07-21-2004, 08:04 AM
This is from amother list I am on.
<!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A63181-2004Jul19.html">http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/ar ... Jul19.html</a><!-- m -->
Just One Request
Going to A Concert? Don't Play The Fool.
By David Segal
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, July 20, 2004; Page C01
Nick Lowe has just finished 90 minutes of solo music at the Birchmere,
a set that included all of his best-known songs -- except one. The
silver-haired daddy of British pop hasn't played "(What's So Funny
'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding," a track that he wrote and that
helped make Elvis Costello famous in the 1970s. So everybody knows
what's coming when Lowe returns to the stage for an encore. He strums
the opening chords and a ripple of delight rolls through the room.
Then stops. A man in a striped shirt has wobbled up to the stage, a
hand-drawn sign in one hand, a drink in the other. He edges so close
to the spotlight that Lowe has no choice but to ask what he wants.
"Zmmuphhmen," comes the reply. Or something like that. Lowe looks baffled.
"What?" he asks, politely.
"Zmmuphhmen!" There's a Web address on the sign, and Lowe gamely tries
to read it out loud. By now, whatever spell had mesmerized this room
is gone, replaced by confusion, which is soon replaced by rage. All at
once, fans realize what has happened. Their joy has been killed -- at
least for the moment -- by a Concert Fool.
There is no escaping the Concert Fool. He (and every once in a while,
she) is the chronic carbuncle on the butt of rock, an inflammation
that makes it hard to really get comfortable. The Concert Fool is
either unglued by music, or drunk, or unaware of the invisible line
that separates civilization from anarchy. Or aware of the line but
past caring about it. Mostly, the Concert Fool is having a great time
because these guys rawwwwk and because it's a concert and up top,
dude. Rock and roll!
Ultimately, the Concert Fool is confused. He believes that the rules
of courtesy have been suspended during showtime, which isn't exactly
true. Though it's not entirely false, either. At a typical rock
concert, you get far more leash than you do at, say, the theater or
the symphony. The Concert Fool, however, misconstrues limited license
for an excuse to vomit on your girlfriend's pants.
Decorum at a rock concert is actually venue-dependent; what will fly
at the 9:30 club, where bands skew loud and young, will get you tossed
from the Birchmere, where the acts are generally quieter and pitched
to adults. You need to sit down and zip it at the Birchmere and halls
like it, which seems proper for a singer like Nick Lowe, whose
distorted-amp days are well behind him. But even at 9:30 -- as well as
the Black Cat, MCI Center, Merriweather Post and other venues -- you
need a set of manners, even if those manners fall somewhere between
the standards of decency for a baseball game and the standards of
decency for a kegger. Most fans settle comfortably within that fairly
broad range, finding a way to exult in the show without thrashing the
collective buzz.
The Concert Fool, on the other hand, finds inventive ways to annoy. A
wide variety stalk the nation's pop venues, and during my years as a
pop-music critic, I've seen them all. So here's a field guide to
what's out there -- a taxonomy, if you will, of show-going morons.
Avoid them if you can.
The Singer wants to the world to know he's got a great voice. So he
sings. Really, really loud, during the lulls, during the shrieks. All
the time. Fans of James Mercer met a prime example of this genus of
Concert Fool last year at Iota, when Mercer, the lead singer of the
Shins, closed a showcase for the Seattle label Sub Pop. Toward the end
of his set, Mercer played "New Slang," his most popular tune, but
suddenly you could barely hear the guy. A Singer had chimed in -- eyes
closed, shot glass hoisted -- at a volume loud enough to drown out the
man everyone had paid to hear.
The Reckless Smoker -- A cigarette is a dangerous weapon around people
packed together tight. At a Guided by Voices show in New York --
before that glorious smoking ban went into effect -- fans were so
jammed one night at a club called Tramps that you had to applaud with
your hands above your head. This didn't stop a guy behind me from
lighting up -- and then singeing some unlucky fan standing in front of
him. "Sorry, man," the Smoker said. No doubt this made the burn victim
feel a whole lot better.
The Angler -- They arrived late, and they don't want to stand in the
back. So the Anglers connive to get close to the stage, which is
tricky -- and rude -- at a show that's sold out. The most inventive
Angler I've seen waited till right before the first song and pretended
to be on the verge of vomiting as he waded toward the lip of the
stage. People leapt out of his way. When he got to the front, he just
smiled.
More recently, at a Bob Dylan show, a woman murmured "That's my
husband" as she nudged her way to a place at a forward section on the
floor of the 9:30 club. She slipped an arm around a tall man and
smiled as if greeting her mate. Which he wasn't. The man gave her a
confounded look and a polite brushoff. Why she thought this would work
is a mystery, but I had the sense it wasn't the first time she'd tried
the gambit. In this instance she retreated, muttering: "What a jerk."
