Friday, November 01, 2013

Only Way to Beat It Is to Bat It Down

And the only way you're going to get that title is by listening to the song at the end. So there.

We have a pretty sweet recording/performance studio at my work.

And by sweet, I mean, it's the kind of place in which world-renowned artists have performed (like, yannow, that Yo-Yo Ma guy, for one). And, since a certain adult alternative (AAA or triple-A) format launched a couple of years ago, the performance studio has become a veritable revolving door of any manner of musicians dropping by to visit and record.

Mostly, I don't pay too much attention. I'm compensated for my work and they prefer it when I work and my work does not include loitering near the performance studio to catch a glimpse of the bands. Occasionally, when I'm lucky (or unlucky...depending on who it is), a band will load in through the door right next to my office and I can peep out my blinds and ogle them like the dirty, dirty voyeur I am. Which then gives me bragging rights because I can honestly say I have been two feet away from a handful of famous folks...even if there was a wall between us and they couldn't see me.

Every once in awhile though, if it's a particular favorite of mine or if I have a special connection to the band (like any time Alameda and my friend, Jessie, come in), I'll make a point to find business near the performance studio.

As an aside, did you know that if you carry papers in your hand and walk through highly populated areas relatively fast, you look busy and important and no one questions your motive or destination? It's true.


There are a handful of musicians who, if they magically appeared before me, I'd promptly drop to the floor  and uncontrollably flop like a fish out of water in a self-induced fan-girl swoon. Artists who have touched me in profound, intimate, formative ways. Paul Westerberg comes to mind. Bob Mould, check. Mark Kozelek, yes, yes, yes. Zoe Keating, of course. Also, Patti Smith and Exene Cervenka would likely render me unconscious. And if they all came in together, you'd probably need to order an ambulance in advance. There are others. Bowie, David Byrne, Robert Smith, Debbie Harry, Terri Nunn, Greg Gaffin, Trent Reznor, Gary Numan...larger than life and, frankly, unimaginable.

But none of those artists (and more) are likely to roll into our humble little performance studio. Yo-Yo Ma was a well-timed fluke...right? RIGHT?! That's what I believed anyway. At least, I did until this week.

And then Tuesday happened.

Tuesday morning, mid-morning, I was attempting to schedule a conference room for a training session and accidentally clicked on the calendar for the performance studio. Before I could realize my mistake I saw, scheduled from 10 a.m. to noon, "Mike Doughty". Don't worry. I have edit access to that room's calendar. I was totally allowed to be all up in it. And the booking wasn't intended to be clandestine or anything.

Perhaps it should have been.

At that moment, it was 10:46 a.m.

My heart started racing. MIKE DOUGHTY! OMG! He's here! He's here! He's OMMFG! Mike Doughty is yards away!!!! 

I do realize this means nothing to most of you. 

Suffice it to say that Mike Doughty is, to me, one of those artists I might faint if I met in real life. (Hide the glassware.)

Knowing time was of the essence, I leaped up from my desk and ran - yes, I...who never runs...ran from my desk out into the lobby where I came to a screeching halt when I saw Keefer, the guru who coordinates such artists for the performance studio.


Me: Is *gasp* Mike Doughty really *gasp* in this building?

Keefer (while looking at his phone): Huh? What?

Me: Is. Mike. Doughty. Really. Truly. In. This. Building?"

Keefer (looking worried): He just pulled out of the parking lot.

Me: ... ... ...

Keefer: He finished up a few minutes ago. That's him in the RV pulling out of the parking lot.

Me: ... ... ... *tears welling up* FUCK!!!!!!!!! Excuse my language. [Inappropriate for an HR professional in a high-traffic area.]

Keefer: Are you a fan?

Me:  I'm...yes, I'm a fan. I have every album he's ever put out.

Keefer: Oh! Wow. I'm sorry you missed him. Do you want me to put you on the list for his show tonight? Free tix.

Me: Where?

Keefer: Boulder Theater.

Me:... ... ...

Yeah, right. Me drive to Boulder. At night. On the freeway. Alone. Sounds likely. Or not. Not even for Mike Doughty. For Acr0nym or my mom in an emergency MAYBE. But only if it's life or limb threatening and even then only maybe.

Me: Shit! [Still inappropriate language.] No.  I can't...I can't get to Boulder.

Keefer: If you change your mind, let me know. I won't turn in the VIP list until 1.

I slowly walked away.

PS Yes, I stopped driving on the highway most of the time two years ago. I can do it, occasionally, if I absolutely have to but will avoid it if at all possible and, with the exception of a trip up to Loveland this summer - and only because I had 3 other licensed, mostly capable drivers in the car with me, have avoided driving on the highway outside very specific Denver city limits ever since.

1 comment:

TangledLou said...

Mike Doughty! Mike Doughty! I would have chased down the RV, I do believe. I would have climbed aboard and made him talk to me. His lyrics are the poetry I long to write: simple and razor sharp, compelling and absurd at the same time.
Sigh. Mike Doughty.