The Ledge - Cow Palace

Here's a long Blog review:

Stevie, Billy or Lenny?
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/...entry_id=21999

The entrance to last night's Oracle "appreciation" concert at the Cow Palace (or, rather, a series of interconnected tents erected next to the Cow Palace)posted an important question: would you take the path of Stevie (Nicks), Lenny (Kravitz) or Billy (Joel), with airport-like signage leading the way?

For my friend and I, the choice was clear. STEVIE M-F****** NICKS.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. For those who haven't been in downtown S.F. over the last few days, you might not know there was an Oracle software conference going on. Lucky you. The rest of us are dodging people rushing importantly with laminates slung over their necks and a variety of Oracle flare, clogging up restaurants and filling up the two streets (!) that have been blocked off for the conference. (Seriously, you can buy street closure? What's next, sponsoring the Golden Gate Bridge?)

WARNING: THIS BLOG ENTRY IS VERY, VERY LONG. One might say, too long. But it's Stevie!

Until late yesterday, the prospect of actually attending their free (to Oracle conference-goers) annual concert hadn't really occurred to me, although when I heard that Stevie Nicks was playing, my heart lept. Stevie Nicks. She's amazing. In every way. (Sample quote: "All my feather stuff is in L.A. at a temperature-controlled stage-storage place. I keep all my good stuff there because if I had it all in my house, I wouldn't have any room for my regular clothes. It has to, like, not live here.")

But then -- a phone call. Two tickets were available. Could I be ready by 7 p.m. to take one of the free buses available? YES.

Like Beth Spotswood meeting Gavin, I'm of the opinion that wardrobe matters. I couldn't show up to a Stevie Nicks concert (even surrounded by software engineers and their clients, whoever they are) in my office outfit. A quick trip to the mall provided me with a drape-y dress, perfect for working up into a hippie/gypsy swirl or, if Stevie pulled me up from the audience, like in the Bruce Springsteen video with Courtney Cox, we could dance together...

Oops, getting into fan fiction territory.

Anyways, at around 6:45 my friend and I began trying to get a bus. We waited outside one downtown hotel where a group of older white people gathered with the tell-tale pink wristbands. The dress was casual, although a few people threw on leather coats with their sneakers. Some people chose to keep their laminates on, too, just in case they were mistaken for someone not attending the Oracle concert, even though the only people invited were Oracle concert attendees. We stood awkwardly with our compatriots. Where were the buses? The pamphlet that came with the wristband promised rides every ten minutes.

I'll spare you the boring parts: it took over an hour to locate and board a bus, although given the sheer size of the event, I don't blame the organizers. After a ride in the most comfortable bus seats ever, we cruised into the Cow Palace. It looked like a rave from a distance. Blue lights, pink lights, pulse of music... when the bus dumped us off, we practically ran into the alien structure.

Oh, did I not mention that EN VOGUE was an opener? My first cassingle was En Vogue! After grabbing some wine from the open bar (thanks, Oracle!) my friend and I shoved our way to the front. It wasn't hard. It turns out that while the lovely ladies of En Vogue were strutting and sweating on stage, the crowd wasn't exactly moved. Maybe it was the material? At first En Vogue was playing this random medley of soul hits. No! We tried to dance to it, and definitely screamed "En Vooooooogue" alot but it wasn't until they segued into a steamy "Giving Him Something He Can Feel" that we really felt the music. And although the opening line ("maybe I'm too young/to let you know just where I'm coming from") strained credibility, the quartet were total pros. Watching a balding man with laminates mouth the words to "Free Your Mind" pretty much blew my mind. I should stop being so judgmental, I thought. If he can sympathize with En Vogue's plea to end racism ("So I'm a sista/Buy things with cash/That really doesn't mean that all my/Credit is bad"), more power to him. After all, when I worshiped En Vogue as a pre-teen, did I have the faintest clue what bad credit even meant? (And my recent credit history indicates I'm still not so solid on that concept.)

But hunger got the best of us, and we skipped the end of En Vogue to find food. I dove into the first banquet I could find -- some kind of BBQ-themed one, with sausages and mac'n'cheese but my pal counseled me to be not commit. Then I heard someone say something about sushi. I dumped my sausage and ran to the next banquet, which was Mexican (?) with chips and salsa and chili and more caesar salad (turns out caesar salad could be found at every station, it's that univeral) but the line for the thing in a cup (still not sure what that was -- stew?) was too long and the sushi was no where to be seen. Finally, at the back of the room, were the sushi/Asian tables. It was a vicious fight, and elbows were thrown, but some dry sushi, which took on the flavor of the sausage that I had rested most of the pieces on, was won.