The Requestaholic -- They came for one song, and they're going to hear
that song if it kills them. Which it nearly did at a couple of Bruce
Springsteen's solo shows during his "Ghost of Tom Joad" tour in 1996.
The Boss asked fans at the outset not to shout for tunes, and in those
cities where the Requestaholics wouldn't stop, Springsteen threatened
to ask fans nearby to take matters into their own hands.
For performers, you can imagine the frustration, especially at a show
for an album like "Joad," which was somber and low-key. Anyway, most
set lists are cooked up well before a tour hits the road, so shouting
is nearly always pointless. It's just annoying. One of the few things
I remember about the Steve Earle show at the 9:30 two years ago is a
twit who screamed "Jackalope Eye!" at least 25 times over the course
of the show. Earle tried to shut him up by doing a belittling
impersonation of him. But the true Requestaholic won't let a little
humiliation get in the way.
"Jackalope Eye!" he screamed during the very next break.
The Talker -- The bane of nearly every show. A shocking number of
ticket buyers regard rock concerts as ideal moments to catch up with
friends. I can remember a pair of women nattering through a My Morning
Jacket concert, a guy flirting shamelessly with a mini-shirted damsel
at a Peaches show, a half-dozen drinkers at Iota who didn't seem to
realize a band was in the room. The most stupefying Talker I've seen
was at a Melissa Etheridge show at the Warner Theatre, a woman who
called a friend on her cell phone just as Etheridge hit the stage.
"I'm at the show! Yeah, Melissa just came on! Yeah! Can you hear me?
What? Can you hear her? What?" There were murderous stares from
everyone in her vicinity -- and then verbal threats -- but it didn't
matter. The dedicated Talker doesn't care.
The Stander -- Ordinarily, this is not a big deal. But if everyone
else is sitting, it can lead to violence. At a Peter Gabriel show at
MCI Center, one Stander, a thirtyish woman in jeans, had the
misfortune of blocking the view of a true Concert Fool (see Grabber,
below) who slapped her rear end when she refused to have a seat. She
ran for the cops, and he hustled out of that section of the arena,
presumably to watch the show from another seat.
The Grabber -- One who grabs. See above.
That's the list. If you recognize yourself in any of these categories,
let me ask a favor on behalf of everyone else who loves live music:
Stay home and wait for the DVD.
Even if there won't be a DVD.
Pretty please?
<!-- m --><a class="postlink" href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A63181-2004Jul19.html">http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/ar ... Jul19.html</a><!-- m -->
Just One Request
Going to A Concert? Don't Play The Fool.
By David Segal
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, July 20, 2004; Page C01
Nick Lowe has just finished 90 minutes of solo music at the Birchmere,
a set that included all of his best-known songs -- except one. The
silver-haired daddy of British pop hasn't played "(What's So Funny
'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding," a track that he wrote and that
helped make Elvis Costello famous in the 1970s. So everybody knows
what's coming when Lowe returns to the stage for an encore. He strums
the opening chords and a ripple of delight rolls through the room.
Then stops. A man in a striped shirt has wobbled up to the stage, a
hand-drawn sign in one hand, a drink in the other. He edges so close
to the spotlight that Lowe has no choice but to ask what he wants.
"Zmmuphhmen," comes the reply. Or something like that. Lowe looks baffled.
"What?" he asks, politely.
"Zmmuphhmen!" There's a Web address on the sign, and Lowe gamely tries
to read it out loud. By now, whatever spell had mesmerized this room
is gone, replaced by confusion, which is soon replaced by rage. All at
once, fans realize what has happened. Their joy has been killed -- at
least for the moment -- by a Concert Fool.
There is no escaping the Concert Fool. He (and every once in a while,
she) is the chronic carbuncle on the butt of rock, an inflammation
that makes it hard to really get comfortable. The Concert Fool is
either unglued by music, or drunk, or unaware of the invisible line
that separates civilization from anarchy. Or aware of the line but
past caring about it. Mostly, the Concert Fool is having a great time
because these guys rawwwwk and because it's a concert and up top,
dude. Rock and roll!
Ultimately, the Concert Fool is confused. He believes that the rules
of courtesy have been suspended during showtime, which isn't exactly
true. Though it's not entirely false, either. At a typical rock
concert, you get far more leash than you do at, say, the theater or
the symphony. The Concert Fool, however, misconstrues limited license
for an excuse to vomit on your girlfriend's pants.
Decorum at a rock concert is actually venue-dependent; what will fly
at the 9:30 club, where bands skew loud and young, will get you tossed
from the Birchmere, where the acts are generally quieter and pitched
to adults. You need to sit down and zip it at the Birchmere and halls
like it, which seems proper for a singer like Nick Lowe, whose
distorted-amp days are well behind him. But even at 9:30 -- as well as
the Black Cat, MCI Center, Merriweather Post and other venues -- you
need a set of manners, even if those manners fall somewhere between
the standards of decency for a baseball game and the standards of
decency for a kegger. Most fans settle comfortably within that fairly
broad range, finding a way to exult in the show without thrashing the
collective buzz.
