 |
| No words. Just this. |
Well, Earthlings, the time has come to pass in which I have seen Mr. Cornell in the flesh. It was an experience in which, despite my not getting my hopes up because I'm not the luckiest charm in the world, embedded one of the best moments of my young life, but more on that later. First, let us delve into the adventure.
I witnessed Mr. Cornell in beautiful Santa Barbara. I still feel the ocean against my skin. I'm still wired awake from the cup of coffee I drank down to keep me awake for the ride home. I went with my mother, because I still want to do things with her. Santa Barbara is about a three hour drive from where we are (for the time being, anyways). Leave at a considerable time, arrive at an even more considerable time just prior to doors opening and in time to pick up our tickets at will call, and witness the man himself.
Allow me to just say the rest of California you can bypass because the state is, and has been for the past several years, going to hell in a handbasket, but the coast and northern California are the parts which are more than worth it. Santa Barbara seemed almost appropriate for me: aside from a trip to Seattle, it's a homecoming. I was born in Ventura (even though I declare northern Nevada as my one true home) and my family and I lived in Port Hueneme and Simi Valley for some time. My first concert, pre-Chester Stone Temple Pilots with openers Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, took place at the Santa Barbara Bowl back in 2008.
Mom and I left the high desert/Central Valley at half past eleven and took the fast and more scenic route: through the wind turbine-happy hills, into the barren abyss, the hinderlands, and into an area that may as well qualify as one of the Vile Vortices: that patch of land betwixt the San Andreas and the Tehachapis, where radar detectors lose their marbles and weird things of which the science nerd within me cannot even began to explain much less comprehend happen. We ventured over the Grapevine and down into the San Fernando Valley, an area which has developed so much in the past handful of years, that even though the last time I had been through there my memory still had a long way to go, I'm in disbelief about it. So many new establishments and landmarks: the two of us were unsure about interchanging onto the 118 freeway, which in turn led to the Pacific Coast Highway, taking us to Ventura and then Santa Barbara.
But thanks to my hypersensitive nose and ever increasing sense of intuition, I helped us get onto the right interchange heading west.
We stopped in Ventura for a brief break before finishing the way to Santa Barbara.
I recall my STP experience which took place roughly the same time of year—that period of September somewhere around Ben's birthday in which the weather began to drop off and the sea breeze caressed the area to rest assure fall is approaching. The last time I visited a coast was in 2012, when I travelled to the Oregon Coast for Thanksgiving. Mind you, that took place in the midst of autumn and in a region known for cold humidity. I, being the complete idiot I am, figured 80 degrees was not going to be too horrific, so I docked my purple Rag Doll cartoon shirt, black pants, and my little black slippers I sported to my cousin's wedding the week before. This time, however, when my mom and I stepped outside into Ventura to take a short break, the humid sea air stifled us as the sun radiated the area with torrid rays.
I understand the proximity of the ocean equates a higher humidity, but there must be some monsoonal flow coming in from the Baja because, despite a decent oceanic breeze, the sun beat down on both Ventura and Santa Barbara. Just ask anyone who lives in England, on Bainbridge Island *eyes Ben*, or just about any place within range of a considerable body of water: 80 degrees Fahrenheit is fucking hot.
The two of us then climbed back into the car and interchanged onto the PCH, which overlooked Emperor Neptune's Deep Blue, the Pacific Ocean. Sometimes I forget the vast abysmal tranquility of the ocean: the way the sun glimmers onto the water, the inversions, the rip currents in the ebb and flow of the tides, and the extension to the end of the world, the continental shelf, to the gaping chasm of nothingness that is the sea floor.
Mom then spotted a black Cadillac in front of us, one with what appeared to be a serial number next to the left tail light, a serial number akin to that of a taxi. The two times we placed ourselves ahead of the Caddy, I glanced into the windows to see the driver and the passengers. The first time, I spotted the driver, an elder gentleman sporting a white shirt and a black vest, and noticed the front passenger seat was leaning forward. I could make out the outline of two people in the back seat, but I could not see anymore than that because the back windows had been darkly tinted. We both hypothesized this was Chris because who the hell else is going to transport in a such a manner: a black Cadillac with tinted windows and a taxi number on the back. We had a slight confirmation of said hypothesis because the second time the Caddy passed us, I made out frizzy, nappy hair on one of the passengers in the back seat, just like how Chris has frizzy, nappy hair.
