It’s over.
I’m home.
Music from my YouTube channel rolls in the background while I try to get my thoughts in order.
I’m buried in thoughts. Pictures. Videos. I want to think on every word. I want to tweak each picture to perfection before sending it out in to the world. But I’m racing the clock. I have to get everything out while I’m awake. Tomorrow the fog descends again. I go back to being a zombie. I have to feel this weekend while I’m still capable.
Last night was “Old Home Week” (a phrase I’ve never really stopped to examine… homecoming I assume. That’s how I’ve always approached it, but I suspect its origins are older than I am.) The venue was Sons of Hermann Hall in Salim’s home of Dallas.
Everywhere familiar faces. I even recognized the woman who sat next to me at Rhett Miller earlier this month in Ft Worth. Rachel, she says. She has ties to Rhett and Salim. My own story is mirrored throughout the room (upstairs. We saw Salim & these same gents here in 2019. The Church as well in 2016). You don’t see Salim by accident. At some point you are in his path and he pulls you in to orbit. It’s gravity. Friendly faces, performers. Fan-Friends like us: Christian and his lady, Allen. Performer-Friends like Rahim Quazi. Chris Penn (our acquaintance predates mine with Salim. He and I know each other from the Flaming Lips’ message board where I used to lurk and get my social fix back circa At War With the Mytics/UFOs at the Zoo) has stepped away from local haven of good taste, Good Records. He’s there in his signature orange pants (red? orange? Whatever they are – they are as recognizable as he is).
Merch is in the back of the room. We take up our requested positions, but I warily eye the room as it starts to fill. My need to be upfront is ancient as the tides. I have worked my role as documentarian (taker of pictures, recorder of videos) in to that need. I must be up front. I must see. Band one – Ottoman Turks – take the stage early. Theirs is a country-tinged sound and therefore runs contrary to my essential musical make up. No ones fault. I had a similar reaction when finally seeing Rhett Miller with his Old 97s (solo Rhett is my only desired Rhett — that’s a thing I and my ears know now.) They are young and energetic. They wield their instruments with skill and the early arrivers at the show appear to love them. I perk up and even record a song, an excellent cover of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding.”
The need wins and pulls me up front. There’s one seat left in the front middle. I end up sitting between a woman who actually remembers me from the Billy Harvey show where I brought pies and another woman I didn’t even realize I follow on Instagram.
At one point, my view is ruined by John Dufilho once again urging everyone to get up and crowd around the stage. Tonight I am encased in a corset. My shantung carapace is bronze over my shades-of-purple dress. I have a closet full. I literally use them to lace my spine back in to place. My excruciating back pain improved briefly and I was able to abandon them, but they are back. I accessorize my outfit with them the same way I coordinate my wardrobe of glasses. It’s ok. John doesn’t know that. And I certainly don’t begrudge my friends their up close adoration. Especially tonight.
I conserve my strength, crowd watch. I see Rahim [Quazi]. He buzzes around hugging people like a friendship bee tending flowers. I hate the sea of backs and knees I’m watching, but I do take time to appreciate this. Not too long ago a scene like this was the stuff of sweet dreams. We all couldn’t imagine when we would be able to gather and sway to music and hug each other again. It really is a thing of beauty.
The lady next to me asks me about the phone on stage for Buttercup. I tell her I’m pretty sure it’s just…art. I have noted each night its presence as well as the special vintage luggage carrying case labeled “phone” it emerges from. Each night I have not noticed them use it. I am wrong. Erik uses it in the set similar to Salim and his ever present bullet mic. I ask Doug later if I am unusually oblivious (I wouldn’t doubt it.) No, he assures me, this was the first time.
Joe [Reyes] appears next to me later. He lets me hug him. He tells me… something… I pull out my Ottoman Turks gifted ear plugs (master stroke. I pride myself on being constantly prepared and yet always forget something… RIP the phone charger I left at the Austin venue. Most of the time I forget ear plugs). Want conscientious music lovers to remember you? Ear plugs at your merch table! He yells, “THESE GUYS ARE GREAT” he says about the Deathray Davies. YES. I agree. “AND THEY’RE ALL REALLY NICE GUYS.” I appreciate this. It seems to be a reoccurring theme. If you have been pre-vetted and Salim-approved, if you’ve made it in to this circle, you are worth knowing. As someone with a great deal of anxiety (social, free floating, you name it), I appreciate this implied safety immensely.