The Concert Fool, on the other hand, finds inventive ways to annoy. A
wide variety stalk the nation's pop venues, and during my years as a
pop-music critic, I've seen them all. So here's a field guide to
what's out there -- a taxonomy, if you will, of show-going morons.
Avoid them if you can.
The Singer wants to the world to know he's got a great voice. So he
sings. Really, really loud, during the lulls, during the shrieks. All
the time. Fans of James Mercer met a prime example of this genus of
Concert Fool last year at Iota, when Mercer, the lead singer of the
Shins, closed a showcase for the Seattle label Sub Pop. Toward the end
of his set, Mercer played "New Slang," his most popular tune, but
suddenly you could barely hear the guy. A Singer had chimed in -- eyes
closed, shot glass hoisted -- at a volume loud enough to drown out the
man everyone had paid to hear.
The Reckless Smoker -- A cigarette is a dangerous weapon around people
packed together tight. At a Guided by Voices show in New York --
before that glorious smoking ban went into effect -- fans were so
jammed one night at a club called Tramps that you had to applaud with
your hands above your head. This didn't stop a guy behind me from
lighting up -- and then singeing some unlucky fan standing in front of
him. "Sorry, man," the Smoker said. No doubt this made the burn victim
feel a whole lot better.
The Angler -- They arrived late, and they don't want to stand in the
back. So the Anglers connive to get close to the stage, which is
tricky -- and rude -- at a show that's sold out. The most inventive
Angler I've seen waited till right before the first song and pretended
to be on the verge of vomiting as he waded toward the lip of the
stage. People leapt out of his way. When he got to the front, he just
smiled.
More recently, at a Bob Dylan show, a woman murmured "That's my
husband" as she nudged her way to a place at a forward section on the
floor of the 9:30 club. She slipped an arm around a tall man and
smiled as if greeting her mate. Which he wasn't. The man gave her a
confounded look and a polite brushoff. Why she thought this would work
is a mystery, but I had the sense it wasn't the first time she'd tried
the gambit. In this instance she retreated, muttering: "What a jerk."
The Requestaholic -- They came for one song, and they're going to hear
that song if it kills them. Which it nearly did at a couple of Bruce
Springsteen's solo shows during his "Ghost of Tom Joad" tour in 1996.
The Boss asked fans at the outset not to shout for tunes, and in those
cities where the Requestaholics wouldn't stop, Springsteen threatened
to ask fans nearby to take matters into their own hands.
For performers, you can imagine the frustration, especially at a show
for an album like "Joad," which was somber and low-key. Anyway, most
set lists are cooked up well before a tour hits the road, so shouting
is nearly always pointless. It's just annoying. One of the few things
I remember about the Steve Earle show at the 9:30 two years ago is a
twit who screamed "Jackalope Eye!" at least 25 times over the course
of the show. Earle tried to shut him up by doing a belittling
impersonation of him. But the true Requestaholic won't let a little
humiliation get in the way.
"Jackalope Eye!" he screamed during the very next break.
The Talker -- The bane of nearly every show. A shocking number of
ticket buyers regard rock concerts as ideal moments to catch up with
friends. I can remember a pair of women nattering through a My Morning
Jacket concert, a guy flirting shamelessly with a mini-shirted damsel
at a Peaches show, a half-dozen drinkers at Iota who didn't seem to
realize a band was in the room. The most stupefying Talker I've seen
was at a Melissa Etheridge show at the Warner Theatre, a woman who
called a friend on her cell phone just as Etheridge hit the stage.
"I'm at the show! Yeah, Melissa just came on! Yeah! Can you hear me?
What? Can you hear her? What?" There were murderous stares from
everyone in her vicinity -- and then verbal threats -- but it didn't
matter. The dedicated Talker doesn't care.
The Stander -- Ordinarily, this is not a big deal. But if everyone
else is sitting, it can lead to violence. At a Peter Gabriel show at
MCI Center, one Stander, a thirtyish woman in jeans, had the
misfortune of blocking the view of a true Concert Fool (see Grabber,
below) who slapped her rear end when she refused to have a seat. She
ran for the cops, and he hustled out of that section of the arena,
presumably to watch the show from another seat.
The Grabber -- One who grabs. See above.
That's the list. If you recognize yourself in any of these categories,
let me ask a favor on behalf of everyone else who loves live music:
Stay home and wait for the DVD.
Even if there won't be a DVD.
Pretty please?
"We're forced to bed, but we're free to dream"
Dana
