Daisy O'Connor's voice is a fresh breeze with cool creative layers of forgiveness, freedom, and a trust fall backwards into a just-right spring pool.
As honest as her lyrics, O'Connor set the stage by sharing about an unexpected twist in the road.
Her first performance since an auto accident, O'Connor talked about the concert she didn't make it to. Her car was totaled by a vehicle driving too fast in the rain. That evening, instead of performing, she was escorted to the ER.
Daisy with band at the Cactus Cafe
The day before the accident, she said she mailed off her CDs to her kickstarter supporters--all of the folks who helped make the album. And, she said it was an eerie feeling to think what if she hadn't made it through.
The twisted journey reminded her of the friends that offered up their homes, supported her music, drove her everywhere, and sheltered her as she healed.
Friends like William Wallace, singing by her side, who later left the stage chuckling that he would be "Driving Miss Daisy" home.
The songs on her new album, she said, were about chasing the light and finding that thing that keeps us moving. She said, as a photographer, it's always about light. She was looking for the light and that theme secured the album's roots.
She sang about the God box and how God's light is in everyone if we open up our eyes to look for it. She sang about Christmas cowboys and flannels in her debut Christmas song.
She sang about life's happy, life's bumps and the unraveling. She sang about being on the "F list" as a folk singer.
Daisy singing at Cactus Cafe
Of all of her songs, the tombstone song was my favorite. She sang about being buried beneath a tree so that her branches would grow tall. The song celebrated authentic friendship.
Silly or serious, her lyrics were meditation personified- -that easy calm cool presence of the whispering ocean lullaby.
Her voice was the feeling of walking barefoot and not being afraid of the snakes in the grass.
Her performance was a true gluten-free organic non-GMO melody.
To see Jennifer Knapp perform waswas like meeting an old friend after years and years of writing, and finally hearing her letters read out loud.
She was "there" for me through my college days some many years ago. On the 30 mile Katy Freeway drive to school, she and I sang our way in and out of obstacles. My maroon 77 Chevy Caprice, which friends affectionately called the "Mother Ship," debuted her songs just fine on the portable boombox loaded with D batteries. And, I'd listen to her songs in my 70's dated North Tower dorm. I'd complain when the radio just wouldn't play her songs enough. I, a young journalist at the time, was given the task of reviewing her Kansas album for The Daily Cougar. I earned just $8 for the gig, but was paid so much more than that when her album changed me forever. And, though she claimed she "aged," her voice hadn't aged a bit. And, I know because I memorized every single note about two decades ago.
She celebrated our notes too. She said our stories always circled back to her, touching her work- -motivating her art.
Pushing back her hair and laughing at the drops of mascara running down her face, she was emotionally vulnerable in celebrating the present. She laughed, "No Twitter posts please."
She admitted being "over the age of 40," was all downhill and that nothing is "regenerating" at this point.
She laughed at us too. When we cheered in instant recognition of "A Little More," she teased, "You're all old!"
Stories about the metaphors She talked about her song's lyrics, "I know how to break a man. . ." and joked it had nothing to do with sexual preference, or gender or Clinton or anything. We laughed as we related to words that get twisted and armored without their original intention. She delighted inside the dancing metaphors within her songs and the journeys that stitched them together. The roads in her hometown were symbolic of the structure that she both craved and ran from. And, she celebrated the roads in other states that took her into directions unintended.
About love She opened up about being "needy" and admitted she "leaks" tears all of the time. She said she's been both in love for the last ten years and pessimistic the entire time. For as much as she loves, she fears losing love. And, she realized now that love is hard, but it's a good hard game to play. Sprinkled inside the session were songs not yet recorded- -songs about making mistakes and no guarantees and the good that glues together the in-between. She spoke of how it felt to need people and how scary that was to really say that. And fans, accountants and "phone fixers" by day, volunteered their time to help sell "merch." Inspired, they said, "She's done so much good," it felt good to give back. It was like meeting a family member after years and years of writing. . . finally hearing the letters read out loud.
