It’s cool, dark, quiet. Finally. We’re at our final hotel. My husband is sleeping.
I’m behind again. I knew I would be. I didn’t manage to capture most of what happened on the road 6 months ago. Here we are again. There is something to be said for living these moments though and not necessarily capturing them. Several times during the show last night while I was recording, I caught my subjects slipping from my viewfinder (Salim’s head got trimmed a few times) as I tried to look at them and not my phone or camera.
First and foremost: I am a fan. I am here to drink these experiences up; get enough to inoculate myself against the screaming mundanity I will return to on Monday. I have to maintain balance. I am here for my friends. I am here to see and hear for them while they lose themselves in the music. But I need a piece; a peace for me.
Yesterday was busy.
We got to our hotel sometime nearing one. Check in at four. I follow the rules, fear those in authority even if it’s just the authority to say, “No, you can’t have your room. CAN’T YOU READ?? It’s too early!”
Well, it’s never been a problem before…
Except today the hotel’s computers are down (since 11, I learn later). Absolutely no check ins. Get comfy. So we hunker down in the lobby. Doug reads. I watch General Hospital and then some inane talk show. Every now and then I watch another guest told the no check in news. They get huffy. Or they pick another place to wait and hunker like us.
Just as I’m starting to catastrophize about the computers NEVER coming back up and therefore them NEVER checking anyone in (leaving us stranded in Austin with no place to stay just like we found ourselves back in 2018 when we first fell in with Salim), we are allowed a room. A little after 3 – still early!
Doug tries to sleep, but he’s a realtor and therefore always on call. His phone doesn’t let him sleep. At this point, Salim messages us and tells us load in is at 4:30: we’re welcome to come up any time. So thoughts of rest and any chance for me to write or start to sort my pictures is abandoned. We get cleaned up and head to the venue.
[The] Parish is a nondescript stone building with a small sign and an even smaller marquee… that none of the bands were as of yet placed upon.
We are there closer to 5:30, but load in seems to be taking place right then so we fall in line and start grabbing things to take in. John Dufilho is there. He’s smiling and friendly again just like last night. Glad for the help, he hands me some small drum cases that I take in. They are the smallest of what is left. I remember trying to pick up Salim’s pedal case on our first trip together. It was like trying to pick up Thor’s hammer… my soul briefly left my body. Equipment is… heavy. Yeah.
The curb sign announcing the tacos and other delicacies to be had inside has fallen over. I pick it up and set it back on its feet. Helpful! Sings a Disney movie refrain in my head. Satisfied, I head in.
Salim is there. The merch table is set up by the bar. He’s hung some of his shirts up already. Doug takes his place and starts arranging things. More merch appears as the musicians file by and deposit it: shirts for the Deathray Davies and John and June (Dufilho’s singing duo with his daughter), vinyl, CDs. Joe Reyes materializes like a ninja at some point and leaves us Buttercup albums without us even seeing.
The venue is lovely. 400 capacity, Salim says, but that’s not immediately obvious as there is an upstairs and a downstairs.
The soundcheck is the most thorough I’ve witnessed in my time with Salim. Each musician (and just like last night, the stage is overrun with them) is given a chance to ask for what they need. More of this. Less of that. Can I have more vocal in my monitor? Maybe this is too loud? Yes, but there will be drums momentarily. This will fight everything for attention. A small, curly haired woman is in the balcony flipping switches, knobs up, knobs down (I’m imagining. She floats around later tweaking things on an IPAD — the whole thing is probably a great deal more digital than I am picturing.) The sound promises to be exceptional. Occasionally I’m asked how it sounded. You guys do The Thing, make the music, it might as well be sorcery to my untrained ear. Still – it sounded excellent.
Buttercup’s van has unceremoniously died outside. Their bass player is outside trying to oversee the situation while the sound check proceeds. Joe picks up the bass and checks on his behalf (Doug tells me this enigmatic, goateed figure may or may not be called “Odie” – I could Google, but this would ruin the mystique.)
I am trying to play catch up. I adjourn to my corner by merch and start writing up San Antonio by squinting self consciously at my phone (I can’t imagine what it looked like – being glued to my phone all night. I’d hate to think anyone thought I wasn’t paying attention. Every time I’m at a show, every fiber of my being is sucking up the music. Osmosis. Grabbing particles of the music as they float by. Repairing my damaged bits. Patching my DNA with notes and melodies.)
At some point, Salim admonishes me to eat… like I didn’t last night. I pick out some random stuff from the taco counter by the door. It appears after awhile. Random thing for me, random thing for Doug. It’s both molten hot and hellaciously spicy. I will pay for this, but it’s so so good.
Each night the line up shuffles. Night one it was Salim -> Deathray Davies -> Buttercup. Tonight it’s Buttercup -> Salim -> Deathray Davies. I write through most of Buttercup. Doug tells me QUICK, Joe is doing something interesting that would make an awesome photo. I run up to the stage in enough time to see Joe unfold himself from a sort of backbend on one of his bandmates. I did miss it. And dammit, Doug was right. It would have made an excellent photo.
If you get a chance to have a look at Buttercup with your ears, I’ve been trying to think of an apt description. I came up with Neil Young meets REM. I asked Doug – one far more knowledgeable than me about such – if the Pixies would be appropriate to throw in there too. He responded, “Art Rock.” “Is that a thing?” “Well… there’s Art Punk so I’m assuming Art Rock exists too.” Lead Erik is energetic and unique in his delivery. I call it Lou Reed-ing. You’ll see. Go look.
Time for Salim et all approaches. I briefly consider going upstairs. I shot Live (the band, not the concept) from a balcony once and it turned out very well, but I didn’t have the option of being near the stage for that show. I’ll stay. Climbing the stairs sounds like effort and performers rarely glace at the balcony so you lose that closer line-of-sight angle.
