A Second Chance

When we last left the great hair affair, BFF and I were loading up the car in Portland and headed to Seattle.  Deflated and frustrated from the events from the first night, I was determined not to repeat my mistakes.  I thought about where things went wrong.  Some things aren’t in my control like weather and opportunity.  In fact, the only thing I could control were my own actions.

The realization brought a freedom.  Why did I sacrifice my concert enjoyment for a hair memory which wouldn’t tell the right story anyways?  In my fantasy of this good hair picture, Mikel and I first make eye contact during Half of Something Else and use it as a callback when we meet after the show.  We laugh it up about what a great rock show the band put on.  The photo is only a glimpse into our deep-souled connection about everything we have in common and how we plan to maintain our long distance friendship.  This couldn’t start with the admission I hung out in the back of the room trying to protect my hair.  That’s not who I am.  I had to be in the mix.

BFF and I started our 250 miles of travel early.  This time I needed to get to the show with plenty of time to spare.  I needed to line up early to ensure a place near the stage.  Lucky for me, I was invited to an awesome TATE fan forum a few weeks prior to the show.  (I call them “the Super Secret Fan Club” when I speak to friends.)  They gave me the inside scoop to show up early, head to the bar, and buy drinks.  This scored you an early entry card.  Drinking?  Getting in early?  You didn’t have to tell me twice.

After taking us on a terrible detour because maybe I started that drinking a little earlier than the show, we made it to the right venue.  (Hey, there are two Showboxes in Seattle.  What’s up with that?)  We ran in straight for the bathroom.  I did however catch a glimpse of a familiar face from the Super Secret Fan Club.  In Portland, I was a chicken.  I hid in my bright pink shirt because I was too scared/worried/embarrassed/stupid to introduce myself.  Seattle brought a new resolve and new confidence.  When we returned to the bar, I marched right up to “G-man Superfan” and introduced myself.  This is what we call a turning point.  From that moment on, I had the time I knew I was meant to have.  G-man introduced me to others from the Super Secret Fan Club and it was a blast yucking it up with all the Airborne junkies.  I may have scared G-man a bit with my drinking loudness.  I definitely have more to say about the group, but I think that’s another blog.  From the front windows we caught sight of Drummer Daren.  G-man Superfan didn’t miss a beat.  He said ”Let’s go get a picture” and we did.  (I didn’t post his to save his secret identity.)

BFF and I making a Darren sandwich.

Once we got into the concert side of the place, BFF and I headed right to the front.  (Note: G-man Superfan left our asses because he was in the pre-admission crowd.  Did I mention he is a superfan?)  When we picked our place we were lucky enough to squish up against some of the gals from the Super Secret Fan Club we met earliery.  They were more than cool about the lack of personal space.  One even offered to switch places with her friend to make sure I could see the stage better.  How nice is that?  The show was more than I expected by being the closest experience I’ve ever had at a TATE show.  I jumped.  I danced.  I sang.  All like no one was watching.  Hair be damned.  I lived the fucking rock show.

After all was done, and when the crowd crushed against the stage to get a piece of Mikel, I went the other way.  (Of course after shaking his hand.)  I think there was a part of me who gave up on the photo.  I didn’t need it anymore.  I had Noah’s pic, Darren’s drumstick, and a badass view of the whole thing.  The memory would suffice.

BFF and I hung towards the back and sucked down some glasses of water the bartender was nice enough to spare.  I’m pretty sure she worried we were on death’s door.  The crowd began to thin and Mikel still stood in the middle still posing for photos and signing autographs.  BFF said I should do it.  Get my photo with my jacked up hair.  I think she grimaced when she looked at it.

I did get the photo.  I took my piece to thank him for the show.  He smiled and charmed like he always does.  I floated away like most do after his interaction (he’s a very talented communicator).  The night was how it should’ve been.  It looked like this:

No, security did not recognize me from the last time.

Hair destroyed.  Photo taken.  Resolution failed.  While I didn’t get the results I expected from this resolution, I got a lot more than intended.  Many lessons were learned in the experience and I’ve come out the other side with a more memorable gift than what a photo could’ve captured.

