WOMAD
II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO
[with
musical interludes sung to the tune of “Solsbury Hill”]
Climbing
up a Redmond hill
I
received a sudden fright
Heard
a song, my heart stood still
“You
sure the concert is TONIGHT?!?”
When
last you heard from our intrepid heroes (that is, Jen and me),
we were wrapping up an e-mail report to Solsbury Hill at around
9:45 am on Sunday. With
Jen politely reminding me of the time every 2 and a half seconds,
I signed off, paid my extravagant Kinko’s fee, and dived
into the rental car just in time as she burned rubber straight
to Marymoor Park.
“Impatient
to get there?” I asked as we blasted through our third yellow
light.
“Just
a little,” she admitted, scattering hapless pedestrians to
the four winds.
Quite
a few traffic lights were blinking red due to some electrical
problem, so it took a little longer than we anticipated to complete
the drive. We arrived
at about 10:08 and parked nice and close, as opposed to the hideous
boonies we'd been banished to the day before.
Even if Seattle decided to harass us with a blustery, icy
drizzle again, at least this time our car would be in the same
zip code.
Since
Jen contracted terminal Butt Fatigue from sitting on the ground
on Friday, we’d adopted a blanket as a key accessory from
Saturday onward. Sometimes
it was a pain to lug around, sure, but I didn’t mind; first
of all, it helped to stake our space, and second of all, Jen got
stuck carrying it all the time. ; ) Grabbing the blanket and festival programs,
we walked briskly toward the gates, anxious to begin this day
of all days.
And
then it happened.
About
halfway to the gates, we heard the strains of "Digging in
the Dirt" echoing across the fields.
"How nice," I said.
"They're playing one of Peter's CD's as background
music from the main stage. About time they played one of his songs."
Indeed, it was, since “When You’re Falling”
was the lone token Gabriel tune I’d heard during two full
days of between-act recorded music.
"Yeah,"
Jen replied. We walked
in silence for a moment more.
"Must be the Secret World Live CD.
Sounds live."
"It
does," I mused. We
continued walking briskly.
Finally,
as the music continued, Jen's expression grew thoughtful, then
worried. "You
know, that doesn't sound like the Secret World Live version."
As if to punctuate her words, the sound of feedback echoed
from the stage.
For
a single, horrified moment, we just stared at one another.
Then, in near-perfect unison, we *screamed.*
"HOLY
[expletive deleted], HE'S PLAYING LIVE, RIGHT NOW!"
We
ran.
"Are
you sure the program said 8pm, and not 8am?" Jen wheezed.
"Yes, it was 8pm!" I yelled.
"He must be rehearsing!"
What I *thought,* but didn't say out loud, was that perhaps
he’d finally snapped from all those years of snide “late”
jokes. “You
want early? I’ll
give you little wise-ass bastards early!
How d’you like *them* apples, eh?”
So
as we tore across the grass, I had only three thoughts in my mind:
1.
Peter Gabriel is playing live, and I'm missing it.
2.
I've got to get in better shape.
I may die before we reach the gates.
3.
If I don't die, Jen will murder me for insisting we stop
at Kinko's instead of holding a vigil here from the crack of dawn.
When
we staggered to the gates, panting, we saw a short line of people
waiting anxiously outside.
At first we thought it was just the will-call ticket people,
but then we noticed a few folks abandoning the line and straining
for a glimpse of the main stage, noses pressed against the chain
link fence like sad pound puppies.
They weren't letting people in yet!
I was probably the only person on site thanking my lucky
stars for this, since if we’d missed any actual front-and-center
time -- well, suffice it to say Jen would have been a lawnmower,
and you can fill in the blank about what botanical feature my
derriere would have been.
The natives were restless, let me tell you.
One lady in an US shirt with short blond hair bounced up
and down in line like a three-year-old in dire need of a bathroom,
wailing "Let us IN!