The only thing that came close to explaining it were the short ticks of my right hand rubbing the wetness from my left cheek- -those little adjustments to try to hide the ripe emotion. As I left, I thought about the notes I've written to her, but never sent. Things like, thanks for being brave enough to say what I was feeling- -what we were all feeling. And, Jen, if you're aging. Then, we're aging too.
Jen, if you leak, then we leak too.
Jen, we all adore you- -as you have been, as you are, and as you will be."
Inside the intimate Cactus Cafe den, the true impact of going all-in, in song and in love, was clearly limitless.
Miranda Dawn and Chris Hawkes
The rippled impact of surrender came together when Dawn and Hawkes performed not as two voices, but as one.
The storytelling duo detailed their journey with humility and humor.
Miranda Dawn said the first time she introduced herself as a songwriter was when she first met Chris Hawkes.
And, in their first moments together, she also admitted to Hawkes that she was "a mess."
Dawn figured he must not have been impressed, but then, the story turned a corner.
Hawkes responded to her "mess" with a love song. And, their love story began.
Miranda Dawn
Inside their intimate song set, there were stories of love, celebrated mess, honest compromise, and hilarious uncertainty.
Watching with poignant affection, there were die-hard fans and new fans packed knee to knee. And, it was easy to feel like the only person in the room.
By the end of the evening, my smile was at a permanent stance and my eyes were wondering in wow.
As this duo sang about the "Silver Line," there was a "Holler"--a larger calling that's "Yours and Mine." It was a calling that "Sways" me to believe that taking a leap of faith can, at first, seem like a powerless move.
But, perhaps, instead, it's one of limitless possibilities.
Once again, I watched The Resentmentsdo their thing this evening at The Saxon Pub. And, once again, I was blown away.
Discovering the song Trouble Find Me was worth missing an evening of scripted presidential debates or that little thing called ACL happening down the street.
The trouble song is layered with hidden characters chanting from deep places. It's so much more than a song with words and notes- -It's what's between those layers that's intoxicating.
Jeff Plankenhorn
Jeff Plankenhorn said he was grateful Sun Radio found the song lately; he introduced the song as if it was a part of him too.
He admitted to being "grumpy," though he said, it was all just "first world problems."
In their usual supportive humor, the band jeered back, "It might be too much coffee."
Plankenhorn, holding up his venti iced latte said, "Maybe. But, no, I needed this tonight."
The evening lured in more laughter, and just enough of the good stuff to keep me sentimentally wanting more.
The falsetto, the soulful cries, the aching restless reaching of the song was more than campfire warm.
The trouble song was a preacher preaching, and I was the only person in the room. The song weeps, "Don't want no trouble . . . But, trouble find me. Trouble find me . . . redemption too far gone. . . now, I am left, I am left with an empty bottle and an aching head. . ."
The song captured my favorite thing about watching The Resentments on Sunday evenings- -it's okay to just be. Come as a mess. Come burned out. Come grumpy. And, bring a friend.
Bruce Hughes introduced his new, old green guitar friend. Then came an impromptu musical performance by Brett Dennen.
Miles Zuniga told tales of working with the Gin Blossoms and singing through Africa with Dennen. Dennen picking up the guitar with the band was a simple welcome home.
And David Hamburger, introduced by Hughes as "one of my favorite guitarist of all time," was invited too.
Stupid life stories were all right too. Because, like Zuniga explained a few performances ago, sometimes you are driving a car with the floor literally falling out.
Brian Pounds has the voice of a young, hip Austin James Taylor. And, watching him perform, you get the feeling that he doesn't make the songs- -the songs make him. He's just the door for the stories.
Brian Pounds at Gruene Hall opening for Bob Schneider
He left college two semesters shy of graduation to surrender to music. Seeing him play live at the Saxon Pub, I can see why. It's just his thing- -music is his marrow.
The gripping thing about watching him play is that he's so completely vulnerable. He takes the stage without ego. It's just him, his songs, his hat, and his guitar.
He talks about waiting tables at the Olive Garden and the trials of trying to make it as a song writer.