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Best Laid Plans of Hair and Mikel

The plan was simple.  Get a picture with Mikel.  And have good hair while doing it.  If you wonder how a person could make such a shallow goal for a New Year’s Resolution, you can read about it here.  Many discussions held prior to the road trip detailed how to keep hair in a good state for the several hours it took to get to the end of a show.  Precautions and hair products were put in place.  What could go wrong?

Rain.  Freakin’ rain.  You think I would’ve guessed since I do live in the Pacific Northwest.  The morning of the show, I did a little experiment on well how my hair could stand up against light drizzle in the air.  For any of you out there with natural curl to your hair, you get me, right?  Even the hint of a rain cloud can cause stray hairs to pop up in every direction in the battle between straight and curly.  I brought product to smooth out the strays and keep a slight barrier to the drizzle.  I was not prepared for pouring sheets.  I knew it was bad when BFF grimaced and begged me to buy an umbrella.  When we returned to the hotel to get ready, I saw what heavy rain would do to my expected picture later that night.  Oh the horror.

After another shower, more blow drying, and quality time with the flat iron, we left for dinner.  In downtown Portland, you walk.  In our four block adventure to dinner the rain stopped but the wind picked up.  Determined not to seal my hair fate on the half mile walk to the venue, I paid for a cab.  Things looked good when we pulled up a half hour before the show.  We stopped in for our ceremonial Jagerbomb and then headed to the back of the line.   Everything supported my quest until the line moved and we lost the awning coverage.  At the same exact moment, the rain picked up into drops the size of water balloons.  Remembering the disaster from the afternoon, BFF offered her jacket.  I declined.  She insisted.  I scoffed at the vanity even though secretly inside I panicked about yet another bad hair picture.  She begged.  (She loves me.)  I finally relented.  And I looked like this to the hundred or so people in line.

Once in the venue, the roof provided safety from Mother Nature, that sneaky hair ruining bitch.  We took our places at the back of the beer garden.  When the show started, the front pit section edging the stage bounced in rhythm.  It killed me not to be flailing my arms, jumping around, and loosely calling it “dancing”.  No one in the beer garden even swayed.  Unless you count the guy grinding on his girlfriend in an attempt to give her a colonoscopy through her jeans.  Anytime I started to get lost in a song, my face flushed, and I remembered bang-ruining sweat was on the way.  Instead, I calmly sang along to all the songs.  When it was done, the hair status was this:

Still good.

After the show, I lurked around.  Waited casually.  Nothing.  I walked to the bar around the corner where I ran into them before.  Nothing.  More waiting around the front.  Not a soul.  BFF and I went to the bar and had a cocktail.  Worst. Lemondrop. Ever.  Defeated, we decided to walk back to the hotel.  We went by the venue on our way and BAM!  There’s Mikel talking to a couple friends.  To avoid the same disaster as the last time I interrupted, I waited to the side.

It took all of five seconds for Mikel to hug his friend, say good-bye, run across the street, dart into a cab and drive away.  (That sentence took longer to read than the time I had to grab him.  Not literally, of course.)  Too bad there isn’t a picture at this point where my jaw actually hit the ground.  I missed it.  My good hair opportunity disappeared into the cold Portland night.  I should tell you there was a split second I thought about jumping in the cab.  Thank God I didn’t have fast reflexes.

Instead, I moped back to the hotel in the middle of the night.  I cursed myself for missing the front line action for a photo that didn’t happen.  I replayed how I lost out on the one opportunity I did have.  Anger coursed through my veins.  Actual anger.  How crazy.  Silly.  Downright stupid at being so upset about a picture.  But I realized it wasn’t the picture that made me so mad, it was what I sacrificed for it.  I gave up the actual “living” part to capture the “memory.”  The destination became more important than the voyage.  An important reminder for a writer worried about getting an agent when she should enjoy every day she has a chance to write.

Luckily, I had another chance to replay the night.  The next night was Seattle.  I vowed I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

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Noah’s Concert Arc

A few short weeks ago, I posted about how I had no story on The Airborne Toxic Event’s Noah Harmon to go along with his cookie.  I should clarify, I don’t have “interesting ”stories on any of the band members.  It’s more like awkward run-ins and Tourette like questions barfed at them in the few short seconds they make eye contact.  Armed with two shows to score some kind of interaction, I came back with a whole lotta love for the charismatic bassist.

