Return To Me

Every time I see a live show I remember how much I love music and complain that I never listen to my own music anymore and I write about it here. I went to see the Indigo Girls on Friday night with Auntie Lisa. The last time I saw them live was November of 2006. I started having weird flashbacks of all the past shows I’ve seen and I realized there were shows I didn’t even remember right away. I’ve seen them live very many times since that first time in the summer of 1989 when nobody had heard of them and they played a free show on the green in New Haven. I moseyed over there after my day of work as a minion in the surgical ward of Yale New Haven Hospital, having heard “Closer To Fine” on the radio a couple of times and feeling intrigued by this not-punk, not-Debbie Gibson, not-hair-band, not-creepy-Goth-type music.

Almost twenty years later and here we are. They are the only “celebrities” who have ever made me feel super fan worship. The one time I got to meet them in person, at the House of Blues in Hollywood circa 2000 or 2001, I almost dissolved into a puddle of Jello when Emily Saliers gave me a hug. I was actually scheduled to interview them, but that fell through at the last minute. So close!

This show last Friday was opened by an artist named Brandi Carlile. (Check out “The Story” – chills, I tell you.) Lisa and I were going to get another cocktail and skip the opener, but the band’s first song was pretty good, so we decided to check it out. The rest of the audience* seemed to know her music already, judging by the shouts and hoots when she started some of her songs. An hour later we were very impressed. Carlile is a powerful singer, enough so that she decided to go “unplugged” for an entire song to test out the acoustics of the venue, the Terrace Theater of the Long Beach Performing Arts Center. Both guitarists, the singer, and the cellist played the song with no amplification and it worked.

There was a time when I discovered new music (new to me, at least) left and right and mentally apportioned some of my discretionary budget for new CD’s (and before that, tapes! and before that, RECORDS!). That doesn’t happen so much anymore. It is a tiny bit pathetic (okay, more than that) that the last music I bought was a couple of tracks from American Idol. I did buy the original Jeff Buckley recording of “Hallelujah,” at least, so please give me some points.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, how certain songs bring back such specific memories? “Kid Fears” reminded me of the time I walked across the campus of Notre Dame in the snow at night, listening to my Walkman, on my way to meet a ride to an off campus party. Immersing myself in the music that I love makes me remember who I am, a little bit. Kyle has taken it upon himself a few times lately to call me Kim (and to call Stewart “STEWART!”) and although I remind him that my name is Mommy, it’s kind of nice to have a real name around here.

*A word about the audience. With my hectic day and traffic and confusion finding the venue, I was unprepared for both the show itself and also the crowd. Specifically, the vast majority of lesbians. This never, ever registered with me before, so it looks like I’m out of practice hanging out with large groups of lesbians. I forgot about the girl-on-girl PDA and the feeling that every person I made eye contact with was checking me out. That’s kind of nice, too.