Perspective from a Fan or Two

Perspective. It's a crazy thing.

The woman at the Alfie Boe concert Wednesday I thought was distracting (Concert Craziness, Etiquette) had a few choice words to write about me.

This Alfies Arrow [sic] was "embarrassed for this town." The show wasn't sold out and the audience members were not on their feet, which is what she thought was fitting for this performer.

Here's what I saw and experienced at the Birchmere that night:

• At least two people within arm's reach of me used canes to walk and stand. 
• Many in the crowd were older, and didn't move fast or nimbly. 
• Standing required the participation of everyone re-arranging their chairs.
• I couldn't cross my ankles without kicking someone under the table.
• I could not comfortably stand at my table. Instead, I knelt on my seat and twisted my back in an uncomfortable angle.
• When my brother-in-law moved, I could not see the stage — so the people behind me would have suffered the same fate had I stood.

I hope this Arrow finds a venue and audience that better suits her sensibilities, as we certainly did not.

Myself, I will continue to see Alfie Boe at the Birchmere as many times as he chooses to perform there, and I will join my fellow fans in the intimate venue that welcomes him in their own, loving way.

Update 2/11/2013: The online statement mentioned above was updated. Let's just enjoy the music. Merry meet.

Concert Craziness, Etiquette

I met a woman at the latest Alfie Boe concert that made me wonder if I'm getting too old and crochety to attend live music events.

The venue was general admission, and most people who sat in the very front of the theater had arrived early that morning to be first in line to choose their seats. My brother-in-law arrived an hour before the doors opened, and we chose seats immediately behind these fans for our party of seven.

Next to our table sat a woman entirely in black clothing — black jeans, black leather jacket, black blouse — with her long, brown hair clipped in barrettes down her back. She was hard to ignore from the start. This look was in contrast to others in the audience mostly wearing "office casual" clothes or outfits suitable for dining out in cold weather. (For the record, I was in blue jeans, a long-sleeved red sweater and black tennis shoes — or "trainers," as Alfie and his fellow Brits would call them. My husband was similarly dressed.)

The Lady in Black was pacing around the theater before the show, chatting up others along the stage. I figured she was among the "uber-fans" who lined the stage area and had attended the previous night's concert as well. Compared to these people, I was a Jane-come-lately, despite being a very enthusiastic fan who praises the talents of Alfie Boe to all within earshot.

When the lights went down and the musicians hit the stage, Lady in Black went wild. She jumped to her feet when a song began, waved her hands in the air, clapped enthusiastically and cheered vociferously. I was no slouch with my cheering and clapping; however, knowing the venue, I stayed in my seat, for the most part, so the three people behind me could see the performer on stage.

The Lady in Black was oblivious to anyone around her. Well, most of the time. During one of his rock song performances, she started flapping her arms and screaming to the people around her, "Stand up!" People told her to sit down. She looked at me and screamed, "Stand up!" I yelled back, "Enough!" (I heard my husband tell her to shut up.) She leaned over to me and yelled, "I'm with the band!" I replied in her ear through gritted teeth, "I don't care. Enough." She looked at me for a moment, then turned her attention to the others around her. Eventually, she took her seat again.

After the show, she interrupted my conversation to explain that, if they were in London, ten thousand people would have been on their feet, dancing. "I just felt bad for him," she said.

I thought: there are hundreds of people at this modest venue, many of whom queued up at 9 a.m. in freezing weather to see him. He was doing the things that made him the happiest (and, hopefully, making a decent wage doing so). And she felt bad for him because the audience, comprised in a large part of older public television viewers, wasn't on their feet in the non-existent aisles and blocking the view of the people behind them? Please. I didn't want to hear apologies, explanations or justifications. I just wanted her to finally leave me alone.

I told her simply her actions were distracting to the audience during the show. She apologized and left.

