Okay, whomever wrote this did a nice job... Extremely funny! It's long, but worth the read.
A Bloggers account of Portland.
A Concert For The Aged
Last night at Newmark Theater I had the pleasure of watching a man sing and play guitar for more than two hours. The man's name was Lindsey Buckingham, and this was only the tour's third show in support of Gift of Screws, the new CD he has coming out next week. This little piece chronicles not only the show itself but the entire evening and the cast of characters of our fair city who populated it. Fear not, you who strive to Keep Portland Weird. It still is.
The evening started well enough. We decided to pilot an earth killer into town an hour early as a pre-emptive strike against the dreaded No Available Parking eventuality. As we feared, every street we first encountered was lined with vehicles from corner to corner as far as the eye could see. The feeling of relief exuded by those who had scored parking spots ahead of us hung palpably in the air, almost as a mist, clouding our vision. I had just begun to despair when it happened. We spied the opening we had been looking for! I hit the gas so hard that we nearly went back in time! I managed somehow to maintain control of the vehicle, hitting my mark and executing an electrifying parallel parking maneuver in one fluid motion. My wife and I sat back smiling, congratulating ourselves on a job well done.
And then I saw it, the ghastly sign portending a temporary apocalypse. 15 Minute Limit it squealed in big bold letters not 12 inches from my side mirror. No wonder the space was empty whilst all about us the curbs were literally crammed with parked vehicles! And then my moral quotient took a nosedive. "I wonder if it's OK to park here," I reasoned to myself, "if you don't see that sign?" And shamefully I set to carry out my sinister plan.
I scanned the vicinity with haunted eyes, wondering if we could somehow get away without being held accountable for our sleight of car routine. As luck would have it there were two ladies not 15 feet away on a nicotine jones errand of mercy watching while my conscience wrestled me to the floor. Alas, we'd been seen! And then it hit me: could I possibly invite these ladies to take a bit of the culpability off my hands, at least enough so that I could pretend I had reasonable grounds to think I was OK here? After all, if we all thought it was OK, well, then maybe it really was! Guilt has always proved a harsh taskmaster, my friends, but tonight her training paid off in spades.
I turned to my soon-to-be accomplices, assuming the naivete of a lost child. I'm telling you, weaker women would have wept. "What does that sign mean?" I asked, my voice conveying a hint of incredulity. Surely whatever meaning expressed in those words couldn't possibly include me, could it?
I could see they both knew how the game was played. Seizing the opportunity to assume membership in the coveted People That Know Things club, the purveyors of Big Tobacco smiled. The lady on the right croaked, "It doesn't mean anything now, it's after 7 o'clock". I checked my cell phone. Sure enough, it was 7:05. We thanked those ladies profusely (for the clock striking 7, I guess) and bid them sweet adieu. I've no doubt we added to the pheromone cocktail that spelled R-E-L-I-E-F that night. We walked away silently thanking Lindsey for refusing to work before 8 p.m.
A few minutes later found us in the lobby of the Performing Arts building. Folks were milling around looking a little dazed. After all, how do you act before a Lindsey Buckingham concert? Does anyone know? It's obvious if you were going to see, say, Metallica or Twisted Sister. Luckily for everyone there was a bar here, so that gave us all a place to begin. Looking around I could vouch that everyone in attendance had long since passed carding age and so bellied up without fear. My wife and I decided upon a few adult beverages and likewise put our livers to work. I still sensed a bit of tension in the group, though, hinting to the problem which would manifest during the concert itself despite the titanic rocking efforts of Mr. Buckingham.
It wasn't long before seating was announced, though unfortunately I was taking up space in the restroom at the time and was unable to answer the call immediately. I did manage to observe a bit of the minutia of human behavior there which has long fascinated me. I wondered if the Make No Eye Contact rule would still hold in the bathroom if everyone present knew that everyone else in the room was as excited as they were to see the same performer do his thing, and only moments away at that! But no, there would be no associative familiarity this night. Everyone I saw in that room went about pretending he neither saw nor heard anyone else. I pondered this while we found our seats. Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long.
Lindsey strode serenely onto the stage in near total darkness, the silence broken only by various hoots and hollers. But eventually I shut up when I realized I was the only one expressing any excitement that way. The crowd was hushed. Lindsey strapped on his guitar and we waited for takeoff. All at once the blinding lights came on and Lindsey tore into his first number with reckless abandon, an approach he favored the entire night! It was soon apparent to all that he has put a good deal of practice into his instruments of choice. Guitars, that is. All 16 of them. Or so it seemed to me, for he seemed to switch instruments after nearly every song!
Or was that before every song? Permit me a bit of timeline angst, my friends, for who can say, really? One thing's for sure, I'll wager that guitar tech of his could solve this mystery if his brain is anywhere near as nimble as his feet. I watched that fella scamper around the back of the stage all night like a spider hauling six-stringed insects in his clutches, staying low and keeping to the shadows while he went about his deadly work. I marveled at his dexterity, how he glided over cables and cords while keeping his vertical at a level that would make a limbo champion blush. What would such a man as that say to my query? I think such a man as he would point out that, because Lindsey didn't switch guitars before his very first song, the switch must therefore have come after it, and so on and so forth through the whole set list. And so we, being reasonable men, would in turn agree not question his profound wisdom during these proceedings.
The confusion over which came first, the switch or the song, pales in comparison to the herculean effort yours truly put forth in a dogged attempt to wring every last erg of unadulterated joy out of the evening. I carried that entire arena on my back for most of the night, and this was the problem I alluded to earlier. That's right, my friends, I was surrounded by a multitude of individuals who evidently thought they were there to see Yo-Yo Ma. The gentleman on my right seemed positively frightened by the intensity coming off the stage, not to mention from the man flailing about to his left. I was horrified to see that all around me people were merely viewing the proceedings instead of actually taking part in them, forcing me to single-handedly carry the whole responsibility of audience participation myself.
I just wasn't up to the task, my friends. I shouted myself hoarse by the fourth song. My hands were swollen and sore ham hocks by the halfway mark and I started to feel the effects of whiplash by the time Lindsey reached Go Your Own Way near the end of his set list. I was spent. I had failed.
And then it happened.
The arena of people seemed to realize as one that they weren't there to observe "art" with restraint and faint applause, sitting around clucking their tongues like a gaggle of barnyard hens. No, although that was what their training as Portland citizens had taught them to do in the presence of any artist, the familiar strains of that old classic song snapped them out of their malaise at once. We rose as one the moment we realized Lindsey was about to entreat each of us to go our own way, shouting along to the lyrics in a rock and roll frenzy. The noise was deafening, thankfully drowning out my budding laryngitis, but Lyndsey was able to carry us home in spite of my injury, strutting about the stage like a peacock in leather boots while we urged him on.
There were only about 5 more songs after this, but the resurrection was complete. This was his crowd now, and I got the idea that everyone was thinking, "What were we waiting for? This is fun!" at the same time. No one bothered to thank me for getting us that far but I guess that's OK. Lindsey Buckingham was the star last night and I, for one, won't soon forget the outrageous fortune of seeing him perform live.
And for the curious, the songs he played off his soon to be released new CD tells me that Buckingham fans are in for a real treat!