You couldn't have asked for better weather. Michelle and I recited an affirmation to each other: "We aren't going to let ourselves be bothered by the crowds. We aren't going to get pissed off when people are talking over the music; we're going to communicate this to each other and move to a better spot. There are things worse than having the backpack of the person in front of you shoved into your chest." And a few others; we traded them back and forth as we walked to Mercer and made the turn under 99. This was new to both of us; neither of us had been onsite from doors open to doors close.
It had been about ten years since I last saw Robyn Hitchcock. Last time I did, he was headlining Bumbershoot at the old Coliseum. It was a bit strange when he encouraged, from the stage, the crowd imagining a large blade sweeping across the Coliseum and beheading everyone on the floor. Then right into "Balloon Man". This time we would be seeing him in the Opera House; Tuatura was opening. I talked him up a great deal to Michelle.
Michelle at the time was going to massage school - she was into any music that could relax and not compromise her alternative leanings. So Tuatura was a perfect fit. Since everyone was politely sitting at the noon hour, there were no contentious backpacks. Being in the aesthetically lit Opera House while the sun is at its zenith...that's a bit weird, though.
Tuatura was a revolving door of musicians and feast of ambient sounds. Their first album remains a fave to this day. When Robyn came on, he was joined on stage by members of Tuatura (Scott Mccoi! Peter Buck!) before I really understood the incestuous relationships and inner band workings of all these local musicians. I beamed when Michelle approved of Robyn.
We migrated to the main staage to catch David Byrne. Neither of us had big expectations; it was an opportunity to sit in the stands and relax for a couple hours. We were treated to a great set. I think it was special since Mr. Bryne has been performing solo long enough to where he just decided - fuck it - I'm going to do Talking Heads songs. It's a festival, after all. There's a mix of frustration and respect when you follow a lead singer beyond their own band and a desire to re-create your own virginity manifests in leaving the history that everyone knows you for, in the dust. On this occasion, David Bryne came out on stage wearing the oversized suit - this time in hot pink - and all intentions were clear. It was a huge, unexpected, pleasant surprise.
After that it was into the familiar. We caught Kristen Hersh at the westernmost stage. Well, most of it. It was effing hot, I'd forgotten my sunscreen, and we were exposed. Mind you, this precedes the genius of Sunnyborder Blue. Kristen was very finicky about getting her guitar in the right tuning while the crowd baked. We saw some friends of ours, said hi, but only made it through half the set. It's a little weird to fall short of a fanaticism in retrospect: I've learned every song I possibly can, of Kristen's or the Throwing Muses, on the guitar.
It's even weirder to look at all the acts we missed. Michelle and I thought we were making a tremendous effort as we went off-site to get dinner, but these are some of the acts we would miss this weekend: Beck, Goodness, Sonic Youth, Tenacious D (1997? For Real??), David Cross (though I would stand behind him at a New Pornographer's show a couple years later), Foo Fighters (meh.), Margaret Cho (yes!), Sleater-Kinney (A band I would become very passionate about around the same time they call it quits: I saw them only once), Tom Robbins (O. M. G.). But getting off-site was part of our plan. We wanted to regroup, we wanted a quiet space away from the food vendors where I could whip out my syringe and take my shot inconspicuously. A little reinforcement, for the final round.
Which we had plans and backup plans for: Beck. Failing that, Cake. We saw neither.
We hooked up with some friends from the massage schood who were gushng over El Vez. They were insistent we join. We talked it over and were easy with it: Beck was going to be chaos (in retrospect, I think there were casualties) and we admitted to each other that Cake was always going to be a sad alternative anyways.
Michelle and I saw one of the best shows we had ever seen. El Vez - and the El-Vettes-brought the magic. The revue was an uptempo rollercoaster from start to finish, with great music and overacted drama and a general lifting: sometimes music takes you out of everything you're familiar with and drops you in an unfamiliar place. This was one of those moments. We walked away converts, with no regrets over the shows we didn't attend...
...and that was the last show of the night. We raved to each other as we walked the mile back to our home. We had a slight advantage, getting out before Beck was finishing his set on the main stage. And you might be wondering: okay, a nice day of shows. Four, if you are keeping count. You've been to probably over two hundred shows - and this day is more memorable than any other? Even though you go to Bumbershoot every year and could write a short piece for any one of them? How about the time you saw John Wesley Harding for the first time...or the Minus 5? How about the Wilco / Shins set? Or R.E.M.? Certainly seeing Isaac Hayes or Elvis Costello in the Arena had to amount to something? Or the time you were there late for Kristen Hersh, and went into insulin shock? Or the first time you went to Bumbershoot without Michelle - and even though you went on a life-threatening ride with a beautiful new woman, you had to go home and cry because nothing seemed right to you anymore. Any of it could just as well suit.
Well, we walked home, ranting and ragging over El Vez. We made the trek up Dexter, we thudded the soft steps up to our second floor apartment, and dropped like bags of potatoes onto the futon chair. And we turned on the television.
As we flipped through channels - different shots of a wreckage near a tunnel - we were like archaeologists unearthing a new grief. Princess Di was dead. A skepticism kicks in - sometimes healthy, sometimes conspiratorial - but this is what the television was telling us. Princess Di was dead because her driver was outracing the paparazzi. A stupid reason. But undeniable in it's efficacy. You have a moment where you sum up what this person means to you - nothing , really - but the moment where you sum up what it means to the world quickly follows. And you are submerged in empathy. A saddening empathy that makes you want to kick down your neighbor's door and ask them if they've heard the news.
Michelle and I were pretty much dead to the world when the news hit; all a sudden we are on our feet and pacing as though this mattered to us. As though it could impact us. We kept the television on for a short time...it didn't take long to ascertain that the news was repeating itself...and decided to roll into bed half-shellshocked. We had woken up that day with an ambitious plan of action; we went to sleep bereft of any sense of accomplishing it.
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