On night two in Seattle, I crammed myself close to the right side of the stage designated for Noah.  This wasn’t entirely planned or by accident either.  I’ve been on Anna’s side before and while she is very entertaining, I wanted to mix it up a bit.  It didn’t hurt my position sat right under Mikel’s mic stand too.  It’s quite the feat to tear my eyes off of the gorgeous smile of the lead singer.  Mr. Harmon was going to have to bring something special.  And he did.  He stole my heart.

I think it was the champagne.  Mr. Harmon sauntered on stage with a champagne glass dangling from his fingers.  Not a bottle of water or a red kegger cup filled with a microbrew.  A glass of the bubbly.  Hmmm…I said to myself.  This is interesting.  And so I watched.  I watched all night while he played from this dark spot of the stage while Mikel worked the room.  I watched Mr. Harmon make eye contact with many of the fans and hang over the edge to pluck a strong baseline.  On small breaks, he’d glide to the back of the stage and sip again on that delicate edged glass.

Noah bounced around the stage with an infectious high energy.  He threw out his pics to all of us yearning for a small piece of memory.  I felt like a superhero when my hand shot up and I brought down one of those plastic triangles with their bird icon.  Invincible.  Even in the dark, I synced up with the rhythm of the room to capture my piece of the action.  And then it happened…

Eye contact.  Followed by a subtle smile.  (Insert the sound of my heart melting.)  A simple sign of appreciation that I had traveled eight hours, three hundred miles, and shelled out my year’s fun budget to watch the band do their thing.  It was all worth it for that moment.  The second I fell into instant-love.

I wanted to buy Noah another glass of champagne.  I wanted to make him bass shaped cookies.  I wanted to ask what’s his wife’s favorite thing so I could make her cookies, too.  (I am completely smittened by the fact I see a wedding ring on him every show.)  I wanted to thank him for the brief moment he probably forgot the second after it happened.

Unfortunately none of that happened.  I didn’t see him after the show.  No picture.  No autograph.  No champagne sipped together.  However, I did go away with this:

Dude in the glasses, I’m feeling it too.

Oh, Mikel who?

My favorite.

So there’s my Noah story.  But it’s not just mine.  He had the same impact on others.  Noah gave a head nod and flicked a pic to the three lovely ladies in front of me who followed the band for three shows.   He tried to arouse the young twenty year old next to me who looked to be in a coma the entire show.  (Why is it everyone under the age of 23 likes to stand around at a concert like they are too cool to dance?  Another blog topic for another day I guess.)  Another example comes from a Portland show tweet.

And there will probably be more and more as the tour continues.  I still hold out hope that one day I will be able to buy him that glass of champagne and thank him for the excellent show.  Until then, I guess I will have to be satisfied with a retweet and start working on some cookies.

Who doesn’t want to be called “amazeballs”?

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A New Year, A New Resolve

For the last few years in my writing journey I’ve decided to take on New Year’s resolutions.  Most scoff at setting goals at the beginning of the year like it’s begging to be broken.  A fad some say.  Pointless, others huff.  I disagree.  My resolutions have kept my determination high.  They’ve challenged me to continue reaching for the seemingly impossible and hold me accountable to what I set out to do.  Here are my resolutions for 2013:

1.  Read 25 books.

Okay, I tried this one last year and I didn’t make it.  In the beginning of the year 25 sounds like such a small number.  Hell, I have 12 months to do it.  How hard can that be?  Especially if you’re friends with an overachiever who gets through 100 in a year.  Yeah, I’m looking you, you know who.  I’m getting back on the horse.  I have a new plan.  Usually I keep my writing time separate from reading.  This year I’m going to incorporate the two when possible.  Even though the resolution wasn’t written until now, I already have 3 books done in January.  I’m off to a strong start.

2.  Be more active on blogs.

I’m a lurker.  I read a lot of blogs on a daily basis.  There have been fantastic articles, experiences, and stories, but for some reason I chicken out before leaving a comment.  My paranoia about saying something stupid/cliché/misspelled/boring/unfunny/catty/unintentional/ridiculous/etc. keeps me from pinning anything.  This year, I’m leaving my worry and my arrogance at the door and will try to engage with the writing community more.