He talks about sending his work to a big deal Tennessee music dude just to
be told it’s not what radio listeners want to hear, "It’s too long."
Yet, like a true artist, he laughs it off and turns anger into a song.
He sings "Mississippi Highway" songs and songs about what it's like to be done with the road. I can't look away. I just put down my phone, and all of distractions because well, this artist, is leaving it all on the stage.
The "Death of Me," the most grippingly relentless song, was written about a friend with drug problems, he said. He said, I felt "anger for a long
time, then the song just came out," and he was able to just let go.
He said, "I
don’t care if you like this song or not; I’m gonna just keep playing it." He goes on to talk about writing music for others and eight years in Austin.
I find myself laughing as he sings about the New York chick he was head-over-heels for and the
invisible “metaphoric restraining order” that followed.
He talks about writing songs in the Austin airport while waiting for a
girl and knowing it wasn’t going to end well. He says these lyrics allude to spending a week’s worth of money for
her arrival and knowing he’d wake up alone.
True vulnerability comes with lyrics about memorizing the girl’s shadow because he knew
she was going to leave anyway.
And, he describes the space in between. Lyrics whisper about not wanting to be on the road anymore and, yet, not wanting to go back home.
Pounds says he tries to write a new song every week, and he usually ends up
writing it on the way to the Pub.
Glad I took the time to put down my damn phone. And, I'm glad he made it here too.
Patrice Pike - -she's sunshine. With her white hat, smooth lyrics and bright light, she's happiness personified. She sings blues. She sings sadness with want. She cuts lyrics like an expert chef chops. Her metaphors mash up stories within stories. Blonde hair. Artists arm. Army camo pants. Badass hat. Bright smile. Wicked dance moves. She's contagiously charming. And, she had a voice married to the guitar's howl. But, more than her range of apparent talent, was her joy for being there- -her dare to spread her wings and SOAR.
She is shining. She's the message of own it, and by all means shine. To me, she was that dare-to-know-your-worth and set it free for the world to know it too. Yep, Patrice Pike. Pretty perfect.
This man. He is soul. He is gospel guitar explosion. Walking in, it was like when Willie hits the stage, or when The Resentments are in their groove. You are floored, and you realize you know nothing about music. You know nothing.
On that stage, when he sings, you realize what happens when talent bursts and gets its way. You get the feeling that there are no limits to that kind of miracle. You just have to embrace it because its already embracing you with a firm grip. I think what a tragedy it would have been if he were behind a desk and hadn't followed through. I saw him open for Sting in the 90s. He was rockin' even then. He was this oh-my-God-do-you-see-what's-happening-in-front-of-you-explosion discovery. And, thank God that I can be here to see it because I sure can't explain it. And, to see him years later, I just had no words. I left the floor with my hand over my heart. It's centrifuge talent explosion. Who is this man within a man? He's Stevie Ray. He's Otis. He's Stevie Wonder. He's Ray Charles. He's everything good about blues, guitar, rock-in-roll all in one. And, he's the edge of something new happening right there in front of you. And, with each note, it's interesting to see that every show must truly be different. He's feeling the notes- -tweaking each song in the moment. And, the show is just not long enough. I found myself all-in listening with ears glued to this story hidden inside the guitar strings. His face moves like Mayer. I had forgotten about that. He's in his own place up there. I think THIS is what happens when we listen- -when we do what we were created to do. It takes guts. It takes falling in love with what you do again and again every day. I heard his story. I heard his love. I heard his passion. It was more than just a show's story. It was his life. It was his marrow. I saw him play as this spunky youngster with a dream - -the new kid. And, to see him again. . .Years later after he kept going. He kept as Bob Sr. would say, "Falling in love with his guitar." And, I am so glad he did.
Bruce Hughes plays blues. He plays rock. He plays soulful love songs.
His best songs were when the words were simple- -when both his songwriting and guitar talent were celebrated inside a sort of soulful soothing tango tones.
And, it's obvious he's got a loyal following. My friend Billy thinks Bruce is amazing too.