Let us IN!" Thinking that seemed as good a plan as any,
we immediately joined in a hearty round of bouncing and wailing.
It had no discernable effect.
"Digging
in the Dirt" ended, "Family Snapshot" began, and
we seemed no closer to admittance.
Finally, the gate volunteers, probably sensing that things
could get ugly (and deciding they definitely weren't getting paid
enough to lay down their lives for this), began letting people
into the festival grounds.
By the time I got my ticket torn, the ticket-takers on
my side were moving at hyperspeed.
The teenage guy who waved me in had a vivid "Please
don't hurt me, I'm just doing my job" look of horror on his
face as he practically threw my ticket back to me and quickly
snatched the next one with the air of a man who was moving for
his life. I think
he could see the headlines in his mind:
"HAPLESS TEEN TRAMPLED BY CRAZED GABRIEL FANS; 'DON'T
SEE WHY THEY WERE IN SUCH A HURRY,' POP STAR SAYS."
As Mac Cat has often written, he is a man with no concept
of time -- or the raw power of his own appeal. ; )
Once
again, we sprinted like Olympians.
I think I may have coughed up my spleen, but I didn't care.
This was worth sacrificing a spleen for.
There was only a teeny smattering of people at that hour,
mostly WOMAD staffers and volunteers, I'm guessing, now joined
by the running loonies from the gate.
Plastering ourselves amidst the line of people at the stage
barrier wall, Jen and I stared in disbelief.
He
was something to observe
Came
in close to hear his voice
Not
too close -- We had the nerve,
But,
damn the wall, we had no choice.
There
he was, onstage directly in front of us, clad in light gray pants,
an untucked gray oxford shirt, and a black vest, his color scheme
echoing the prior day’s Seattle sky.
Stationed at his keyboard with a paper cup of tea on the
floor by his feet (sorry, Mac, not coffee -- you could see the
little tag dangling down the side of the cup), he was enjoying
a laid-back rehearsal with the bald Tony Levin, the bald David
Rhodes, some bald guy on drums I didn't know from Adam, and some
other guy at a keyboard over on the side whom I later discovered
was James McNally of the Afro Celt Sound System (thanks to Lee
for helping to jog my memory in various places here!).
He looked woefully out of place with his full head of hair;
it seemed as if head-shaving was some sort of bizarre initiation
cult ritual required to enter PG's band, and muscular men might
leap out of the woodwork at any moment, wrestle him kicking and
screaming to the ground, and shave him bald to enforce the conformity.
; ) Singing backup
along with David Rhodes was an attractive young woman in jeans
and a sweater (not bald either, just to be clear about things),
her voice so low I wondered if her microphone was turned off.
She looked slightly uncomfortable with the audience,
but very underwhelmed about Peter, as if being near him ranked
on her Thrill List right up there with flossing her teeth.
This blasÈ attitude surprised me a bit.
I remember thinking, "Man, if that was any of us up
there, we'd look just a *leetle* more enthusiastic. . ."
Of course, that would never be any of us up there, since
1. most of us can't sing worth squat, and 2. we'd be too busy
gazing at him worshipfully to sing, and 3. at that point, Peter
probably wouldn't feel secure having any of us within a tri-state
area without some sort of sturdy structural barrier.
We were giving off the sort of vibe which foreshadowed
having to pry us off his legs with a crowbar (“No!
I’m not letting go till you release the new album!
And give me an autograph!
And possibly a hug!”).
Anyway, as it turned out, she had excellent reasons for
her eerie immunity to Gabriel Mania. More on this "mystery backup singer"
later.
As
we watched in awe, he noodled with the sound arrangement, asked
"Could we get a little more kick?" with some of the
instrumentation feeds, occasionally flashed his trademark grin
at the band and the crowd, and flubbed lyrics like nobody's business.
