How long can I make this entry?
I just saw William Elliott Whitmore in concert, and it was one of the most graceful and beautiful performances I've ever witnessed. But it was a fairly interesting evening overall, one of those nights that just seems to be a chain of pleasantly surprising happenings. The first in this chain was being randomly picked up by a friend, who was also headed to the Union, and then meeting up with a group of people whom I had no idea I was going to meet up with. In fact, I even saw Erik, who was too busy crying and masturbating to box me last night. But seeing Erik wasn't really a pleasant surprise- more like a vaguely unpleasant surprise, like Erik will have when I rock his shit with a left hook next Friday at precisely 8:32 p.m.
The next pleasant happening occurred when I went to purchase my ticket. On my way to the ticket counter, I came upon a gentleman, about my height, who was just finishing up a conversation with a friend. He turned and walked up to the ticket counter, which doubles as the hotel office, right by my side. You can tell a lot about a person by how he handles something awkward like that, and, to his credit, the man did about as well as one possibly could in that situation. I split off and pretended to drink from a water fountain until he was safely past.
Once at the counter, I waited in line. There was some sort of Christian function going on in the Great Hall, and "Thriller" was playing loudly. The gentleman I had been walking next to caught my eye and I mimed a little "Thriller" dance, with the claws from side to side and such, and we chuckled and were awkward.
Then he checked into the hotel and I found out that he was indeed William Elliott Whitmore. With my characteristic powers of perception, I asked him if he was William Elliott Whitmore. He replied that he was, and I bumbled for a second. "I'm about to see you in concert," I said. He looked at the ticket in my hand, which he had just watched me purchased, and smiled indulgently. "I see that." Our conversation carried on in much the same special-ed vein until he went to check in to his room. As I went to go into the concert, I noticed a woman, alone like myself, standing in line. I reflexively judged her for being alone and then laughed at myself.
The first two bands were pretty bad. Death Ship was boring, but decent enough. Too much organ-piano-synth and not enough shredding. Sons of the Republic had way too much shredding. Everyone in the band was wearing at least one ironic item of clothing, which was my first clue as to their shittiness. The second came when the two guitar players duetted on a cover of fucking "Eruption" (deedlydeedlydeedlydeedly I am compensating for my small penis deedlydeedlydeedly) for sound check. Clue number three was that they started playing by coming together as a band and jumping up and down on the first note. They all made "I am Rocking Out" faces as they did this. It was all too much, and I left as fast as my snootiness would carry me.
The next pleasant happening occurred when the same alone girl I had seen on my way in, the lone witness with my encounter with Mr. Whitmore, sat next to me in between bands and offered to buy me a beer if I kept her place when she went to the bathroom. That happening, in particular, was very pleasant, because it meant that I was being hit on by an attractive, lonely, articulate chick who not only has good taste in music, but is willing to purchase alcohol for minors. Anyway, we had a pleasant conversation upon her return. I never caught her name, though...whatever, I'll see her at other shows. It's way more romantic this way anyway.
I can't hyperbolize enough about how mind-shakingly great William Elliott Whitmore was, though. He alternated between the banjo and guitar, and played songs that were either old folk songs and hymnals or his own songs, which all sound like old folk songs or hymnals. His voice is amazing- like Tom Waits if Tom Waits could sing, or John Lee Hooker if John Lee Hooker wasn't older than shit. His songs do not presume, or pose, or pretend. They are all about death and the transitive nature of mankind and they are wise. I had noticed that all of his biggest fans, the ones that were behind the merch table and singing along to all of his songs, were pierced and tattooed and dyed and generally looked like they would be listening to black metal or such. However, it occurred to me that they like William Elliott Whitmore precisely because he offers, in condensed, less silly form, the emotional experience they get from the other, heavier bands whose t-shirts they were wearing. William Elliott Whitmore is sort of like Johnny Cash- even though he is a single man, playing only acoustic instruments at sub-normal volumes, you still realize he is the heaviest thing you will ever hear.
I talked to him some after the show and he said that, if I come to his show next time he's in Ames, we'll hang out after the show. I also asked him who or what he was in a past life and he said "either a grasshopper or a sparrow. Birds have it figured out, man- humans, we have computers and elections, but birds; they have the breeze."
At which point I dropped to my knees and fellated him madly.
I hope the wine party thing went alright. Maybe you've learned your lesson and will get more than two bottles of wine for 8 people next time, newbs.
Two major revelations of tonight:
1. I feel more comfortable if I'm in a room of people I have never met (the M-Shop)than if I'm in a room of people I know. (parties, dances, athletic events, etc.)