Billy sits in the front row--smiling. He's mouthing all of the words. He keeps saying, "I missed this… oh man! This is it!"
Bruce Hughes at The Saxon Pub
I've seen Hughes with The Resentments and more times than I can count with Bob. This was my first Hughes headlining show. I liked that he could play anything. I also liked his honesty.
He clearly practiced and prepared for the show, but he didn't lean into a stage character when he played. It was all him honestly just playing for a few friends.
Without a script, he laughed when the drummer didn't know what song was next. There was banter about planning a two-hour show for a 90-minute window.
And, there were jokes about Austin- -the place you can hear great music, but you can't turn left. There was laughter about technology and checking texts while performing.
And, there was a moment or two when Hughes made personal friendly comments to members in the back of the room and even those that were not.
He said kind words about Jeff Plankenhorn, but also said, "Don't tell him I said that" with a smile and a smirk.
After the show, Bruce stayed true. He hung out with members of the audience, passed out sincere thanks, and just chatted for a while. It was like we were all outback in the greenroom sharing the same space.
Ending the show, he told everyone he'd be back the last Tuesday of every month. Audiences jeered and Billy wondered if he could wait that long.
As I left, Bruce thanked me for coming. I told him I loved his shirt.
Coming on stage, one could see he didn't feel so hot. He said he was wrapping up a long illness, but it didn't wane Rob Townsend's Saxon Pub performance.
The music had that thing in it. In every song there was something of a melody that made me want to stay longer. It's like when you try the chocolate-chocolate dessert and you know you are already stuffed, but you want to create a new stomach so you can just have more.
It's that wonderful.
On the keys, he seemed most at home. He said though, on that keyboard, he "ran out of keys," but it was hardly noticeable from the front row.
A world-renowned music friend of mine defined him as a "musical genius," and it was easy to see that. I got the feeling I could give him oranges, shoelaces and peanuts, and he'd have a song.
He reminded me of a younger Harry Connick Jr. in that music came with such ease, and the lyrics were so married to the music that I got lost inside of them, and I didn't want to get un-lost. I found myself damning my 45-minute commute home to rush home to the sitter.
He's got that rockstar look with dark brown hair and that kind of cool Clark Kent look, and when he pulls out that blues soul magic, he proves he's the complete package.
It was a privilege to be in his courts of creativity for the evening. The $80 for the sitter? Definitely worth it.
Her voice is a blues version of Joplin with a whirlwind demand to not look away.
She is the unstoppable force.
And, that force comes with confidence and don't-get-in-her-way might.
In the songs, I travel and hear her journey. I hear of times when she was beat down. I hear when she cried. I hear when she fought back and said, "Nope, you're not stepping on me again. I am woman, hear me roar. . . I am THE woman, hear my roar."
Snuggled inside the high and mighty rocking roar are lyrics of love, passion, fight and might. These lyrics dare you to look away because, honestly, you just can't.
A look around the room, and you see a room packed with hungry dedicated passionate rock-n-roll veterans- -people that adore her so much that they talk about her, and they get there way before the show to prepare for the journey.
One woman called her nothing less than "wonderful- -a Janis of our time and a unique musician that you just have to see." Carolyn Wonderland was knighted as the chick of soul and rock-n-roll.
Underneath the pounding voice with this roar of soul was a sense that not only could she take on anything, she could love like no other too.
Wiping away a tear or two or three, and taking a moment to get it together after a tribute to a musician friend, she shakes it off and returns back to her courageous roar.
This moment, shows that in all the layers, her strength of song comes not only in her dare to give everything on stage at every moment, but also the strength within her vulnerability to be simply honest in the moment too.
She laughs, tilts her head back, takes a drink of whiskey, and cheers to the audience and the band.
She plays a multitude of instruments with the same latitude of stand-back-here-I-come-rock-n-roll.
She reminds me of every woman I've known that said to herself, "No. I am more than that. And, get off of my back. I've had enough. Step off!"
She reminds me of my dear mentor that went off to be a volunteer in the Peace Corps in her mid-50s. She reminds me of the strength it takes to just let go.