I'm not docile or quiet at a concert. I sometimes jump out of my seat when I hear a song I like, clap and cheer, sing along and join in the fray around me. The music is loud, the fans are happy and we're all there for a good time. However, anyone louder than the very amplified voice of the person on stage is too loud. I hope the Lady in Black remembers that at her next concert. I'll try to do the same.

Lowen & Navarro, El Fin Del Camino

It was Valentine's Day humpty-million years ago.

Rob and I were driving to the Birchmere to see one of his favorite bands, Lowen & Navarro. He couldn't have been happier: he was back in town after a few long years of grad school, he was following his calling to be a teacher and he was about to introduce one of his closest friends to one of his favorite musical groups.

To say Rob loves music is like saying I love books. 'Nuff said.

So, he popped in a tape of theirs (I warned you that it was a long time ago!) and I listened. It was good. I enjoyed it — but I just couldn't see the "dance in your seat" aspect of their performance. I hoped I'd get it when I saw them.

And boy, did I! I made Rob recommend two CDs for me to purchase on the spot (which I did: Broken Moon and Live Radio) and both Eric and Dan signed them for me.

Rob also had an interesting relationship with them: he was the civics teacher of the past president of the L&N Fan Club. It was kismet, our meeting.

And for more than a decade, our relationship was one of give-and-take: they gave performances and I took joy in them. I saw them at all of the local venues, and I thoroughly enjoyed their work. I scribbled furiously during their performances as their images brought forth a torrent of my own images. I can point at three of my poems that came directly from lines in three of their songs.

In 2005, I watched Eric walked on stage at the Barns of Wolf Trap with the help of a cane. Seems he had been diagnosed with ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig's Disease. At the time, I thought it was sad, but he was okay: a cane and a stool weren't a bad compromise if he could keep performing.

How mighty is the silence, indeed. By now, I hope you Googled the disease. By now, you know more than I did at first. In little words, the nefarious disease robs the body of its ability to function over time. Eric wasn't going to need only a cane. He wouldn't stop at a stool.

But I decided to be there in the audience for as long as he and Dan would let me. For a while, Eric could play his guitar (if someone put it in his arms). Then he could sing. Then, at last, he sat on stage with oxygen and MC'ed his final concert at the place it started for me: The Birchmere.

Rob was there. So were his wife Melissa and my husband David, both of whom came to the L&N fold even later than I.

Dan tossed packages of tissue into the audience, which he mused aloud that we might need. (They had just played The Ram's Head the night before, so he knew of whence he spoke.)

Many people sang Eric's songs for him, including Eddie from Ohio, one of my other favorite bands and another of Rob's successful recommendations. Others who joined them on stage were family, literally — their children.

Eric quipped during the show, introducing acts and making jokes as he could. He revealed the last time he played the guitar, which was captured on his last album.

Once (and only once!), when Dan couldn't keep it together, he took a quick moment at the back of the stage, then came back forward and sang the song of Cilantro, a character on an animated series I had never seen. I teared up from time to time as the music played, but Dan's moment touched me — well, almost as much as his Cilantro song did. I will be conducting my stepdaughter's marriage ceremony next June, and I will use that as my secret weapon against losing my composure. If it's good enough for Dan, it's good enough for me.

In the end, Eric spoke the words of one of my favorite L&N songs, "If I Was the Rain." Dan led the audience in their last performance of their trademark (and most famously covered) song, "We Belong." I stood on a chair, David steadying me, and I grasped Rob's hand as he held Melissa. We all belonged together at that moment.

As the last note played, as the performers exited stage left (or is it right? Dan couldn't tell, either), I knew it wasn't really the end. I know it sounds corny, but Eric and Dan would forever perform together for me: in the wonderful memories I had, in my long and fantastic friendship with the man who introduced us, in the poems they would continue to inspire within me.

In the future, I will get used to seeing Dan on the stage with others, or without. I'll continue to support him, and I look forward to his future as a solo artist or his work with other musicians.

Eric isn't holding a guitar these days, he's not playing off Dan's quirky humor — but he's there, oh, he's there — in my heart and my memory, he is there.