We followed this car all the way to Santa Barbara… literally. They took the first off-ramp into town (taking some back roads to the theater, perhaps? I'm not sagacious enough to say, nor will I probably ever truly know unless someone tells me).
Mom and I then took the Bath Street off-ramp and almost instantly found ourselves in downtown Santa Barbara. It had been seven years since we traversed those streets, but I was rest assured that anything could be found here easily enough because nothing is too far from anything else.
Within minutes, we found a parking space about six blocks from the theater with three and a half hours to spare. Mom and I strolled up to a restaurant called The Habit on State Street. She ordered a hamburger, and I had an albacore tuna sandwich—holy hell, that was delicious—with fries and we both had thick mocha milkshakes.
After dinner, we then moseyed up State Street to check out some of the little shops lining the stoplight riddled two-lane street. There's a reason why I say you can keep the rest of California but save the coast and NorCal: the latter is more wilderness than anything, and aside from the heat and oppressive humidity, the coast is beautiful and also high-class, but not so much that everyone walks around with their nose in the air (some people do, but it isn't common). On the way down State Street, Mom spotted a hat shop called Goorin Bros., and figured this place, along with a couple of other small shops, would be a spot on our list.
It's difficult for me to find a hat that fits: you know those tags that say “one size fits most”? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I'm not most. I have a large brain with a healthy amount of gray matter, therefore, I have a large cranium.
We not only stepped into this shop because the air conditioner was running, but I wanted to find a decent hat to dock for the upcoming El Nino this winter.
Just like the time I bought Superunknown, this hat called to me from the second I wheeled around to face the rest of the shop. I spotted that rich purple felt and knew I had to have this hat. I picked it off the shelf and slipped it onto the crown of my head. The crown hugged my head rather snugly, but it fit as if the manufacturer made it just for me.
Here's a picture:
 |
| So now when I meet Kim, we can be twinsies! |
Luckily, I had just right amount of change for this hat so I could not resist.
Mom checked the time and figured we should be riding up to the theater, so we meandered back to the car and drove around for a bit to find a decent parking spot. I pointed out a parking garage, which we soon found out linked up to the Granada Theatre. From my experience with event parking, it's a royal pain. I think the worst I've seen for parking was fifty dollars. But this time around, parking was only five dollars so we could not refuse. We found the perfect spot, close to the stairs and also easy enough to pull out after the show.
I figured I would leave the painting I wanted to give Chris—a twenty shades of blue watercolor of him, Vicky, and the kids—in the car while we fetch our tickets, and then I would run back up to get it. Bear in mind that before this evening, I had zilch idea as to how to give this painting to him other than wait for him outside of the theater after the show, which, although it does happen, is a very hit-and-miss method of meeting someone, thus I refused to get my hopes up but I also refused to deny the possibility of it.
After I picked the painting and the manilla envelope I encased it in out from under my seat, I descended back down to Mom, who waited for me patiently… ten feet from a silver trailer and black Cadillac parked in front of the back door of the theater. Perhaps this would be the place to be proceeding the show, should nothing happen.
The two of us made our way to the front of the Granada Theater, a tall, eight-story stucco building with dark French doors under an old-style movie theater awning, and promptly waited for the doors to open. I held the manilla close to me and prayed for the best.
The doors opened at a quarter past seven and we made our way into the front lobby, a cozy foyer with a brightly-lit white ceiling lined with gold, heavily tinted mirrored walls, and a rich dark red carpet. A staircase on either end of the lobby spiraled up into the balconies. To our left was the doorway to the left-hand orchestral sections. Luckily, Mom and I were the first people there, so we were able to buy T-shirts and water before the crowds came pouring in. We stood next to the right spiral stairway and waited for the ushers to let us in, until my good friend, redheadrep, Christine, who I saw Soundgarden with the year before in Seattle, showed up. She and I chatted for a bit and even took a couple of selfies. Her seat was in the front orchestral section, about six rows away from the stage, which, Mom and I both envied.