I think all of us in the front were mouthing lyrics by
the end, so if he was only proficient at lip-reading, he would've
had it made. Since this was ostensibly a “behind the
scenes” rehearsal, they hadn’t bothered to camouflage
the equipment when they’d wired him for sound, so a conspicuous
yellow wire stretched from ear to waist like a really cut-rate
hearing aid (please, lord, not a sign of things to come!
The goatee and the head-shaving were traumatic enough).
I’m pretty sure a sound pack was stuck in a side pocket
in his pants leg. It
seemed uncomfortable, as he grasped at his waist and adjusted
it from time to time with that subtle wiggle of a man whose underclothes
have shrunk just a bit too much in the wash.
Either right then, or during the evening concert, or possibly
both times (the details are fading, I’m sorry!), he had a
nervous stagehand scuttle out from the wings and fiddle with it
(which, let’s face it, has to be a nerve-wracking job, frisking
Peter’s torso in front of an audience.
Then again, that just might describe quite a few female
fantasies out there). Basically, I think it’s been so long since
he’s performed, that he’s forgotten how annoying some
of the accoutrements can be (we fans, for example, can be tremendously
annoying!). ; )
He
stood relatively still behind his keyboard while he sang, concentrating
on the sound mix, although (unless my memory’s confusing
the rehearsal with the later concert) he led the crowd in that
hand-raising move he always does during the “whoa-ohhhh”
chorus of “In Your Eyes.”
He did acknowledge the crowd after each song, thanking
us for our applause. At
one point between songs, somebody hollered out "GOOD MORNING,
PETER!" at top volume, and he chuckled and replied "Um,
good morning" into his microphone, triggering ripples of
laughter and applause at his acknowledgement, and the surreal
incongruity of the situation.
Yes, we're pathetic, I admit it.
Peter Gabriel saying "um, good morning" to us
validated our existence on the planet!
Okay, perhaps that was a bit of an overstatement, but it
did feel pretty dang special.
The whole atmosphere was mind-bogglingly intimate and friendly,
as if we privileged few had been invited to just hang out with
him and watch him jam for awhile.
Man, did we ever hit the jackpot. : )
Just
like during his Friday presentation (when he called the prior
speaker “a hard act to follow”), his mannerisms betrayed
that wry, diffident, ironic quality that's such an inherent part
of his charisma. It's
like he can't begin to grasp why everyone's making such a fuss
over him, and it's all a bit amusing and embarrassing. After he hit one of his stomach-chilling Gabrielese
half-singing, half-wailing notes, then smiled shyly at the crowd
response, the lady beside me gasped, "My God, he really doesn't
know how amazing he is, does he?"
While
I’m on the subject of wry, diffident charisma, I should take
just a second here to mention in more detail how much Kathryn
Tickell impressed me on Saturday, since I was in too much of a
hurry in my prior report.
Besides, this wouldn’t be in the true spirit of Peter
without diversions and digressions galore (just wait’ll I
get to the thrill-a-minute “what I had for lunch” section)!
In
addition to being a genuine prodigy on her pipes and fiddle, Kathryn
Tickell had the same sort of endearing persona as Peter Gabriel,
that sweet, reticent, self-deprecating humor that makes you want
to hug him and take him out for tea and biscuits.
Also like Gabriel, she transformed when she played, shifting
from pensive to passionate with a rush of unexpected kinetic energy.
She thoroughly charmed the audience with stories of a hometown
where everyone’s related to one another, a pack of uncles
who all own one of the same four suits mail-ordered from *Farmers
Weekly,* an adolescent brother who thinks of nothing but beer,
and the ambiguity entailed in writing a song to commemorate a
historical battle when you’re not quite sure if your patron
favors the winners or the losers (should it be a happy little
victory jig, a mournful dirge, or a bit of both to be on the safe
side?). Believe me,
any child born with half of her genes and half of Peter Gabriel’s
would be able to bamboozle anyone into getting anything it wanted,
unto the point of complete world domination.