3.  Have good hair in a photo with Mikel Jollett.

I went a couple rounds with all sorts of Mikel ideas.  Have a beer with Mikel, interview Mikel for the blog, or get Mikel to be my BFF were all considered.  In the end I went with the most important and didn’t result in a restraining order.  It’s a known fact I have not taken one decent hair picture with Mikel.  Our shots came after the shows where I couldn’t control my need for dance.  Each time, the show ends in a disgusting pool of sweat and terrible hair.  Frizzed out locks and warped bangs for each of my pictures with Mikel.  This year I hope to show some restraint and maintain a nice do for the picture.  Then when I have the photos on my desk people won’t feel the need to ask who rolled me before I met the band.

4.  Get an agent. 

As I discussed in last year’s roll up, this is a simple sentence for a complex resolution.  Every day I learn something more about the writing world.  I go back and work on the craft with the determination I’m not giving up.  Every year I believe this is the year.  I gotta be right some time, right?  Well, let’s hope so.

5.  Do something daring.

Age brings many lessons.  Lessons are the stepping stones of maturity.  Maturity brings a sort of wisdom.  All good things.  Important things.  It also brought a byproduct I didn’t expect.  Fear.  Crippling fear.  Things like embarrassment, self-doubt, failure, edge their way into new ideas.  “What if?” stamped out by “Probably not.”  My fancy free feeling of “who gives a fuck?” from when I was 18 replaced with “I guess I should because I’m a responsible adult.”  This year I’m channelling that fearlessness from my youth.  I commit to do something out of my comfort zone each month.  The intention is not to get arrested, but to free myself from limitations I create in my own mind.  “Creativity takes courage.” –  Henri Matisse

Wish me luck!

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Resolution Check

The new year is here and that means new resolutions.  What I’ve learned from my business day job is you must measure your success of previous goals before you can create new ones.  I must admit, that’s the part I’m very deficient in my job.  I like to mindlessly keep moving forward and assume it worked out just fine.  But I wrote six resolutions last year and put it out on the internet.  I guess it’s my responsibility to follow up with how I did.

1.) Work with critique partners:  Check.

My writing experience moved to a new level in 2012 when I enlisted the help of two lovely women to read my manuscript early in the year.  The experience made me feel beyond vulnerable and was so freeing at the same time.  My impatience had me checking my email the moment after I hit send to see if their feedback waited.  What I learned about myself was I wanted to hear I was good.  This is not what a critique partner is for.  I’m so grateful for the patience of my critique partners and being brave enough to be honest about their opinion.  It took the rest of the year for it to really sink in.  Even the other day as I scrapped the first two chapters to a complete re-write, I reminded myself how they told me that a year ago but I was too stubborn to listen.  More lessons learned.  My favorite line from one of them was “The characters were too Cobra Kai.”  Now I’m self-checking about if it’s too Cobra Kai or even Karate Kid.

2.) Attend two concerts:  Check.

I met the mandatory minimum.  Elliott Brood and Fun filled my concert card.  You check out the pics here and here.  One picture I recently got from my partner in concert crime was my attempt at the Nose Game.  This photo was taken on like the fifth attempt of mashing my face into that girl’s back.  Sorry girl.

3.) Work with fondant:  Check.

I worked with it.  Then I vowed I’d never work with it again.  I’ve tried different recipes, the cheap store bought stuff from a box, and even the expensive cake ”jefe” brands only to come to the resolution it’s not for me.  I did a couple book reviews with it and I was excited about how they looked.  You can see my attempts with Anna Dressed in Blood and Beauty Queens.

4.) Read 25 books:  Close, but short.

I clocked in at 21 books for the year.  I’m a little surprised that was it.  They were:

• Graceling
• The Lightening Thief
• The Fault In Our Stars
• This Is Not A Test
• 50 Shades of Gray
• Unraveling
• Insurgent
• Pandemonium
• Bossypants
• The Mockingbirds
• Code Name Verity
• The Disenchantments
• Croak
• Ditched: A Love Story
• Surrender
• Awkward
• Anna Dressed in Blood
• The Truth About Forever
• Beauty Queens
• Once Was Lost
• False Memory
• Writing Irresistable Kidlit

5.) Interview Mikel Jollett for the blog:  High hopes, low success.

