If a tree falls in a blog, does anybody read it? I’m guessing my readership is pretty low at the moment, and I haven’t really thrown a lot of dedication into it yet in order to win hearts, minds, etc. Since I’m planning on stealing some Original Pirate Material from that class blog I’m also writing for, let’s toss in a quick little post here that I promised, RE: Underage Drinking.
Honestly, the wall above my bed speaks to me. It’s where I keep my ticket stubs, or at least the ones that haven’t gotten lost along the way. I look at each one, and it tells me stories. Some are funny, some are sad. Some are profound, and some are merely anecdotal. Some of them have volumes of stories all packed into one tiny paper rectangle— others I won’t bore you with here. One fish, two fish, red story, blue story— it’s all there in the Blogpage Subheading. But all of them are a part of me, and I care for every story, no matter how mundane. So screw you, ok? No, I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, baby. Well, that being said, I’m going to get you warmed up with an easy one. Nothing too deep, potentially… slightly preachy, but I’ll spare you that precious saline in your eyesockets during Round I. Maybe you’ll get a chuckle out of it, too.
Before I start, I need to introduce my first (of many) character(s). She was my musical Partner In Crime (P.I.C.) for the better part of two (2) years, and thus she will probably appear in a good amount of these anecdotal recreations. In July of 2006, The String Cheese Incident came to Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Morrison, Colorado for a two night stand with Bob Weir & Ratdog. Cheesedog, as we called it. (What a clever bunch, we fans are) Anyway, in the lots before the show, I was introduced to this girl named Kristin. Tall, tan, and beautiful— with blonde hair down to her belly button. I mean, her belly button equivalent; she didn’t wear her hair in front. And by tall I mean relatively tall; she’s my height-ish, with me coming in at a towering 5’8’’. We basically rocked that show together that day, and, as they say, the rest is “yada yada.” Kristin and I were basically together, although we never called it as such, for the next two years. Being that both of us are tragically obsessed with live music, there are nearly One Hundred and Four musical stories from the recent portion of my show-going career in which she is a character. For those of you who, like me, are not Mathematics Majors, that estimate is based on a healthy once-a-week concert diet during the time we were together— sometimes more, sometimes less (That’s 2 years X 52 weeks, carry the one…). Thus, you see my need to introduce her to you. Henceforth we will call her the Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM). The nickname is partly for convenience (a la Bill Simmons, "The Sports Guy"), and partly as a shameless plug for my buddy Charlie’s awesome rap by essentially the same name— which you can find on his blog *here* .
* * *
Fast forward to September of 2007. Do the Wayne’s World “Temporal Switch Squiggle-Vision” thing, if you’re into crowd participation. The Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM) and I had gotten into the habit of trampling over the sick & weak in order to secure good seats for General Admission Red Rocks shows, during the traditional 50 Yard Dash that is held at this venue two hours before every concert. See, what people don’t realize about Red Rocks until they’ve seen it happen, is that, when there is any amount of wind during a show, the Great Aeolus (in all of his wine-infused Greek wisdom), decides to steal the sound for himself. This can be a major Buzz Kill. However, this Buzz Kill can be eliminated if you are willing to elbow Women, Children, and Disabled in order to snag that elusive Row 1-15.
Honestly, the wall above my bed speaks to me. It’s where I keep my ticket stubs, or at least the ones that haven’t gotten lost along the way. I look at each one, and it tells me stories. Some are funny, some are sad. Some are profound, and some are merely anecdotal. Some of them have volumes of stories all packed into one tiny paper rectangle— others I won’t bore you with here. One fish, two fish, red story, blue story— it’s all there in the Blogpage Subheading. But all of them are a part of me, and I care for every story, no matter how mundane. So screw you, ok? No, I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, baby. Well, that being said, I’m going to get you warmed up with an easy one. Nothing too deep, potentially… slightly preachy, but I’ll spare you that precious saline in your eyesockets during Round I. Maybe you’ll get a chuckle out of it, too.