Their DNA must never fall into the wrong hands, or we’re
all doomed! ; ) Then
again, world domination by Gabriel genes might not be a bad thing,
although, unlike under Mussolini, the trains most definitely would
*not* run on time.
Back
to Sunday’s morning concert!
Tony Levin and David Rhodes looked even more blown away
than Peter at how psyched (or possibly psycho) their impromptu
audience was. As
we cheered wildly in response to PG’s slightest word and
movement, they kept casting amused glances at him, implying he
was in for a lot of joshing later.
The chemistry between those musicians is nothing short
of spectacular -- they look as if they’re genuinely fond
of one another. Grinning
devilishly, Tony kept training his camera at the crowd, inciting
us to wave more wildly than those people who always hang out in
the background of the Today show.
At some point, I’m pretty sure Peter filmed the crowd
as well, but I admit I’m not positive about any fact relating
to him, since my brain was locked in such a “Holy [expletive
deleted], that’s HIM!” infinite loop that I’m doubting
the accuracy of anything my memory is dredging up now.
On
to some general thoughts on the music -- and no, I have no clue
in what order the songs were played.
*heavy sigh* You
know, I’d give my left arm for a better memory -- it’s
shedding all the details of which songs he played, and how, in
favor of a generalized “whee, was that ever a grand old time!”
impression. For more
accurate musical details concerning both the morning and evening
concerts, take a look at Scotto’s and Lee’s excellent
reviews. They must’ve
had a notepad with them, or they’ve been taking memory improvement
classes -- or else I’m shedding memory cells at the same
rate Peter’s losing active follicles.
Anyway,
everybody but Peter and Tony left the stage for the very spare
but affecting “Father, Son.”
Jen and I didn’t recognize “Come Talk to Me”
until he started singing (we squealed to one another “Is
this the new song?”).
We also did the “Is this the new song?” happy
dance when he started “Signal to Noise,” then finally
recognized it. When
he broke into "Solsbury Hill," the crowd immediately
went into a hyper clapping-bouncing mode, raising fists in unison
for the “Boom boom boom!” part.
That song is so incredible live!
I actually don't enjoy the original version all that much
(sacrilege!), but I adore the live versions.
The energy is so high and joyous, it's an instant celebration.
He did start out singing a bit lower-keyed than usual,
which seemed a reach for him; it was far too soft and strained.
It sounded vastly better when he finished the song in his
familiar higher register.
The
single most memorable moment (for me, anyway) was how he croaked
the deep-voiced part of the "In Your Eyes" chorus in
his voice from "Kiss that Frog" (you know, the "Get
your prince" line).
Lots of cheers and laughter for that, inspiring another
playful grin. I really
do think he was enjoying all the adulation, despite being a bit
abashed at it. After
all, it's been awhile. It
was probably nice to know that his appeal hasn't gone down in
the slightest, despite a lot less hair, a few more pounds, and
a few more years (and many fans who must also confess to a lot
less hair and/or a few more pounds and years. I plead guilty to the latter, but have avoided
the former, having robustly hairy female genes).
I can attest that his voice is as resonant, sensual, visceral
and rich-textured as it ever was, maybe more -- that same indefinable
mix of spirit and flesh, ethereal and earthy.
He is looking older, yes, but he's still got the effortless
charm, the dimpled grin, the intense eyes, the graceful hands,
and still sings me right into a boneless puddle --
Um,
did I say that last part out loud?
*embarrassed
cough*
Er,
disregard that last bit, would you?
Got a bit carried away.
Thanks muchly.
Anyway,
in mid-rehearsal, someone tossed a small oblong bundle up onstage,
trussed in string -- possibly a T-shirt, possibly something else
wrapped in fabric (in which case, it’s probably safest not
to guess). Whoever it was had one heck of an aim (possibly
CD Hurling Woman!), since it landed right at Peter's feet. He picked it up, smiled and nodded his thanks,
then handed it to a stagehand to take away.
After he'd finished up, thanked the crowd, and walked to
the rear of the stage, two gals beside me begged a security guard
to give him their gifts, too.