A boss once told me when setting up goals for the year to pick a couple easy ones you know you’ll be able to do and then pick a “stretch goal.”  Mikel is my stretch goal.  I’m not quite sure what I would even interview him about.  Ask him what he thinks about a blog that writes about him regularly, but doesn’t know him personally?

When I wrote the goal it was his creative process in mind.  Is he immune to the crushing doubt that comes with being an artist?  What does he do to keep himself inspired?  Does he hit tail in every city?  I haven’t quite figured out why he would want to do the interview.  Maybe you could help me with that.  I am going to see him in April.  Maybe I’ll ask then.

6.) Get an agent:  Rollover to 2013

I read a tweet the other day that said, and I paraphrase, ”Don’t resolve to get an agent.  Resolve to create a great story, edit it, and write a killer query.”  I see the logic behind this, but to me saying you want to get an agent is the same thing.  If you don’t do these things, there’s no way in hell an agent is going to want to represent you.

Another year down and more lessons learned.  But no agent yet.  I say that with good feelings about 2013.  Once again, I was lucky this year to meet some great agents and get terrific feedback.  When I think about how far I’ve come from when I started this process four years ago, I can smile about the fact I’m still moving forward to write a great story, edit it, and write a killer query.

Coming Soon:  Resolutions for 2013!

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The Andy Dufraine Project

It’s been some time since I’ve brought up my obsession.  Sure, there’s the baking and writing thing, but the third in this trilogy is Mikel Jollett.  With Mikel faced cookies dancing in my head, I’m no closer to my goal of us being best friends as I was at the beginning of the year.

This summer a band came to Southern Oregon.  A real live, gaining popularity, and even performed on Glee band.  Shocking, I know!  It was in that night of lemon drops and confetti cannons that I realized The Airborne Toxic Event could stand on that same stage if I got my act into gear.  The first step was taking a picture of the large crowd filled outdoor event and tweet it to the band with the most witty caption of “You should be here.”  Who wouldn’t be tempted by blurry faceless people on a random internet shout out?  Uh…no response.

I wasn’t too surprised not to hear anything back from a tweet.  They must get like several thousand a day.  (This is one area where authors are the bigger rock stars because they respond pretty frequently.  Insert here my excitement that Dan Krokos tweeted his liking of the cake push ups for his book.)  Back to the band.  The next day while I nursed my hangover I committed to work on bringing The Airborne Toxic Event to the Britt Festival.  I needed a plan.

The first step involved writing the organizers to see how difficult it was to bring a band to them.  The first email was answered pretty quickly with the “you contacted the wrong person” note.  She pointed me in the right direction of the entertainment director.  I fired off another email to the correct person with supporting documentation of the awesomeness of The Airborne Toxic Event’s live shows and the proven popularity in television show appearances.  There were even links to YouTube videos and the call out to their accompanying string section The Calder Quartet who played Britt this year.  I explained it was my theory they’d release their third album in the spring and the summer concert series would be the perfect place for them to perform.  The response?  None.

When I discuss this process with my bestie, she says I’m not putting enough Andy Dufraine into it.  I need to barrage everyone with letters on a daily basis and soon the wardens of entertainment will fill our prison library with TATE songs.  I must admit my correspondence did not pick up.  Instead, I grumbled silently about why was it so hard to have them come to Southern Oregon.  And why didn’t I follow my dreams of becoming an A&R Director.  Oh wait, I digress.

I wrote the Britt Festival again.  And this time I got an answer — NO.  Actually the answer was TATE is too small for the largeness of the venue.  After the director sent his first email with his initial no, he did send another and (probably after he looked into the research supplied) said they were bigger than he first thought. The director informed they are building a littler stage for these types of smaller acts.  He also directed me to still contact the band to share my enthusiasm of them coming to my little town.  I’m pretty sure this was a ploy to redirect my Andy Dufraine.

So here we are.  I’m on the cusp of writing the band’s management to state my desire and highlight Britt Festivals’ dig about TATE being too small for Southern Oregon.  I’m hoping spite will force TATE to put my little town on their tour map.  My complete fantasy includes TATE coming over to my house before the show for a barbecue where we all realize how much we have in common and become life long friends.  I think I’ll wait to share my idea of the head shaped cookies until we’ve established I’m not a crazy person.  We’ll chat about how perseverance pays off, dreams do come true, and if you really want to do something, “You better get busy living or get busy dying.”