She reminds me of what it's like to truly know yourself for the first time and not give a rip of what people say.
She reminds me of Kathy who was tough from the third grade- -kicking the boys in the shins with her boots. The boys didn't bug her anymore.
Carolyn reminds me of every good friend that said I could, said I already had, and said I had a roar of my own; it's okay to bark back, and it's ok to give everything you've got into the thing that you love.
Audiences truly got this from her. By the end of the evening, we were all so geared up, I got the feeling that nothing, and no one could come against us.
My expectations were high by the time I’d heard her second
song. She doesn't take short cuts.
She tells these stories with unapologetic conviction, or
perhaps, it’s the stories that she must tell in song because they found her too.
In the midst of the words that pour out, there’s this deeper twang that grows- -to never surrender. It's like she chants be the cowgirl. Never apologize. Shake off the dust, and keep on rocking.
Looking out across the audience drizzled in Austin humidity, I see crowds of dedicated fans not only shouting out requests please, but also
shouting out words of admiration, affirmation and thank yous. They yell, "Good job!" and "We love you!"
These fans truly adore Patty. One was
bragging about how she’d seen Patty more than ten times, and every show was
different; every show was special.
It felt like the songs were crafted for just that evening, and it was as if we were all her guests too.
Nothing about the evening felt commercialized or coated with television teen face pop icing. Instead, we were discovering originally sweet hidden tunes being fished out of her cherished songbook.
Like a preacher who seems to be divinely called to say that
one thing that breaks down walls inside the heart- -that one thing that sears the soul and shakes things up, Patty's songs were living instruments.
In the mountain song, she sang about standing firm against all odds. She sang a message of hope. Perhaps it was a message of a Heavenly Father’s love nestled inside a spiritual hug, or a dare to dance like nobody's watching. Her lyrics challenged looking beyond the swamp and built a sense of tolerance and indifference to the
glass shard tide troubles of the day.
There was a moment when the soul queen smiled and let herself just be free too. She grooved about as the guitars' voices collided in note-full joy. And, we all celebrated with her as the music just took over. David Pulkingham's guitar symphony collaboration moved the evening along with such monumental musicality it was easy to wonder how many strings he's playing at once. The evening was church. It was
crawling up into my grandmother’s lap. It was finishing a really good book, and wanting to do it all over again. It was hanging out with my best girlfriend to celebrate what
makes us woven souls.
In the midst of mosquito-slapping Austin humidity, the soul-full evening celebrated the rich individuality in songwriting that comes from that vulnerable sweet spot- -that spot that writes the broken, the celebration, and the laughter too.
It was that spot that celebrates the dud boyfriends with the Maxim
magazines and that brave true courageous think-we-can turnknow-we-can mountain moments too.
One great evening at the Saxon Pub with James Hand and Dawn and Hawkes celebrated music that captured love, loss, humor and vulnerability.
James Hand’s music at the Saxon Pub Saturday was a musical gospel
range of love, devotion, humility and charm. Calling his audience friends over
fans simmered righteous harmony.
Members of the audience were clearly followers for decades
of time.And, still, he admitted
to being a bit nervous in front of the seated and very focused crowd. He said
he was not accustomed to the quiet stares. He said usually his songs
accompanied dancing.For a moment,
he fidgeted a bit and asked the audience for song suggestions.
His parakeet lyrics were funny as well as his other songs “written
in the hallway” and songs he wrote when he was“outside in the cold- -so cold that the gas wouldn’t light," and his lyrics were true to the heart as he wiped an eye after singing about
the loss of a loved one and Old Man Henry.
His rockstar red-flamed boots and suit were the most
contrasting element of the show. Upon his first entrance, it’s easy to feel a
bit intimidated with the space he takes on the stage.
But, after one song, I see him dip his hat and thank the
audience as if he’s the most humble person in the room. It was easy to feel
like I mattered just as much as he did, and it’s him the cameras were pointed at.
Within his first breath on stage he is thanking his partners
that got him started years ago. He also has this obvious connection with his
band members. It’s like this long friendship that weaves harmony within the
songs.