The time came and we all funneled into the Granada theater, a vast warmly-lit room with a high bright ceiling, closed in by the balcony, which hung low over our heads. The ceiling overhead was dotted with bright, ostentatious chandeliers, and the room itself with feigned candlabras. The orchestra was divided into two back sections cut off by a latitudal aisle, and then the front sections were divided into three, and the stage followed. Everything was either dark red, white, or at the very least, lined with gold.
Mom and I were taken to our seats, a pair set close to the side aisle back a ways from the stage, and, if it were a Soundgarden show, we would be on Kim's side. An older gentleman sat down next to me and we rounded out that row.
I couldn't help but noticed the stage, an intimate set with a chair, half a dozen acoustic guitars, two microphones, and the backdrop with the same artwork and set-up as the lyric video for Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart: a charcoal gray background with silver astrolabes and golden lines, revolving around the centerpiece, a bright red anatomically correct human heart encased a pewter globe.
Within minutes, the opening act Hemming—a girl who looked a touch older than me—came onto the stage. Appearance wise, she reminded me of a cross between Ellen Page and PJ Harvey. Music wise, she reminded me of a collaboration between Polly Jean and Joni Mitchell. Vocal wise, she reminds me of a weird mush between Pat Benatar and Janis Joplin with a touch of Sia Furler. All she had was her voice and a guitar, but it was enough to seal the deal with me. She did a cover of Dreams by Fleetwood Mac which owned the mesosphere. She only did four or five songs, but she did great. After the show I glanced over to see her hurrying to the merchandise desk. She looked to be in quite a hurry, so I need not stop her.
A brief intermission came about so the guitar techs could configure the stage to Chris' act. In no time, the lights dimmed yet again and Chris strode onto the stage, standing strong and high and waving at everyone in the crowd. I loved the fact that he was informal, talking to the audience as if we were his friends, guests in his house. It was a wonderful way of connecting with all of us, thus establishing the intimacy of the set.
He opened with Before We Disappear, something inspired by examining Vicky laying on a bed sound asleep. He did Times They Are A-Changin' Back (a redone Bob Dylan song) and he played harmonica with it! (that being said, he needs to play harp more.)
HE PLAYED SEASONS! I almost couldn't believe it!
He did Day I Tried to Live and it sounded so badass on acoustic. During the chorus “One more time around (might do it)”, I yelled out the “Might do it!/Might make it!” parts at the top of my lungs, and I could be wrong, but I think the whole theater heard me.
The two guys in front of us high-fived me, saying “that's our girl!”
Looking back on this next part, reality sort of morphed into a dream. Like Chris sang to me to sleep and I began to witness a lucid dream.
During one part, as Chris spoke to the audience, one of the ushers strode up the aisle to the gentleman next to me with two extra tickets in third row. He then turned to me and asked me if I wanted them. I wanted them for a damn fact, but I asked Mom if she wanted to move, and she and I both eagerly conceded. I gave the two young guys in front of us another high-five, and Mom and I hurried down the aisle to the usher standing by the emergency exit and in front of the dividing aisle. She examined the tickets and nodded in agreement. She then led us to the section in the frontal orchestra, and the two of us squeezed our way to the two seats waiting for us in third row, right smack in front of Chris.
It was as if they fell out of the sky.
My best guest is someone heard me and automatically knew I was a fan, and they traded their tickets for us right on the dot. But all things aside, DON'T ASK ME HOW OR WHY, because I don't know.
Out of the corner of my eye, I recall seeing Chris watch me as I hurried down the pathway.
I forget which song it was, but at one point, Mom leaned towards me and said in a low voice, “When the time is right, run up there and hand your painting to him. I'll hold your things.”
He did a cover of Imagine by John Lennon, and she and I both knew the time had come. At the end of the song, when everyone climbed to their feet, I brushed past the four people next to us.