Reluctantly, the guard complied.
As Peter accepted the items, returned to the stage edge,
and offered additional gracious thanks, I hastily snapped a picture.
Now,
although he’d been almost this close before, he’d been
performing, stationed behind a keyboard.
There’d been a certain sense of distance, albeit far
less in this soundcheck/rehearsal than in a formal concert situation.
However, having him addressing us directly in this utterly
unexpected way threw me into such a state of Peter-proximity shock
that I didn’t think to take a single additional picture while
he stood there in that ideal pose.
Maybe just as well, though, since I really lived the moment
with an absolute immediacy, not mediated through a camera, not
thinking of anything save the incredible fact that he was there.
Unfortunately, one unintended side effect of my immersion
in the moment was the way I stood slack-jawed and stupefied as
a brain-damaged guppy.
As
soon as he reached the stage edge, fans more coherent than me
immediately bombarded him with both questions and overt expressions
of worship/adoration for this morning's concert and his music
in general. You could tell from the befuddled look on his
face he was having trouble hearing individual statements, but
he was doing his darndest to remain polite and responsive.
I can't remember the exact wording of the exchanges, but
I think some of them went something like this.
"Do
you know how much your music means to people?" one female
fan yelled, and he shuffled shyly, smiled a bit, and said "Thanks,
that's very nice to hear." A male voice hollered "When's
the new album?" which he conveniently ignored (drat), although
the laughter peppering the crowd indicated that most of us heard
the question just fine.
Then someone asked "Are you going to be doing a signing
here at WOMAD?" No
doubt the question was inspired by the way that almost all the
other artists had done CD signings after their performances.
He squinted and indicated that he couldn't hear.
The woman repeated the question, "Are you going to
be doing a CD signing?"
He thought for a moment, and finally hesitantly replied,
"Um, yes, a little one."
Thanks to this comment, I kept several pictures in reserve
on my camera . . . which didn't get used. There was no CD signing,
unless it was the best kept secret since *UP*’s projected
release date. So
he either changed his mind, or was merely acknowledging that he
might do a signing at some indeterminate location at some indeterminate
point in some indeterminately vague future ("Yes, I'm doing
a signing, I'm doing an album, don't pester me for logistical
details, I'm an artiste!"), or he didn't hear the question
right in the first place (which leads me to wonder -- what question
did he *think* he was answering?
There's a fun game of Peter Gabriel Jeopardy for you. I
personally vote for “Does Phil Collins have a brain?”).
After
that, he thanked everyone again and walked offstage, as many people
continued to yell out their heartfelt gratitude for that morning's
impromptu performance. Adrenaline
coursing madly through our veins, all of us in front proceeded
to shriek, "Can you BELIEVE what just happened?" to
each other in voices high enough to set dogs howling miles away.
“That was so nice of him!
He did the whole set just for us!” the lady to my
right gushed. “Yeah,
it was incredibly nice, but he did need the practice,” I
replied -- then froze as I realized just how catty my comment
sounded. It wasn’t
meant that way, I swear!
I just meant he needed to get the feel for the stage set-up
prior to the actual concert, particularly after not performing
for so long. Enjoying
my frantic backpedaling, she burst out laughing.
Quite
a few people were wearing concert T-shirts, confirming a hard-core
fan presence. Jen
and I were decked out in our black T-shirts airbrushed with a
copy of the bright purple Peter Gabriel photo in full stage make-up
from the Armando Gallo book.
A friend of hers made 'em, and they are pretty impressive-looking,
let me tell you. We
had a *lot* of folks ask us about them.
Unfortunately, they never attracted the attention of Peter
himself (probably just as well.
I can hear it now:
"Did you have copyright permission to make those?"
"Errr . . ."
“To the monkey cage with them!”
“No! Anything
but the bonobos!”).