People feel so comfortable when he’s singing, they get up
and dance in the almost-no-floor room of the pub.
He's also the kind of performer my late grandmother would have gone googly over. In my dream, after the show, grandma pops in. I hold her hand. She has new legs. She doesn't hold my hand because she has to. We climb across the bleachers like teenagers to watch James perform. I tell her, "Watch this grandma. You will love this one." It's a sweet gift to visit with her again. I wake up wiping my eyes and damning my alarm clock.
Mid-way through the storytelling, I realized that he’s the
kind of guy I can imagine sitting with on the front
porch and listening to his stories for hours. And, I got the feeling he’d ask and
listen to my stories too.
He says not all of his songs are sad. He has had some good
times too. Though, most of his songs are about
loss, the loss of love, the stupid things a man does and, of course, the songs
where the man just can’t let go.
James "Slim" Hand
The gut of his music is raw gripping honesty. He sings the
kind of stories where experience takes the story and sometimes the story makes
the man.
True to his entrance, he stays after and shakes my hand. He
shakes all of our hands. I can’t help but to tell this man I’ve never seen
before directly, “I love your humility.”It’s a performance and a presence I haven’t seen in such a long time
that I find myself wiping away a tear too.
About twenty minutes later, a stirring duet of intimate lyrics take the stage with Dawn and Hawkes.
Dawn And Hawkes take the stage
The room this time is very
different. The audience is much younger.
And, like with Hand, they are
dedicated followers. I felt like I was sitting in the artists’ living room.
It is so quiet I fear leaving as I might offend the new friends surrounding me.
Miranda Dawn and Chris Hawkes
When they are singing, often they don’t face the
audience. They face each other as if they are
making love with lyrics and you just happen to be in the same room. Gulp.
Every song is like lace and delicate detail and the joyous feeling of something
special for the first time and never wanting to let it go.
The passion for this couple in the audience is strong as
well. The couple knows their audience too- -literally.
A humorous moment comes
when Miranda says, “Oh, were you the person who requested this song last time?”The brown-haired young person smiles from the inside out, "Yes!"
Miranda says, “We’ve played Polar Bears twice this year.
This is the second time. Our first rock song and last rock song…”
Miranda's voice is this angelic mold. It’s like the
sugared coating on Creme Brulee. I love it. I don’t want to break it. I want to treasure every note.
And the way Chris looks at her personifies love. She is his darling. She could do no wrong.
And, their lyrics are dripping with honey like the Song of
Solomon.They are celebrating the
one-in-a-million moment of when the skies break open and the miracle of finding
forever love happens.
One moment broke the silence when a woman just couldn’t stop
talking loudly about her soccer game. Besides her game conversation, the room
was so quiet, I could hear a chair scoot.
People kept turning around to hear who just kept talking.
Finally, an elegant gentleman who looked like my previous media professor, got up and told the lady with the brown hair who was talking to the lady with
the short blonde hair to be quiet, please.
The lady didn’t quit immediately. Then, she made a flamboyant fit, circled about the room, and looked at everyone as she left dramatically. Her blonde entourage stopped to
yell at my professor look-alike-turn-music hero. He responded with “Thank you for sharing. Thank you!” And, after they left the
room, a chorus of clapping thanks for the gentleman soon followed.
And, of course, being so connected to the audience, Chris stopped
singing to thank the man too. He said, “Thank you (he actually knew the man’s
name); I saw what you did. Thank you!”
The couple also sang an amazing tribute to Prince with
Cream and eventually Kiss and even the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air for those that
“grew up in the 90s.”
By the time I have to leave, I felt guilty for leaving because well,
I felt like part of the musical team. The acoustic story living room had
become part of my story too.
These artists had been so vulnerable and open to tell their stories for me, and they didn't even know my name.
I felt strangely appreciated within this
audience family, and I was reminded that maybe my skin doesn’t have to
be so thick after all.
Rain didn't stop the fun; Bill Murray, you're so cool (but, I already knew that).