Since writing this blog, TATE did announce a spring tour and I will be seeing them in Portland and Seattle.  Let me know if you are too and we can chomp on Mikel shaped cookies together.

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A Night of Fun.

With the lack of exciting content to entertain you on this blog, I’ve opted for adding some fun.  Literally.  Last month I attended a Britt concert.  (Finally checked off the second of the two I promised for my New Year’s resolution.)  If you know anything about Southern Oregon, you know the only time any person with musical talent will even step foot in the county is when the Britt concert series begins for the summer.

The giant outdoor concert venue isn’t my place of choice.  I much prefer the intimate setting of a small club.  Something where I have at least a small chance of groping the lead singer.  Britt has a sectioned off VIP area up in the front, assigned seating in a bleacher forum and then a never ending grass section.  The only thing Britt does have going for it is the fact it’s BYOB.  Yes, it’s true.  You can load up your own cooler and avoid the stiff charge of venue alcohol.  Two probs with the situation is the giant hill leading up to the venue where you have to haul your gear and the “no hard alcohol” rule, only beer and wine.

For the two years we’ve gone, my gal pal and I sneak in our lemon drops.  Last year we emptied Boone’s wine bottles to fill them and this year we took our favorite cocktail in water bottles.  Either way, we drink way too much and take crappy pictures with our camera phones.  Here are some:

From our assigned seats.

Our sneak attack to get closer to the stage.

The moment right before security asked us to move back to our seats.

Everything is better with confetti. After the concert, one of the staff grumbled to another “I guess they won’t be getting their deposit back.”

I didn’t include the shots where girlfriend and I play a game of “nosing” inspired by Practical Jokers.  If you haven’t seen the bit, check it out.  I’ll mention now that once you’ve had a few cocktails, your depth perception is off and you can crash your face repeatedly into the poor girl standing in front of you.  Not that this happened or anything.  Okay, you talked me into it.

Have I mentioned how much I love the fact my BFF puts up with my shit?

Even though the photos are terrible, it was a world of Fun.

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Telling a Blog

The title above doesn’t have the same flair as “telling a story.”  This is the challenge when I sit down to write a blog about an event.  What do I pick out of the story to sum up in a five hundred word piece?  This is the question which has left me silent on my Elliott Brood road trip.  There was so much awesome.  Do I talk about  before the show where Girlfriend and I sampled bakeries along the way?  The uncomfortable small french restaurant where I caught everyone’s attention by saying “I don’t give shit” too loud?  Or the actual event where we heard some kick ass music?

I think I need to focus on why Elliott Brood was hella cool.  (You can also think of this as a picture book.)

We started the night with stalking the band members as they made their way through the crowd.  Without knowing the nature of the beast yet, we opted for a picture at a safe distance.  Behind us, Mark is graciously selling and signing product.  Girlfriend and I look so casual in this dark basement of a club as the white light of the flash blinds everyone in a three mile radius.

In my normal concert going attitude, our stalking panned out to get a pre-show shot with Casey.  While the opening act was tearing down their gear, Casey accommodated us with making small talk and listening to our babbling on about how excited we were.  He doesn’t even look the slightest hint of scared even with my “growl smile.”

The show was fantastic.  We pressed our bodies against the front edge of the stage and screamed our heads off.  In the middle of the show, Casey was getting into a song enough his hat fell off right in front of us.

Girlfriend: “Grab the hat.”

Me: “No way.”

Girlfriend: “Do it.”

Me: “No effin’ way.”

Girlfriend leans over and plucks the hat from the stage.  She plops it on her head and I stare at her in utter shock and horror.  The corner of my eye catches Casey’s face stop for a second while his hands still work over the guitar.  Luckily Girlfriend hands it back with her innocent smile and he doesn’t feel the need to call security.  (No picture because of the shock.)

The band saved their best songs for last.  They handed out miscellaneous tins and cake pans with wooden spoons.  We did our duty of beating the hell out of them and singing the lyrics.

