yep.”
And, he walks away lighting his cigarette (which doesn’t seem to phase me as much as it would before considering that 99.9% of my college smokes).
Then, I think it was John Palmer’s daughter (?) came up and said, “What is your name?”
“Rebecca.”
“Michael, her name’s Rebecca.”
“I was waiting to praise him for guessing it right,” I said.
“I only get one guess a night, and that was it,” Mr. Sunday replied. Nice guy J
So I was sitting still waiting, looking around—I’m very good at sitting alone in a cold place waiting for people and just looking around—and eventually, Mr. Tadg Galleran came out to mingle with the Maryland air.
(Oh! I must note if this is not mentioned in the night before’s Band Report:
Tadg had asked me the night before as I was getting my CD booklet signed if he could get a copy of the footage I had shot of the Club 66 show for a documentary he was doing. I’m assuming it’s about the band. He had given me his card and asked me to e-mail him. Instead of e-mailing him, I had decided that since I was going to this night’s show, I’d just give him a copy there, maybe save on postage. And, I did…)
After having a conversation with a couple about the movie John Q, the new Denzel Washington movie, Tadg turned around and saw me and, since I was wearing my trademark Batman hat I’m sure, he came up to me. I pulled out the tape and said, and I quote:
“At the risk that my adult supervision does not show up, here is the footage from the night before.”
“This is the footage?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“What do you mean adult supervision?”
“I’m 19.”
“Did you buy your ticket yet?”
“No.”
“Come with me.”
So I followed Tadg in, all my bags hanging offa me (trust me, that’s nothing compared to carrying around an book bag, art kit, and portfolio like I do at school 4 days a week) and we approach the guy sitting there selling tickets.
“This young lady is my videographer [or whatever it was he called me]. Do you think we could get her in?” Tadg said to the guy.
“Sure,” the guy said and he stamps my hand!
My first thought was maybe Mr. Galleran was gonna ask politely if I could get it without adult supervision, not get in for nothin’! I was more than willing to buy a ticket. I mean, what else do I spend money one? I followed Tadg in a bit further and he said something I can’t quite recollect—probably something along the lines of, “There you go. You’re in.”—but I definitely remember what he said after that:
“Now gimme and kiss.”
So I kissed him on the cheek, he kissed me on mine, I gave him a hug, he asked my name (for the second time, but that’s OK, I can forgive that) and I was in. Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?
I met my friends inside surprisingly enough since I didn’t see them come in. We first found a table, then found seats at the bar, which my one friend did not want me to sit ‘cause, well, I’m a minor (can’t you tell by my yellow hat with the light on it?).
I pulled out my camera again. The show started, and I began to film, simultaneously praying my battery would last a while. Peter gave me this look of like, “What are you up to, young lady?” then amended it of sorts with a smile.
The show was great. The setting was definitely much smaller than Club 66, but not as much fun. However, Mr. Dave Rode, owner of Club 66, showed up for the show dazzling everyone with his unique tall-man dancing style. He later reprised his roll as lead singer of “Johnny B. Good” later that night.
Unbeatably, the best part of the night occurred during “I’m a Believer.”
On one of the television over the bar, some program was on showing frontal nudity of women in the back seat of cars. OK, y’know those videos advertised at like midnight about the guys with the cameras who do crazy things to get girls to lift their shirts? It was one of those things. I think I caught the show before the band did, but when the band caught it, my camera was rolling. So on played “I’m a Believer” with the guys glancing up at the television. Everyone by then knew what was playing, and the faces Peter was making were classic. Then the straw that broke the guitar: Come the second run of the refrain, smart-ass Tadg sang, “Then I saw her boobs,” and Peter…Peter stopped playing! It was embarrassment, detest, or just to be fun, but for about 10 second he left the band soaking in Tadg dishwasher liquid. (Make note, that is a metaphor, had there really been dishwasher liquid there, we’d be asking for extra crispy or original recipe drumsticks if you get what I’m saying, or do I need to explain this metaphor too?). Peter then resumed played and the bar changed the channel to some sports channel.
After the song, Peter said, “The changed it to the fishing channel. Hey, look at the bass.”
“Nice bass,” Richard Mikuls added.
The song after was Mustang Sally and Tadg missed his entrance ever so much to which Peter commented, “Still thinking about the breast?”
To my personal surprise, the band performed Your Auntie Grizelda, making up the fourth Monkees song that night. (My guess is after seeing two shows they play at most—or maybe least—4 Monkees songs a night to please the audience. Not that I have any objections). The best part of the performance again came from Tadg with a sprinkling of Peter. I observed that Peter was trying to explain the key of this song before they played making me think they do not play this song too terribly often. Another clue to this is the fact that Peter was trying to get Tadg to perform a keyboard solo in the midst of the song and when Tadg did, it was all random notes. Peter stood pondering the notes I’m sure and stroking his beard. Great shtuff, fellas.
I wish I had brought something to be autographed just to get in line again, but I’m not greedy like that. (Do you know I’ve gotten three autographs from Peter and NONE of them say “Love”?). I did manage to talk to Mr. Galleran one last time before I drove home. I had forgotten to write down my full name for him to get proper credit for my concert footage (I’ve never had to label a VHS tape with my full name you know), so I needed to write that down for him. I thanked him for letting me film the shows, offered that night’s footage, which he declined politely, and give him assurance he was allowed to use my footage for whatever he needed it for. (After watching it again, I seriously hope he can use it; I’m not the best cameraman without a tripod and with 12 kazillion people dancing in my way.) He then told me that they were going to watch the tape on their way to Ohio. Aye-me…(that’s my version of Oy-vey; it’s pronounces long-I and “me” as in the opposite of “you”.)
Then I said a few more good-byes, and took the long drive through the Harbor Tunnel home, but not before stopping at a Wawa for something to eat. It was a Sunday night! McDonalds isn’t even open!
That was the most fun I’d had to date and that was the start of a rather dull Spring Break for me. Not that the start was dull, but the finish was; I had to work Easter Sunday L.
However, I think the best reaction to my tale thus far has come from Emily Chubb in my Color Design class:
“I saw a blues rock band the first weekend.”
“What were they called?”
“Shoe Suede Blues.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re a bunch of old guys.”
“Oh.”
…
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