How do you come down from a concert high, once the last note has been sung, and the last bow taken?
You buy your tickets months beforehand. You prep for the concert days in advance, via an increasingly-exclusive Itunes rotation. You try on about two dozen outfits, attempting to perfect the adequate balance of hip-yet-effortless; belonging-yet-separateness; in-the-scene-but-not-OF-the scene. (Other people must do this). And for a few short hours, you are hypnotized--in the Actual Presence of the Actual Person, and all is right with the world.
And then, just like that, it's over. The roadies are dismantling the stage, and Ticketmaster is raising evil eyebrows and malevolently rubbing its hands together for managing to charge you 40% of the actual ticket cost in fees (probably).
One needs a transition from the sanctuary of the concert hall to the profane outside world. Theme parks get this; that's why you go through gift shops after you ride roller coasters.
And that's why I and about two dozen other Ray Lamontagne fans stood vigil for close to two hours outside the stage door of the Fox Theater stage door, unable to let go, hoping against hope for the chance to meet our idol.
Okay, "meet" is too strong of a word. Ray is notoriously shy and awkward with fans, and God help you if you try to take his picture. If not for my brother's goading ("sis, you gotta try"), I would never have had the presumption to wait for his appearance in the first place. But as it was, perhaps against my better judgment, I reversed my steps from the parking lot to the stage door, unarmed with autograph-able memorbilia or flash photography, hoping only, as I put it to my fellow waiters, to "bear witness."
I imagine that other music fans have this dilemma. You want badly to connect with the performer in a direct way; you want to cross their radar if only for one moment in time, even if afterwards you are immediately forgotten. You search for the appropriate words to convey the depth of your appreciation while simultaneously maintaining an unflappable, un-freakfanlike demeanor. Or, if you're a drunk middle-aged woman, you shout "Take if off, Raaaaaaaaaaaaay!" in the lull between songs. Whatever. My point: there's a certain amount of intoxication bred from proximity to a favorite artist or band, and the prospect of narrowing the gap even further can be downright impossible to resist.
But back to the stage door. I planted myself by the brick wall of the theater, slumping down and making myself as small as humanly possible. It was an odd reckoning of conscience--if I was going to make Ray nervous with my presence when he emerged from the door, I was going to do it in the least offensive way possible. I would not speak to him, I would not take my camera from my purse; I would relegate myself happily to his peripheral vision.
And if he happened to look at me, I would arrange my face into the picture of dignified gratitude and steely grace. Think Gordon Bombay in a freeze frame from his immortal "Ducks Fly Together" speech.
Fulton Reed from Stillwater, Minnesota gets it.
Seriously, just watch this video right now. You can get back to the blog.
Eventually a camaraderie formed amongst the Stage Door Crew (which, it must be said, was mostly dudes. With cheap imitation beards. And man-crushes). We relived moments of the concert, learned each others names and Other Favorite Bands, and nervously practiced our opening lines.
"Dude, do you think it would be lame if I said this?" the collegiate-looking guy directly in front of me mused to his friend. " 'I just want you to know that you're my hero. ' Would that be too gay?"
"No man, go for it."
As the night wore on into early morning and the crowd thinned, lines were reworked, and ultimately scratched ("Ah, forget it man. I'm just gonna say 'Thanks.' He'd get that, right?")
The crowd easily fell into two camps: Those Who Had Ray's Best Interests at Heart vs. Those Who Were Holding Cameras. Those of us from Camp A disdainfully cast judging glances at Camp B, which broadly consisted of women with spray-tans, high-heels, and noticeably dyed hair. Obviously, these exploitative opportunists had no right to be there.
"Guys," Camp A ventured to caution, "he reeeaaallly doesn't like cameras. Those will just make him nervous."
Warnings like this made it hard not to feel like we were waiting for the emergence of Punxsutawney Phil. If Ray pokes his head out and sees a camera, he will retreat into the womb of the backstage labyrinth. And there will be six more weeks of winter.
Groundhog RayI don't have Photoshop.
I waited with mixed feelings as the night wore on and the crowd dwindled. There was an air of holiness to us who would be found faithful long after the casual fans headed home, yet the narrowing numbers thinned the insulation I was counting on for anonymity if and when he finally materialized.
Around 1 AM, I gave it up for good. Whether or not the stagehand who told us that Ray had pulled a fast one and left through the front door was telling the truth, I'll never know.
But my efforts weren't totally in vain. Twice the opening of the stage door framed Ray Lamontagne in all of his bearded, gaunt-faced glory. Just standing there, existing. Occupying the same block of 50 yards as me.
And that, believe it or not, was worth it.
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