I am at Luck, Texas. I have been here all day as a volunteer. The rain didn't come until the middle of my shift when the fire marshal ordered everyone to duck and cover to our cars, to barns or to any place we could find.
Some artists didn't leave. The show must go on- -literally. After all, they traveled miles to perform. They eventually performed in the barn, in set buildings, and in any warm and dry spot available.
And, they had a stubborn audience- -willing to trot through mud-caked gravel to embrace soggy stages.
The rains brought more mud-caked shoes, shivers and slip-sliding trails. The die hard fans stayed under shelter where they could find it, many walked to their cars and waited for the return signal. Some volunteers stayed at their posts.
I had trouble leaving my post. I had the best spot. I got to move the barrier fences and greet entering artists, and later, I got to wish them well on their journeys home. It became sort of a dance that I began to appreciate. I'd wait for the thumbs up, check the IDs, and pirouette the bar out of place.
***
Two hours after the lightning show, the word is out, the masses return.
And, Willie's family will play, after all, in the back tent.
The remaining hundreds are glad they waited out the waters for an unplanned intimate show.
*** My friend from high school theatre helps put on the show. It's the coolest thing to watch old friends in action. I can say "I knew you when we were both a bit dorkier 20-something years ago." Sometimes, I get the honor of being backstage. When I can, I do everything I can to stay out of the way, be invisible- - everything that some fans- -honestly a few feet away- -are not.
I put myself in the performers' shoes. What would I want back there before the show? Just to be. So, that's what I do. Just be.
And, that evening, that's exactly what I got to do. It was a pretty rewarding experience. I saw contagious family smiles, love, laughter, and I got to sit with an introverted artist. It was perfect.
***
Bill Murray, I hear he's around the back. He's kind of hanging low- -keeping a low profile. At first, I don't believe the rumor. But, then when I see him, the last thing I want to do is to bug him. I get the low profile feeling.
I see people keeping popping in around him and losing their cool. They quote movies. They do a dance for him. And, it seems more to me that he just wants to chill.
This very drunk guy comes up to him and starts talking about cow testicles so close he's probably spitting on Bill's face. It's obnoxious. . . He just assumes Bill wants to hear his story.
Bill looks over at me, and I say "I'll talk to you (so you can look busy) . . . I'll even ask you about your favorite color. You know, (pause) deep stuff." He smiles. He seems to appreciate the gesture.
Two teen-face gals run up giddy. It's a lot of energy for this part of the night.
I say literally the words, "Deep stuff " under all of the giggles. It just sounds like rainbows and kittens. I'm really not in the mood.
He leans up against the car behind us. I lean up beside him just kind of watching all of the backstage chaos.
There's a lot of energy, excitement and lots and lots of mud. On the ground is a lamp with a bent shade just hanging out- -a used forgotten prop.
I say I was worried I'd hit a car alarm and cause a stir.
He stands to the left of me, and he can see I'm shivering. I am cold. I'm wet. I'm wearing two shirts and a red raincoat Mandi let me borrow, and I'm still shivering.
He looks at me and at my jacket. He says, "It's the jacket. . . It's keeping you cold. It's the kind of jacket you wear under things."
I thank him. He buzzes off in another direction.
***
The show gets going and Willie's family plays. In between songs, there's another story happening. It's this thing you can see in their faces. It's genuine. A few moments with their smiles and you want to be in their family too.
There was this one point when Lukas's arms were wrapped around the back of Willie to keep him warm. He rubbed his father's arms for a bit. And, Willie smiled.
On stage, it was the same thing. Smiles. Guitars. It was our time to see them play, but their time to play together.
I take off the raincoat and the extra shirt. I wrap the raincoat around my waist. Bill was right. Finally warm.
Moments later Bill walks backstage. He sits next to me. He asks if I am warmer.
I say, "Actually, yes. Thank you. You were right."
There is no fanfare. It's like I had asked him if he could pass the ketchup, and he said sure.
I pause. And, I talk to the ground a little knowing he can hear. I just talk not looking him in the eyes.
I don't want to be a fan right now, but I am really a huge fan.
But, it's not about me right now.