At some point, another face floats by. A smiling woman tells me how great I look. Am I just feeling like a goddess? Sure, absolutely. I smile in mild, pleasant confusion, but then she introduces herself as Princess. Of course. I’ve seen the name on Salim’s facebook. We’ve probably been at shows together. I don’t get names usually until we’ve been at multiple shows together. I think Salim thinks we all just know each other by default.
I remember our first show at Galactic Headquarters – Salim’s listening room – a place I think of as home now. We bought tickets, but it was such a small group, I kept expecting people to turn to us and go, “who are you? you don’t belong here” It was just too intimate. But it’s become like a family. So Salim doesn’t make introductions because once you are there, you’ve always been there.
I sort of hope that Salim will issue a reverse Dufilho command, “It’s ok… EVERYONE CAN SIT DOWN.” But everyone stays up and picks a spot to camp at the stage for Salim’s portion of the show (tonight as the Homecoming show Salim and the Treefort/Philistines, he is last). I aim stage right – Joe’s side. I hope I can get a good view of Marty. If I go to his side, I’m afraid I’ll be too close to him.
I was spoiled by last night’s venue.
Sons of Hermann Hall is old. The stage is small. The sound is… old. The lights are… old. It has sort of a dance-at-a-school-gym feel. I actually made a point to write that down in 2019 when we came for the final Travoltas show. The feeling hadn’t changed. I doubt it ever will. To change that would be to change its essential make up. Too many things bow down, are brought low in the path of progress. Still – every where I stand, every angle, something is obscured. I do my best.
At some point, I notice the woman next to me. She makes me question my very identity as a fan of Salim’s music. This woman is transported. She’s having a religious experience. She stomps, bobs, weaves, squeals, thrashes. She puts my adoration to shame. I sort of want to cast my camera aside and join her, but I also remember my time with the Lips and how quickly stores of energy deplete when you throw your whole body in to the worship of music like that.
I see her later at merch. I tell her I admire how fervently she enjoyed the show. Music saved her life, she tells me. I can appreciate that. I know exactly what she means.
I love Marty. Tonight he’s there. He’s starting to give himself for more distance away from his cheat sheets. He smiles, grins at times. He’s proud of his solos. He’s with them. He’s dialed in. Present. I never doubted this, but I love that everyone can see it now.
Night one Salim had looked at Marty admiringly, “Doesn’t Marty clean up nice?” He really did. All in black, beautiful sunshine orange guitar for contrast. Salim points out he’s wearing long pants this time. He’s right. I immediately cast backwards in my memory and only pull up images of him in shorts.
He’s gorgeously and similarly attired tonight. What I don’t realize until tonight is I will see him later after he’s snuck off to reapply his shorts. Marty is from cooler climes abroad. I find Texas heat bewildering, every year is a surprise. And I’ve been here for most of my life. I cannot imagine what heat like this must seem like to him (another place I have found him two out of three of these nights is drinking in available air conditioning. The vent was in the ceiling at the Lonesome Rose and after seeing him stop to appreciate it, I watch people all night stop in the same exact spot and pose for a minute as though for a Disneyland vacation photo).
I know the end is near. I try not to cheat, but just like skipping to the end of a book, I lean over to look at Joe’s set list. “Friends for Life,” “Let Go,” and… 1978. And though I have sworn to stop contributing to the glut of available copies of 1978 on the Internet, it’s also the finale. He calls Olivia, Erik (from Buttercup) and Paul Averitt up to join him. My friend is happy and triumphant… so I record it…
Again. (smiley face)
This ending is happy. I say goodbye to everyone. We’ll see Marty and Olivia again soon we’re sure. Doug talks music with John Dufilho and is all smiles. At some point, we even talk to Nick Earl – another person we’ve maneuvered near, but never actually spoke to until this weekend. Doug has something specific in mind. Months ago, Nick was in receipt of two console record players saved from when we auctioned off what would have been the contents of BLM if it ever officially opened its doors.
Nick’s face lights up. He has something to show us. One player now sports a red-sparkle paint job. He seems to be in the process of turning it in to a space ship.
“So you’re a wizard in your spare time?” I ask.
He smiles. He does not deny this.
I will be glad to see him again in the future. He’s a weird one. I love the weird ones – in life and in music – they’re my favorite. I hope I can count myself among them.
I hug Salim a few more times. He’s grateful to us for our services this weekend. I’m sure he suspects, but I don’t think he will ever truly know what it’s all meant to me.
If only for three days… I could breathe again.
How do you thank someone for oxygen?