Too bad we never got a chance to make up the T-shirt idea
we’d hatched a decade ago, featuring a doctored photo of
both of us clinging worshipfully to Peter’s legs, with “Gabriel’s
Angels” as the caption.
We actually did have a Photoshop-skilled friend of Jen’s
make up the photo back in the mid 90’s.
Getting photos of us clinging to a man’s legs involved
having snapshots taken of us hanging onto Jen’s friend’s
legs in the backyard -- wouldn’t you have just *loved* to
see the look on the guy’s face who developed those?
Alas, Jen’s friend’s computer suffered a terminal
crash, and the masterpiece was lost forever.
We
proceeded to mutual introductions, discovering the guy and gal
to our left, who hailed from the Chicago area, were Michelle and
-- blast, I've forgotten his name already, so we'll call him Wossname
(in tribute to Terry Pratchett, one of my other idols).
The lady to my right was Lillian, and you can see her in
of one of Tony Levin's photos (lucky wench)!
We then all began what was to be a lovely day of bonding,
exchanging what we came to call our Peter Gabriel Insane Fan Stories.
Jen and I recounted
how we'd met buying tickets during his Secret World tour, then
ran into each other again at the concert, then became pen pals,
then friends, and ultimately sisters-in-law after I married her
brother! Lots of
folks claim Peter Gabriel music changed their lives, but I can
show you 6’ 1” worth of conclusive male matrimonial
proof. ; )
A woman behind us who’d brought her young teenage
son to the concert confessed that she’d been uncertain if
she should spend the money or not to come to WOMAD, but her husband,
with admirable tact, had informed her that she should go “since,
let’s face it, you aren’t getting any younger, and neither
is Peter.” Ol'
Wossname told a hilarious anecdote which I will call the "glass
of water" story (otherwise known as the “How *Not* to
Win Friends and Influence Peter” story), in which he managed
to inextricably insert his foot in his mouth in front of our musical
hero. I'm talking
major treadmarks on the uvula, here.
I've begged him to submit the story to Solsbury Hill himself,
since he and Michelle tell it far better than I ever could, so
I won’t recount it now and steal his thunder.
Lillian, meanwhile,
was from the Seattle area, and had been to prior WOMADs. She told us how PG had attended last year in
a tourist capacity and simply listened to the acts; several people
had ostensibly spotted him watching Bonnie Raitt from off to the
side of the crowd. Everyone was disappointed when he didn't go
onstage and sing with Paula Cole, Lillian confirmed, and even
claimed to have written a "letter of complaint" to him
for not performing -- not sure if she was serious or joking!
Lillian also mentioned a WOMAD tradition of a grand finale
"monster jam" in which a whole bunch of acts get up
onstage and groove together.
Unfortunately, no such event took place this year.
Wah!
I
had to leave for some tasty rations,
I
just had to trust their protestations,
My
heart going boom boom boom
"Please,"
I said, "Watch my things,
I'm
staking out my home."
Directly behind
us, a latecoming couple was debating whether they could safely
leave their blanket to reserve their spot while they wandered
around to enjoy the rest of WOMAD.
We in the front row had no such faith in the general run
of humanity, especially when prime Peter viewing was at stake.
As we settled in for the long haul, we outlined a battle
plan in which we would all save one another's places when we left
for necessities such as food and trips to the dreaded Honey Buckets.
The few folks who had been in front of us were apparently
WOMAD volunteers, and had wandered off after the rehearsal, so
Michelle, Wossname, Jen, Lillian, and I all had superb spots directly
up against the stage wall in front of Peter’s microphone.
We weren't about to surrender them to anyone!
We all immediately spread out our blankets, jackets, and
bags in a territorial marking gesture that was about as primitive
as it gets without involving bodily fluids ("MY place!
MINE! GrrRRrr!").
By then, the day had, against all odds, transformed into
a gloriously sunny one without a hint of rain.
Although this was ironic, since most of us had dressed
in accordance with Saturday's sub-arctic temperatures and were
now sweating buckets, we peeled off some clothing layers and rejoiced.