I would love a photo with him, but I won't do that. In fact, the photo I do get is from someone next to me. It's a blurry one of me, but you can see my happy. And, another photo was sent in from a fan.
And, you can see him clearly too- -how he was. Simple. Warm. Introverted. Funny.
But, it's bugging me, so in a moment of weakness, I say, almost apologetically as if I was going to say sorry we stepped in gum.
I say, "I have to say something nice."
Pause.
"I think you're funny."
I said it matter of fact like . . . like when Forrest Gump says, "That's all I have to say about that."
I don't know if he's smiling, and I wonder if I messed with things.
I do often say a kind word is never wasted, but sometimes it also gets in the way.
A minute passes or so, then we just chat more about nothing. And, it's perfect.
He's humming to the songs and tapping his whitish shoes. They look like suede, but I can't tell. His shoes look like mine. This morning, my shoes were nice new boots, and now they are covered in mud, water and whatever else was on the ground. At this point in the evening, it could be anything.
Willie walks in, and Bill gets up to greet him across from me. They have this sweet moment of hello inches in front of me. It was the warmest of hellos and exchanges.
Bill starts to play with his phone. I take a picture of the show, and he admires my photo on my phone. He says "Look at you. I can't get that." He starts to video.
More chatting about nothing. And more singing off key from both of us. It's the best thing because I can't sing, and it means we can just sing off key together.
He gets up and claps and sits back down. I notice he's so tall when he stands up. He's a foot taller than me, it feels like.
Perhaps it's also my own perceptions of my admiration for him that makes him look so tall. I can't be objective, maybe.
I ask if he has enough room. He says he's fine. Like an old friend, I keep checking on him.
People crowd up to sit next to him. He's wearing a white hat so he's barely noticeable. He's got this kind of meek personality like he'd never be annoying, ever. I wonder if he hates morning people too.
He looks up and shows me his water jug; I honestly can't tell if he's offering me some. I say "What is it?" He says grapefruit juice with, I think, vodka.
I think that's interesting because I've never had vodka before. I think that. I don't say it. I would have tried it if he'd offered it to me.
He's invited to walk up to the front of the stage so he can see. He watches the performance with Willie's family. He's so close he's almost on stage too.
Then, he comes back to sit to my right.
Willie's family member sees me and asks if I want to come up front too. I just smile and stay where I am at. I figure she has me mistaken for someone else.
The show ends. Everyone is happy. Bill is still singing and tapping his feet. I'm trying. Between the two of us, I think we can keep a beat. Maybe.
Bill is invited with more smiles to follow the family to the house after the show.
Willie's beautiful wife smiles and looks at me and says, "You can come too. You're with Bill right?"
I look at Bill, turn to the right so he can hear me, and say, "They thought we were together."
He says, "We can be." And, he looks at me and smiles with that same classic Bill Murray look. He's funny because he has no dramatic facial expressions. I can't tell if he's kidding or not. It's like we've been friends for years already.
It's the same obnoxious you-gotta-just-like-me smile he does when he torments Susan in Ghostbusters I. You know the scene where he jiggles the piano keys and says "They hate this." He's just, simply stated, terribly likable- -like he's always been.
I wasn't "with" him but I certainly felt at home. I enjoyed chatting about nothing, just being- -turning off for the first time all day.
He gets up and walks over following the family out as they file off stage. He looks back at me. He stops. He asks, "What's your name?
I smile, say my name, and shake his hand. I look right at him this time.
I say, "It was good to meet you. (pause) I had fun. (pause) Thanks for hanging out with me."
He leaves like a ghost.
There's a pause. I think I might have put my head down and pouted a little. I'm terrible at hiding how I feel.
I look up and realize, it's time for me to go too.
I put on my not-so-warm-wet-remembering-Bill-was-right raincoat and walk to the car.
I drag my mud-covered boots, and think it's really hard to leave this place.
I take one last look back at the dangling lighted movie set town.
I still have that contagious smile the family has tattooed on me.
I realize that I've served this place for an entire day, and now it's stuck to me--inside and out.