Before I start, I need to introduce my first (of many) character(s). She was my musical Partner In Crime (P.I.C.) for the better part of two (2) years, and thus she will probably appear in a good amount of these anecdotal recreations. In July of 2006, The String Cheese Incident came to Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Morrison, Colorado for a two night stand with Bob Weir & Ratdog. Cheesedog, as we called it. (What a clever bunch, we fans are) Anyway, in the lots before the show, I was introduced to this girl named Kristin. Tall, tan, and beautiful— with blonde hair down to her belly button. I mean, her belly button equivalent; she didn’t wear her hair in front. And by tall I mean relatively tall; she’s my height-ish, with me coming in at a towering 5’8’’. We basically rocked that show together that day, and, as they say, the rest is “yada yada.” Kristin and I were basically together, although we never called it as such, for the next two years. Being that both of us are tragically obsessed with live music, there are nearly One Hundred and Four musical stories from the recent portion of my show-going career in which she is a character. For those of you who, like me, are not Mathematics Majors, that estimate is based on a healthy once-a-week concert diet during the time we were together— sometimes more, sometimes less (That’s 2 years X 52 weeks, carry the one…). Thus, you see my need to introduce her to you. Henceforth we will call her the Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM). The nickname is partly for convenience (a la Bill Simmons, "The Sports Guy"), and partly as a shameless plug for my buddy Charlie’s awesome rap by essentially the same name— which you can find on his blog *here* .
* * *
Fast forward to September of 2007. Do the Wayne’s World “Temporal Switch Squiggle-Vision” thing, if you’re into crowd participation. The Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM) and I had gotten into the habit of trampling over the sick & weak in order to secure good seats for General Admission Red Rocks shows, during the traditional 50 Yard Dash that is held at this venue two hours before every concert. See, what people don’t realize about Red Rocks until they’ve seen it happen, is that, when there is any amount of wind during a show, the Great Aeolus (in all of his wine-infused Greek wisdom), decides to steal the sound for himself. This can be a major Buzz Kill. However, this Buzz Kill can be eliminated if you are willing to elbow Women, Children, and Disabled in order to snag that elusive Row 1-15.
(Note: So it’s not really that cutthroat— we call this “hyperbole,” in the biz— but there are a lot of people who are envious of Row 1-15, who feel that this practice is “cheating,” and by appeasing them, they might continue to read my blog. I’ve got to preserve my precious few readers any way I can, gad-demmit, gad-demmit.)
The skies had been glaring down all afternoon, and about ten minutes after we had put down our blanket in Row 1-15, they decided to do like Paul Pierce and, “make it rain.” Me and the Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM) headed to a nook by the right of the stage for shelter. Soon we were joined by a multitude of other folk, including a small gaggle of ‘boppers. You know those kids who just exude “under 21”? Yeah. At “Jamband” shows (Don’t worry, I hate that term even more than you do. In fact, I just threw up a little in my mouth knowing that I actually put it out on the World Wide Web.), these Kidders wear their ‘bopper badges like Goddam Highway Worker Reflector Vests. Believe me, I know. I’m sure there is a shoebox circa 2000 in my closet somewhere with a few of my own badges. EVERYONE has them, and I will get to that later. Typical “Jamband” Reflector Vest Packages include one (1) three inch (3’’) diameter hemp necklace, usually with appropriately heavy glass bead, a “funky” (translation: weird) hat, and at least one other Piece of Flare. These particular kids, God bless ‘em, had it all, right down to the patchwork pants and tie-dye shirts.
After about five minutes, the HDM made me aware of the fact that the Kidders were checking us out and whispering amongst themselves. Upon making eye-contact, one of them approached me. I smiled, knowingly. “Hey, um… you think you guys could buy us a beer?” Now, farbeit from me to condone underage drinking— but come on, it was raining. So the kid hands us a ten, and the HDM heads off for some brew. I strike up a little conversation with the lad while we wait, and he spins me a pretty classic background story. Denver Suburb X natives, their parents dropped them off at the Park-n-Ride (I shit you not, Wayne’s World fans). My lost youth was suddenly flooding back.
A bit of small-talk later, and the HDM returned with a couple of home-grown heady Coors Lights. The Standard Underage Beer Transaction (SUB-T) was complete when he told us to “keep the change” (over half the price of his beer). Separated from the flock, he eyed his compatriots for a moment. What he saw was an opportunity to impress a couple of older kids. With a gleam of Confidence in his eye, he turned back to us and said, “Hey— check THIS out.”