Even the weather paid tribute to the Greatness That Is
Peter! So what if
he doesn't have his own Bobble Head Doll like Ichiro does. ; )
In line with
the sunnier weather and the presence of Peter, the crowds were
about triple what they'd been during the previous two days.
I was treated to a glimpse of what WOMAD is usually like,
according to Lillian, and realized that although I'd frozen my
tuckus off the night before, the plus side was that I hadn't waited
in huge lines for bathroom privileges, and had virtually been
able to sit on the laps of any act I wanted to see.
It had been cold enough that the idea of sitting in their
laps for the sake of body heat alone was awfully tempting.
There was only a single indoor structure on the public
grounds of the festival, a lovely old museum building that was
dedicated exclusively to the use of VIP and media.
By Saturday afternoon, I was fervently wishing I’d
thought to stay in touch with Crystal Ann, so I could beg, borrow,
or buy her media badge.
None of us peons were allowed in, no matter how much we
hung around the fringes and gazed jealously at the windows, coveting
the toasty dry warmth inside.
The beautiful people inside laughed their carefree laughs,
sipped steaming cups of complimentary coffee, and occasionally
sent the guards outside to savage us with trained attack dogs
for their amusement.
Well, perhaps
I exaggerate a teensy bit.
Still, when you stick a hapless Arizonan outdoors in intermittent
freezing rain from noon till 9:45 without a break, that Arizonan
will be chilled to the bone.
I'd wanted to see Oysterband, but gave up after a single
song. Although they
sounded good, only Peter himself distributing autographed preview
copies of “UP” would have been enough to keep me in
that rain. When we trudged back to the car that night,
I had to physically pry my cramped fingers open to let go of my
bag.
Enough whining!
Suffice it to say that Sunday's weather was as gorgeous
as Saturday's was wretched.
As I left to purchase food, I received the first of many
inquiries related to where a shirt like mine could be obtained. Ravenous, I directed the inquirer to speak
to Jen and hustled over to the food booths.
Intrigued by the crowds which had frequented one particular
food booth all weekend, I bought a very tasty meal of marinated
chicken, vegetables, and red lentils on African spongy bread,
along with an apple dumpling with ice cream from a neighboring
booth. While waiting
in line, I had a nice conversation with a lady who complimented
me on my hair (I have a lot of very long red hair, and the constant
humidity was increasing the volume to "Cousin It" proportions.
You have to make a concerted effort *not* to notice my
hair. It blithely
invades your personal space and weaves its way into all your clothing).
She attended WOMAD every year, usually on her motorcycle.
She was on call that day and fervently hoping her pager
wouldn’t ring and spoil everything.
I tell you, that's dedication.
If that was me, that pager would have met a mysterious
and terrible fate, probably involving a Honey Bucket.
"I don't know, it just *slipped* somehow . . ."
You can see my priorities.
Viewing a Peter Gabriel concert beats the heck out of showing
up for emergency brain surgery, or whatever urgent mission was
keeping her on call.
I returned
to our staked-out spot and ate my lunch, but before I had a chance
to eat the apple dumpling, the announcer introduced L·gb·j·,
conveying his gratitude for having such a fabulous “opening
act” as Peter. This
act was worth letting the ice cream melt for.
Judging by the writeup in the WOMAD guide, I presumed this
was a downer protest band, given the emphasis on political issues,
and the way the masked frontman symbolized the plight of the "faceless
common man." Silly
me! Not by any stretch
of the imagination was this group a “downer.”
This was percussion-oriented, get-up-and-dance-yourself-sick
music along the lines of Youssou N'Dour.
Their song "Simple Yes or No" (dedicated to filibustering
politicians) had the whole crowd chanting along to the chorus
-- at least, after the frontman (clad in an eye-blistering primary
clash of canary yellow and cobalt blue) chided us all for singing
in bland unison “like a symphony,” and taught us how
to properly pitch the stress and volume of our words.
