VARIOUS SHORT STORIES
MUSICAL ENCOUNTERS
Or How to Annoy Rock Stars
PRINCE
So there was this movie called Welcome to the Dollhouse that came out maybe mid-90s. I attended the Minneapolis premiere.
Not that it was some big event, mind you. But it was the premiere. At the Uptown theater in Minneapolis.
After the show and on the way out of the theater, we (we being myself and my roommate at the time) rounded the corner, headed
for my car. When some people came out of the theater side door just in front of us. I wasn't really paying attention.
Suddenly, my roommate remarked (a bit loudly I might add), "Look at that chick trying to look like Prince."
I looked up. The person she was referring to looked straight at us. And just as it dawned on us that it was, in fact, Prince,
that fact was brought home by a carload of screaming girls yelling, "Prince! Prince! Oh my god!"
So my ex-roommate has the distinction of unwittingly insulting Prince to his face.
Now let me just state that I think Prince is one of the most kickass, rock-on, undeniably cool people around. And I consider it
wonderful that he is a Minneapolis boy. Or man. Either way, he is controversial, revolutionary, and cool.
But it was still sorta funny.
TIM EASTON, MARK EITZEL, AND IFFY
I went with Shannon to this show. We got there early so we could get a good table. Little did we know...
Iffy started. They were in a good mood and kept joking that [Jim] Boquist (I forget which brother) didn't get the memo regarding their matching
outfits. It was cute. Then in between Iffy and Tim, a couple sat down at our table and decided to chat. They were these weird, too-cool-for-school
types that wore all black, smoked galoises, and were steeped in pretension. The guy told us, completely unasked, that he was a Playboy photographer.
And we're like, Um, okay. Then he gets this glint in his eye, and says, "Or maybe I'm lying. You'll never know!" Shannon and I looked
at each other. No, dude, we'll never care. Subtle—yet big—difference.
Anyway, Tim came on and had a great set and Shannon loved it. The couple? Not so much. Apparently they didn't come for the music and kept trying
to talk to us. Finally, in the middle of Tim, they left. Relieved, we settled in again. Tim finished and left the stage.
Then these two guys sat down at our table, raring to chat. It seems they were there for Eitzel only. Fine, whatever. I
don't even remember what we talked about. Don't really care either. Finally Mark came on and I really wasn't into his stuff. I've heard great
things about him and I believe he's critically acclaimed, but I just wasn't feeling him.
Our newfound friends were, however. They were clapping and screaming and yelling out songs, and Shannon and I were just praying that no one
thought these guys were with us. I think we even tried telling people around us as much.
Partway into the set, Mark was chatting up the crowd and said something about how great Tim Easton was and how much he was enjoying touring
with him. One of our tablemates screamed at the top of his lungs, "He's not as good as you!"
Mark stopped, stared at the guy for a second, and said finally , and quite forcefully, "Fuck. You." And proceeded into the next song.
The screamer looked crestfallen. I just clapped as hard as I could for my new best friend.
And that is why I will always love Mark Eitzel.
OLD 97S
When Satellite Rides was first coming out, the boys did a prerelease show for suits at the Turf Club. Somehow, I got
tickets and was going with a friend. We got to the club and, as we were waiting, I pulled out the tickets and realized that, while I had two
tickets, one of them was for Buckner (I think) who was playing the following week.
Crap.
So I had to—very quickly—drive back to my apartment in downtown Minneapolis to get the right ticket and make the show.
In the process of going to my car I slipped on ice and tore my hand open.
Crap.
Anyway, I flew home, grabbed the correct ticket, checked maybe 8 times to make sure it was indeed the right ticket, and flew back
to the Turf Club. Fortunately, my friend was still waiting outside, as the doors hadn't opened yet.
Yay.
Unfortunately, she was standing with this guy who had a crush on me. A crush that was not mutual. He had heard I had tickets and
had come down to try and get in.
Crap.
In his defense, he was a huge Old 97s fan. Anyway, someone sold him a ticket while we were in line.
Crap.
The doors finally opened and we found a decent table. There were Christmas lights everywhere and dozens of square posters of the
album (I stole a three-panel table promo) and the new album was playing.
The show started. I should mention that I have never been to a disappointing Old 97s show. These guys (especially Rhett) have
an energy that just blows your mind. And that night was no different. They played a mix of old and new. I remember repeatedly telling my friends
that they would love "Designs on You" and they just blew me off. Until they heard the song. Ha! I admit it, I gloated.
Finally, the show closed with Niteclub.
No. Better. Ending. Ever. The house lights came up and people started chatting and mingling. One of my friends accidentally backhanded
Murray Hammond. Then the light to the Clown Lounge went on and my friend decided to go downstairs, leaving me with a chance to let crush-boy
down privately.
Crap.
It went quick, it was painless, and that was that.
My friend rejoined me and said that the band was downstairs signing autographs. I went down with cardboard poster in hand and
weaseled my way to the back and up to Rhett. As we were waiting, my friend motioned to someone else on the couch and said:
"I talked to Harold."
My response: "Sweetie, that's Murray Hammond."
"No! He told that his name was Harold."
Anyway, Rhett signed my poster ("Hi Claire!"), handed it to Murray who signed it and added a very Gilligan Island-esque "and
the rest."
We finally got out of there and went to the bathroom. The door across from it was open and my friend (a Turf Club regular) decided
we were going to see if any other band members were in there. Since she knew the guy at the door, he let us through.
Ken Betthea was back there drinking a beer. We barged in and sat down. I was completely awkward but my friend (a very beautiful
and charismatic woman) just started chatting Ken up. She was born in Texas as was he, and so they talked mainly about that. I had nothing, so
I just listened. We stayed there until the place closed. Good times.
I saw Old 97s again when they returned to do a First Ave. show a month or two later, and they completely rocked again. Strangely
enough, after the show, we were in the upstairs bar and Ken walked by. I stopped him and said hello. He didn't remember me but he did remember
my friend and stopped to chat. The conversation was concluded by Ken crawling around on his hands and knees imitating his son searching for Easter
eggs.
Have you seen the floor of First Ave? That's dedication to a bit.
I love The Old 97s.