Casey was so impressed with our constant hooting and hollering, he gave us a nice shout out for making the trip to be an addition to the show.  <SWOON>  After the lights came up and the band left the stage, they did the awesome things bands should always do if they want a loyal following.  They thanked the fans with autographs and pictures.  They even signed my beat to crap cake pan.

Girlfriend, who is new to concerts, got a case of “Mikel Tourette’s.”  She was shouting accolades into the faces of the band members only standing a foot away.  We watched in horror as one fan signed Casey’s chest with permanent marker as he stood confused.  There was even the awkward moment when Girlfriend knocked over someone’s random beer.  As she cleaned up the mess (because she’s thoughtful like that,) we discovered is wasn’t so random when Casey picked it up to finish the rest.  We offered to buy another PBR, but he declined saying he didn’t need so much.  They even were gracious enough for this:

This shot took four tries!  I asked for two because the first one is always crap.  When they were done, Mark admitted he closed his eyes for both.  We took a third and he sheepishly admitted he’d done it again.  By the fourth, all jaws were clenched in forced smiles, but so worth it.

I have to admit this telling for the blog isn’t the same as when I convey the night in person.  Heaven help you if I talked to you the next day because I was still on Cloud 9 and probably gave you my own version of “Mikel Tourette’s.”  But this does give you an idea of how cool Elliott Brood is.  Their music is pretty darn good too as I showed with my homemade video.  But in some cases when you are recounting a memory, nothing lives up to the telling of a story.

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Canadians Are People Too

I don’t have a blog yet, but I want to give you the teaser that ELLIOTT BROOD was AWESOME!  Here is just a taste:

Elliott Brood

You can see the coolness affected my brain and I forgot how to work the video camera.  They swooned me.  More to come.

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Canadian Invasion

A few weeks ago, I was in despair about the fact it was quickly coming up on month three of the year and I did not have one concert under my belt.  Worse than that, I didn’t even have one planned.  There was a battle cry put out into the world through Twitter and my friend, The Tragic Spinster, answered the call.  (Yes, I’ve moved to only saying friend because she hasn’t rejected any of my drunk tweets.)  With her recommendation, I now know the ‘Canadians are coming, the Canadians are coming,’ and I plan to see them.

Whose the new band?  They are called Elliott Brood and in my head they’re of the same sound as Mumford and Sons.  It’s a folky trio with lots of acoustic guitar and a raspy voiced lead singer.  I’ve already picked out the one I’m going to drop Trag’s name to see if he wants a homeland hookup.  He meets her qualifications of having a beard.  (I know, she’s tough.)  I can’t wait.

As part of any good pre-concert agenda, I’ve been listening to them regularly.  This has been a bit more difficult since their US album won’t release until the day before the concert.  But as always, You Tube saves the day.  I’ve been able to hear their most popular tunes by watching their videos.  I’ve even signed up to follow them on Twitter for updates and get my friendly stalking underway.  One update talked about tweeting your favorite live video to be entered into the contest to win tickets.  When perusing through the options, there’s been a bit of concern raised about this upcoming concert.

Elliott Brood fans are white.  Let me clarify, they are whiter than white, whitest folks who cannot dance.  Please don’t misunderstand.  These are my people.  I’m the worst white dancer in the world and I embrace this.  But usually there are a few white peeps in the crowd who add energy and rhythm with their moves.  Watching videos of Elliott Brood’s audience showed me those people do not attend these shows.  (BTW, you people in the “Beer Tent” are giving a bad name to us drunks everywhere who are extra loud and obnoxious after mixing alcohol.)  If you don’t believe me, check this out:

Now in another video filled with a white-faced crowd, there is tons of energy.  They’re beating their maple leafed drum and having a helluva time.  This is the crowd I’m hoping for on Wednesday to rub my Urban Girl elbows with:

Either crowd, I’m super excited to check out a concert and get the feeling of live music back in my bones.  It’ll also be a good time in the big city with one of my besties.  (Yeah, I said besties, so suck it.)  If all things go well, hopefully I’ll hook up Tragic Spinster with the bearded guitarist so she can showcase her awesome collection of jokes aboot BJs. (That’s all the Canadian I speak.)   If you doubt me about her awesomeness, check her out here.

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