The thing that made this stage so attractive to me as a photographer and spectator actually ended up being Salim’s downfall. Literally.
The stage is long. This offers many different places to stand and gaze unobstructed at the performers. The stage is also narrow. Jammed with every peformers’ gear (Salim already mentioned the forest of microphones he was lost in at some point while on stage), the possible tripping hazards rear up large.
And right as the band launches in to song number one, a up tempo track from the new album, “(I Can’t Take) Another Heartbreak”… Salim trips… starts to recover… and topples backward in majestic slow motion. I don’t know what to do with my camera. I can’t even verify my memory is correct and that was the song playing. I have not gone back to review the footage (I put my camera down sort of. Do I stop filming? I was at the Texas Frightmare Weekend where Meatloaf fell off the stage and broke his collarbone. Footage of that exists as well and that shooter was subsequently ostracized from the horror community for selling it to media outlets). I, personally, have a low tolerance for things that would cause me to instantly cease existing and… yea… (a similar piece of footage existed and has hopefully decayed to VHS dust. A band concert from the 6th grade where someone behind me thought it would be the height of hilarity to pull my chair out from under me causing me to fall spectacularly and be hit – and subsequently, massively bruised – by the baritone saxophone I was wielding). But Salim, thank goodness is not me. He recovers and goes back to his aerobic bouncing. He seems a little slower. I worry that he is brushing off being secretly hurt, but it appears that the wind was just knocked out of him for a minute. He’s fine.
I ask him later just to be sure. He’s fine and grateful not to have been impaled on any number of the pointy things that were on stage at the time.
The show is fantastic as per standard. I do worry about Marty (worrying is just a thing I do. I figure if I can worry about something on your behalf, perhaps you won’t have to or it won’t affect you at all. It’s my gift to you as your neurotic friend.) Marty is far (pausing to Google stage terms… I don’t know my right from left on a good day, I certainly don’t remember stage terms. High School theatre was a loooong time ago) stage left. He is turned the opposite way as the rest of the performers. Doug says it was a little harder to notice in San Antonio last night, but the stage is long tonight and it’s easy to spot differences. He’s got cheat sheets (he verifies this later — it’s understandable, he points out that he is using a different guitar, different pedals, singing and playing on different songs than he is used to). But it looks like he is apart from the rest of the band. I worry people will think that he’s separating himself from the group, that he’s not “in to it,” when I know for a fact that he is.
So much time has passed. I used to watch this man on stage with his Former Band. I rooted for Other Guitarist (I learned later this was incorrect when I actually spoke to him and he was not… nice… that particular night) as is my way. I pick out the member of the band that appears underappreciated and champion them, if only in my mind. Marty was flashy. I called his style “showboating.” He was always “on” when on stage. His band was comprised of multiple strong personalities thrown together at the peak of young adulthood, the cusp of fame and all the unsurety and ensuing weirdness that brought.
Just know that what you perceive is not always correct. Insert that in to any situation.
MWP is now my father’s age. Weathered by 20 more years of experiencing (the first time I saw him was 2002. I can’t even conceive. I was just barely old enough to see them in a bar serving alcohol… and now I’m 42: old enough to laugh when I get carded in the same situations). But I still see that “showboat” glint in his eyes, wicked smile, arch of those vagabond eyebrows. I am so glad to know this Marty.
I’m treated to “Let Go” again. Tonight it doesn’t make me cry. I feel better. I haven’t thought about my personal garbage all day. Salim and his friends weave their magic. I feel better. I feel.. good.
Salim heads back to merch. I know what he will say as I’ve watched two or three others ask him on his path to us, but I ask anyway: “Are you ok??” He’s assures me he is.
Deathray Davies bulldoze in and work their magic again just like last night. People rock out. People dance. Joyful, gentle thrashing. I take what turn out later to be some excellent pictures of them. Tonight is the maiden voyage of the lens I purchased after our trip to The Caverns in May where I got to shoot Marty’s former band thanks to a photo pass from one of the Nice Guitarists (the other one… the one that wasn’t particularly nice is gone now.) One other woman had a photo pass so I watched her and tried to do what she did. She was a… *professional*. SHE had a lens like this.
At the end of their set, John requests as many people from the other bands to join them as possible. At first, no one seems to pay attention. I tell Salim he was requested. I don’t think he heard. They do another song with no joining them. John calls out again. This time people come. Salim ends up back up on the stage, jubilantly shaking maracas for two more songs.
Then it’s over.
I watch everyone start to file out. Watch lights come up and the deconstruction process begins. Miles of cords are wound. Instruments back in cases. Doug packs merch back up. It’s a relief to know this is as far as we go. The merch goes off with others unlike when we are with Salim and Rhett Miller and we retain the merch and all the responsibilities inherent therein.
Doug approaches John Dufilho to give over the Davies’ cash and the night’s merch accounting. Here John pays me one of the biggest compliments I’ve ever received. He apologizes. He has been remiss in investigating us. He sees the videos I post on Facebook. Do we have albums? Are we on Spotify? *blush*. No sir, we have more guitars than we have talent. He doesn’t believe it. Somehow I bring up that I just love music. Love to sing. If it could ever be arranged to jam at Salim’s again (we partook in an impromptu jam in 2019) we should do that. He is agreeable.
Back to the hotel. I promise I will write.
I shoot off a message to John… not the writing I intended. I tell him that I treasure the compliment he paid us – a real musician thought I was a musician too. *starry eyes* I tell him that I wield a camera and sometimes a pen instead of a guitar. But I am here to do anything in the service of music (when he responds later he’ll tell me we have that in common: anything for music).
I fall in to bed without producing another productive word.
End of night two.