I never ran so fast in my life. I ducked down to the stage only to find Chris had disappeared. My heart sank, but then again I refused to bring my hopes up… but then again, I knew there was going to be an encore, so I braced myself. Sure enough, an encore did happen. I pressed myself against the stage, the manilla envelope out of sight. I slipped the painting out and pressed it against my body, obscured from view.
Several times over the course of the night, Chris walked about on stage with a hands-free microphone. By the time I barreled my way to the stage, and he returned for the encore, he literally towered above me (and to think, Pete Steele and Ben are both taller).
What still gets me about this was … he kept looking at me. Every now and then, Chris would glance over stare at me right in the eyes. I caught for only a millisecond, but at one point, he spotted my shirt.
I debated whether or not I wanted to slide it onto the stage, or to hold it up for him to see. I also knew there was little time left over, so I had to do something quick.
After his ethereal hybrid of One (the music to One by U2 accompanied with lyrics to One by Metallica—by the way, I had always wondered what that song is about, and after giving it another listen, I am still in shock that the lyrics are so completely and utterly devastating. I can take a page from my dad's book and rightfully declare I don't have problems: I have inconveniences), I knew I had to make a move. I held the painting up against my chest, so the bottom was level with the floor of the stage.
Chris seated himself back into his chair. He then glanced over at me and furrowed his brow.
“Is that for me?” he asked me in an adorably dumb manner.
I nodded.
“Yes!” I called out (I still can't believe my Yakko Warner-sounding voice cannot carry as far: I always think it's too loud). He hesitated for a millisecond.
“Yes, this is for you,” I repeated. He stood up and strode over to me, towering over me like the Green Giant. Chris crouched down and picked the watercolor from my hands, examining it carefully.
“Thank you,” he blurted out. He turned to me and loomed so close to my head. He reached out a hand and shook my right hand. His grip is so strong! But not Herman Munster strong, just enough to know that I was dealing with a strong personality. Shadow obscured his face, but I could feel myself staring straight up into those eyes.
“Thank you very much,” he repeated in perhaps the most sincere tone I've ever heard.
“You are very welcome,” I replied in an equally sincere voice.
He then smiled at me and stepped back to his chair, setting the painting against the back part of it. A few people in the audience awed at the sight of it. I glanced back around to the bunch of people standing behind me and nodded with a “that's how you do it”.
During the last song, Higher Truth, I backed away from the stage a bit, a large smile plastered on my face. I had done it. In all my self-deprecations and cynicism, and a less-than-decent year, justice for nirvhannah had been served. One gentleman turned to me and said, “that's a beautiful picture you did.” I thanked him right then and there.
Chris finished out with an emotional tone to his voice and an otherworldly feedback ending before walking offstage a second time. Everyone funneled out the theater and back to their cars. Mom and I left Santa Barbara at half past eleven and returned to our house at a quarter past three in the morning: I had Wooden Jesus stuck in my head the entire time.
On a final note, I wrote my name and my Twitter name on the back of the painting, hence it's safe to say that Mr. Cornell officially knows who I am now.
SETLIST:
- Before We Disappear
- Can't Change Me
- Two Drink Minimum (that sounded awesome, too)
- Times They Are A-Changin' (Back)
- I Threw It Away (another Dylan song)
- Seasons (ajdlsjdkslafdjkslajkdflsjklsd)
- Call Me a Dog
- Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart
- The Day I Tried to Live
- Sunshower
- Fell on Black Days
- When I'm Down (a la vinyl record and his cellist Brian)
- River of Deceit (which made me choke up)
- Wooden Jesus
- Nothing Compares 2 U (originally a Prince song, but made Sinead O'Connor famous)
- Hunger Strike
- Black Hole Sun
- Rusty Cage (with a great story behind it)
- Ave Maria (just… for lack of a better word, holy wow)
- Like a Stone
- Imagine
Encore
- Josephine
- One (U2 music with Metallica lyrics)
- Higher Truth
No comments:
Post a Comment