Then, more libations. Stevie, Lenny and Billy were all slated to start at 9:45 pm, so we had some time to kill. We headed for the smoking section. Made friends with a Southern guy who worked in human resources and didn't really have a preference for Lenny, Billy or Stevie. "I'm here to get drunk," he said candidly. Fair enough.

Uh-oh. We had spent too much time outside and it was 9:40! The front of the stage was fairly packed. We pushed through towards the side of the stage, spilling our drinks on the way, which, although it wasn't the intention, did help clear the path. A guy got onstage and said, "Well, do you know who's playing tonight?" "Steeeeeevvvvvvviieee", we screamed.

But not yet. Two, no, three suits got on stage and said something about something. Then it got dark again.

The lights went on and the first thing I saw was the hair of the drummer -- massive blond curls in a giant bun on top of his head. Awesome. Then I saw the hair of the bass guitarist -- long cascading curls over a model-thin frame. He looked like a cool acid casualty. Then Stevie. She was dressed in a black blazer, obviously made for her with theatrical bits of fabric sticking out, and a black witch-y dress.Her hair, blond and straight with the trademark bangs, went halfway down her back. On stage left were three singers of varying ages, dressed in black. A percussionist and two keyboard/piano/organ players sat to either side of the stage. (At one point, my friend said, "Are they not allowed to move their hands?" They did seem awfully still.)

Immediately, they launch into "Stand Back", a great Stevie solo song. Then came "Crash" from her "good friend" Dave Matthews.

Now, if I haven't mentioned this before, I stopped taking notes as soon as I needed my hands to hold drinks, so I'm not totally sure about the set order. Also, once Stevie went on, my friend and I went into full-on dance mode, scaring the people near us save a few kinetic souls. It was disturbing how rigid the people were. Did they not notice it was Stevie Nicks?

After another solo Stevie song and an awkward break, she came back on with a special friend: Mick Fleetwood. He waved and smiled and took his place behind the drums which were oddly flanked by plexiglass. Any reason for the bullet-proof drum cases?

Then, boom, "Rhiannon". They started off slow, paused and then the beat kicked in. Stevie did her thing, twisting herself around her mike stand, which was strung with mardi-gras beads and punctuating her lines with clenched fist.

Then "Dreams", which she introduced by saying it was recorded in Sausalito (along with the rest of "Rumours", which is perhaps the most sexually charged album ever set on vinyl). One day, she said, someone gave her the key to Sly Stone's private studio and she sat on his bed and, "as history remembers" wrote "Dreams".

Fleetwood left the stage after a couple of songs but the Mac hits kept coming. "Gold Dust Woman", which required a costume change into a beautiful beaded shawl-wrap."Landslide", the only song which really turned into a singalong. A Tom Petty cover ("I Need to Know"). "Sorcerer".
A percussion break, and then more Stevie. She got the Led out, surprisingly, with a cover. The finale was 10-plus minutes of "Edge of Seventeen". She did air guitar! So did we. I was in a fugue state, with my ankles killing me and my new dress covered in sticky wine, but not wanting to let her leave the stage. She half-heartedly walked around to reach out to the front of the crowd but many had already fled to get more beer or catch some of Billy/Lenny.

The bus ride back gave me time to reflect on the evening, stuff myself with the complimentary desserts I had snagged on the way out (two cookies, a container of strawberries and a fudsicle) and eavesdrop on my fellow concertgoers. I learned that Billy had pulled someone from AC/DC on stage and done "Hell's Bells". Someone said Lenny was "awesome" but offered no proof. A new Oracle couple behind me discussed the problems of long distance dating ("It's like if I don't find a way to come back, she's going to be gone in six months," he said as if she wasn't there. "Six months! Try a week," she replied and then admitted she had a date scheduled the next night) and made-out noisily. Business was discussed. Plans were made to hit the town ("North Beach is where it's AT"). Someone had the audacity to opine that Stevie must be "at least 80".

But there was one lone fan. A visibly intoxicated girl in a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt made her way to the back to use the bathroom. She had a dreamy look on her face. I tried to catch her eye to communicate my appreciation at her shirt but she wasn't looking at me. She was smiling at some guy in a pink button-down. Oh well.