2. My thought "It's all been done before; nothing's new" scares the living shit out of my because I know it is a sign that I am not Great; that is to say, I do not posess the genius required to perceive something new.
Never get in a car with Sam Van Fleet unless he's stoned.
I think my nose is broken from boxing, or something. It won't stop feeling really weird. Tell me if it looks fucked up.
The next pleasant happening occurred when I went to purchase my ticket. On my way to the ticket counter, I came upon a gentleman, about my height, who was just finishing up a conversation with a friend. He turned and walked up to the ticket counter, which doubles as the hotel office, right by my side. You can tell a lot about a person by how he handles something awkward like that, and, to his credit, the man did about as well as one possibly could in that situation. I split off and pretended to drink from a water fountain until he was safely past.
Once at the counter, I waited in line. There was some sort of Christian function going on in the Great Hall, and "Thriller" was playing loudly. The gentleman I had been walking next to caught my eye and I mimed a little "Thriller" dance, with the claws from side to side and such, and we chuckled and were awkward.
Then he checked into the hotel and I found out that he was indeed William Elliott Whitmore. With my characteristic powers of perception, I asked him if he was William Elliott Whitmore. He replied that he was, and I bumbled for a second. "I'm about to see you in concert," I said. He looked at the ticket in my hand, which he had just watched me purchased, and smiled indulgently. "I see that." Our conversation carried on in much the same special-ed vein until he went to check in to his room. As I went to go into the concert, I noticed a woman, alone like myself, standing in line. I reflexively judged her for being alone and then laughed at myself.
The first two bands were pretty bad. Death Ship was boring, but decent enough. Too much organ-piano-synth and not enough shredding. Sons of the Republic had way too much shredding. Everyone in the band was wearing at least one ironic item of clothing, which was my first clue as to their shittiness. The second came when the two guitar players duetted on a cover of fucking "Eruption" (deedlydeedlydeedlydeedly I am compensating for my small penis deedlydeedlydeedly) for sound check. Clue number three was that they started playing by coming together as a band and jumping up and down on the first note. They all made "I am Rocking Out" faces as they did this. It was all too much, and I left as fast as my snootiness would carry me.
The next pleasant happening occurred when the same alone girl I had seen on my way in, the lone witness with my encounter with Mr. Whitmore, sat next to me in between bands and offered to buy me a beer if I kept her place when she went to the bathroom. That happening, in particular, was very pleasant, because it meant that I was being hit on by an attractive, lonely, articulate chick who not only has good taste in music, but is willing to purchase alcohol for minors. Anyway, we had a pleasant conversation upon her return. I never caught her name, though...whatever, I'll see her at other shows. It's way more romantic this way anyway.
I can't hyperbolize enough about how mind-shakingly great William Elliott Whitmore was, though. He alternated between the banjo and guitar, and played songs that were either old folk songs and hymnals or his own songs, which all sound like old folk songs or hymnals. His voice is amazing- like Tom Waits if Tom Waits could sing, or John Lee Hooker if John Lee Hooker wasn't older than shit. His songs do not presume, or pose, or pretend. They are all about death and the transitive nature of mankind and they are wise. I had noticed that all of his biggest fans, the ones that were behind the merch table and singing along to all of his songs, were pierced and tattooed and dyed and generally looked like they would be listening to black metal or such. However, it occurred to me that they like William Elliott Whitmore precisely because he offers, in condensed, less silly form, the emotional experience they get from the other, heavier bands whose t-shirts they were wearing. William Elliott Whitmore is sort of like Johnny Cash- even though he is a single man, playing only acoustic instruments at sub-normal volumes, you still realize he is the heaviest thing you will ever hear.
I talked to him some after the show and he said that, if I come to his show next time he's in Ames, we'll hang out after the show. I also asked him who or what he was in a past life and he said "either a grasshopper or a sparrow. Birds have it figured out, man- humans, we have computers and elections, but birds; they have the breeze."
At which point I dropped to my knees and fellated him madly.
I hope the wine party thing went alright. Maybe you've learned your lesson and will get more than two bottles of wine for 8 people next time, newbs.
Two major revelations of tonight:
1. I feel more comfortable if I'm in a room of people I have never met (the M-Shop)than if I'm in a room of people I know. (parties, dances, athletic events, etc.)
2. My thought "It's all been done before; nothing's new" scares the living shit out of my because I know it is a sign that I am not Great; that is to say, I do not posess the genius required to perceive something new.
Never get in a car with Sam Van Fleet unless he's stoned.
I think my nose is broken from boxing, or something. It won't stop feeling really weird. Tell me if it looks fucked up.