At this point the kid begins to chug. With plenty of time to think, I began to make non-verbal conjecture with the HDM about what might be going on. It soon dawned on us that his plan was to drink most, if not all, of what was to be the gaggle’s communal beer (most likely procured with communal funds). Then, he would arrive back at the gaggle, with his Ask For Beer Merit Badge in hand, and ha! The joke is on them!! What a prank, a Classic.
About ten minutes into his pint-sized marathon, he begins to falter. I swear, I’m almost verbally rooting for him at this point, really. Then, he hits the dreaded “wall.” He comes up for air, and as the foam settles, we see that he has taken a whole… inch and a half out of this beer. Ouch. In the quiet words of George W., “Mission: Accomplished.” (?) Needless to say, all three parties involved were without speech. As the Kidder returned to the gaggle, proverbial tail between his legs, we remained in repose. I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the moment, but some combination of empathetic embarrassment and something else kept my laughter at bay. What was it? I think I was rooting for him to Win.
Because we’ve all been there, and that’s something people in the music-going scene are so hesitant to admit these days. When I was a sophomore in high school, a couple of Seniors took me to my first Phil Lesh show. Even though they were technically less than a year older than me (repeated 9th grade, oops!), I was that kid chugging the metaphorical beer. Had they laughed in my face at all of my beautiful innocence, where would I be now? Besides a lot wealthier, that is. I don’t know, maybe I was fated to spend the next decade (or four) in constant pursuit of The Next Show no matter what. But they took me in. And every older kid across the country who ever bought me a beer when I was underage at a show, or passed me some grass, or just fucking smiled when I was dancing like a lunatic in the aisles— these people are at least partly responsible for my seeing so much great music in the twelve or thirteen years I’ve been going to see it live (great older bro and responsibly permissive parents included), and for who I am as a member of this human community.
Perhaps it’s the advent of the Internet Community, but message boards and Public Personal Opinions (hmm, self-reflexive moment, I guess) these days seem to be flooded with “hatred” for anyone without a hundred shows under their belts. People who build so-called personas through the anonymity of sites like PhantasyTour aren’t concerned with being exposed as thirty-something wannabes, and flaunt their “stats” as an excuse to take a distant look at the Kidders down their arrogant, upturned noses. One particular such character who frequents PhantasyTour’s Yonder Mountain String Band forum is especially notorious for this. Essentially, anything he says on the board is Gospel, somehow he has been anointed King of the Message Board. And he uses this power with reckless abandon. But you know what? The Kidders read the message boards, and they feel your looks at shows. Especially the ones who may have eaten something a little stronger than the Sweet-Tarts they’re used to. The Internet Kings keep dishing and eyeing, thinking that it’s all harmless fun. But in many ways, it’s not.
My heart goes out to them, chugging that elusive beer. Nurture! My response to the Internet Kings is always this: would you rather the kids were raging on Insane Clown Posse tour? Really? ICP? In the hiz-ouse? If you scare off new-comers, the music dies with you. What a horrible, selfish notion that is. I’m not saying don’t have a laugh. Have a laugh. In private. They’re funny, the beer-chuggers. But only laugh with the distinct awareness that you are laughing at yourself, too. If you don’t believe me, go into your closet. Go now. I’ll wait. There’s a shoebox in there. It’s got about ten years of dust on it, go ahead and dust that som’bitch off. That’s your hemp necklace in there, guy. Right next to that failed attempt at a dreadlock you had to cut off. I’m not sure why you saved that keepsake, though— you sick, sick bastard. You smell what I’m cookin’ though, right? (And hopefully not your former dreadlock.)
Wow, that anecdote even turned into a Message. I must say, I am a fantastic blogger— I’ve always thought that. I’m really getting the hang of this thing, now. It’s like a new pair of underwear: at first it’s constricting… but eventually… it becomes a part of you. But you don’t have to take my word for it.
Ba-Damp-Damp!
Breeding Ground for Beer-Chugging Kidders:
Yonder Mountain String Band
Red Rocks Amphitheatre
September 2, 2007
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