A Lucky evening with Bill Murray

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.

Chasing inspiration at the Saxon Pub; Catching a performance by Zach Nytomt

The Saxon Pub feels like home. And because of it, I'm becoming a concert snob.








There's just something extra-ordinary about the place. I mean, I like that it's ordinary and extraordinary too.

Last night, I got to watch Zach Nytomt for the first time.  And, yes I spelled his name correctly. He said, "It's like New York To Montana."

He sang this Troubadour song. He said he wrote it on a smelly cat pee couch in a garage hiding away from noisy college roommates.

Zach Nytomt plays at the Saxon Pub

He told stories about working on 30-something acres within King ranch.

His voice captured the sweet, the ugly, the all-of-it in life.

His military jacket was iced with a French flag and his Cherokee-faced imprinted necklace made me think he had a few more stories to tell.

The interesting thing too in this young rare talent was his humility and patience to tell the stories like we were his first audience and like he had all of the time in the world.

One story he told was of a "vegetable" song inspired by the meeting of his parents. He said his dad came from Sweden to Dallas, met his mom, and never went back. The song celebrates living on little. He laughed and said "It could also be about going to Whole Foods (and celebrating the) organic" vegetables.

His songs celebrated love, faith, long-term trust, ouches, triumph and are-we-there-yet kind of lyrics.

On the web, he is compared to Ryan Adams, but, I think he's actually better. I'd actually compare him to a younger, hipper version of John Mayer.

After his gig, he gathered up his stage gear with a swift kick of his backpack and said hello to Bob Schneider's crew.

Musicians like Zach and Bob are the reasons why I love watching concerts at the Pub.

And adding to the talent, is this place. This dark pub space smells like wood, old furniture, and music history.

The wooden chair feet scrape across the floor. The laminate marble-masked uneven tables do their jobs to hold the cardboard 'reserved' signs in place.

The wooden pew booths have just enough light for finding a pen to write a song request.

The stage is one foot from the first table. I can actually see spit fly.

When the show starts, there will be an inch of planned concrete space for the waitress to squeeze through.

The entire room feels as tight as a college dorm room.

And, the other thing is there's this wacky kind of dividing line between local regulars and "guests."

There are those that came for the first time, nervous about where to sit, how and just what to do.

Then, there are those who come and sit but don't really smile the entire time.

There are those that can't stop taking pictures. They flash their phones, post their status updates and shout out their music requests.

Then, there are the those that have been coming a while. They no longer take pictures or make requests. They don't need to. They know they'll be back the next week.

It's also fun to meet new music lovers inside this wooden-panel treehouse club.

Last week, I ran into a Canadian. He had traveled hours just to be there to celebrate his birthday. He was glowing. He was giddy.

And, I sat with a professor for the third time. We traded stories about great books. She traveled four hours to be there. She came with her husband. He was silly. He made us laugh. She said she was coming again in two weeks, and so, I, of course, got tickets to come back too.

And, I met a young woman who had traveled to New Zealand. She gave me a virtual tour in pictures.

I usually arrive alone, and to be truthful, I'm this ultra-introverted soul of sorts, and it's actually out of my comfort zone, but once the music starts flying, I don't feel like I'm alone. It's like hanging out in the living room with new family members.  At the end of the evening, it's like we were related all along.

The best part of the show is when I see all of the musicians find their groove- -literally.

It may not actually be a planned moment- -that moment of "It," but to be there when "it" all comes together . . . what a moment.

A former boss of mine said it pretty well the other day.

When I arrived at the pub, I couldn't help but to brag a little with a boasting text: "Bob Schneider is up next." And, Bob is his favorite artist.

He said, "You had me at Saxon pub."

I agreed. That sums it up.