He had less luck teaching us the intricate “shoulder
dance.” Since
the best most of us could do was shrug apologetically, I think
our spastic lack of coordination may have depressed him horribly.
They featured
three terrific dancers, including one gal in an outfit which resembled
a psychedelic-Africana interpretation of Dr. Seuss's Cat-in-the-Hat,
and a diminutive female backup singer who could really just belt
it out, completely out of all proportion to her size.
Although all their outfits were very eye-catching, they
weren’t terribly practical.
The Cat-in-the-Hat woman had to keep pushing the hat out
of her eyes, while the other woman appeared to be having trouble
getting her wrap-around dress to stay on.
After re-tucking it about 10 times, she finally removed
her headcloth and tied it around her waist so she could get down
and really dance with the drummers without worrying about unravelling.
The masked frontman (who was a mean saxophone player) made
a huge production out of taking off his streamer-bedecked fabric
mask, since it was hot up there that day.
He told us all to put our cameras away, and even made the
press put down all of theirs, and then whipped off his mask to
reveal -- yet another, smaller mask. ; ) Amid the ensuing laughter,
he said that was symbolic of how when you overcome one problem,
there's always another one lurking just behind it!
The best part,
though, was that off to the far left, in the stage scaffolding
area where folding chairs had been set up as VIP seating, I suddenly
spotted Peter Gabriel standing with several others, happily taping
the group with his handheld videocam, and obviously enjoying the
performance tremendously. Right before the Cat-in-the-Hat dancer came
out to join the group, she was waiting over there, warming up
about a foot in front of Peter Gabriel, and he was alternating
between watching her and the band.
It was really neat (in a quasi-voyeuristic sort of way)
to catch sight of him when he wasn't "on," when he was
clearly in the role of audience rather than performer, and was
just having a grand old time.
Later on in the day, in the wings on the opposite side,
we also caught a glimpse of Tony Levin watching and filming, and
I *think* I caught a glimpse of David Rhodes at one point (although
with the amount of bald men wandering around up there, I can’t
say for sure). They
had their own fans, by the way; Lillian informed me she’d
had a conversation with a gal in the audience who thought Peter
Gabriel was “okay,” but Tony Levin was “Whoah!”
; ) Lillian
also appeared to be a big David Rhodes booster.
Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), there's something
tremendously endearing about the way the band seems to enjoy these
festivals as much as everyone else does, and get a huge kick out
of the performances. There's
not a primadonna among them.
Although I always appreciated the talent of Peter Gabriel’s
band, I really did come away from this concert a far bigger fan
of Tony Levin and David Rhodes than I went in.
Afterwards,
I ate my melty ice cream and apple dumpling (still very tasty,
albeit soggy), checked to make sure Lillian and Michelle would
guard our spot with their very lives (we swore a blood oath and
everything), and headed over to the “Drumming Traditions”
workshop with Jen. It
entailed missing Simon Shaheen and Qantara, but I really wanted
to see this workshop. First
of all, it sounded interesting.
I’d thoroughly enjoyed the segments of the “Brazilian
Rhythms” and “Pipes & Strings & Modern Things”
workshops I’d seen the day before, although I’d bailed
on the Rennie Harris “Dance Workshop” after I discovered
he expected us to -- well, dance in a vaguely coordinated fashion.
; ) Second of all,
it featured members of the Afro Celt Sound System, whom I hadn't
seen before (I missed the Letterman performance -- but that's
another story). I did have an ulterior motive, though. The website had mentioned “and surprise guests” after the listed participants, while the program
had an “and more” addendum.
No other workshop had a similar notation.
Knowing Peter used to be a drummer, I nursed a tiny flare
of hope that he might come out to jam a bit, given that this Roots
of Music stage was only a few feet away from an entrance into
the fenced-off backstage area -- where, incidentally, there were
a lot of strings of lights and banners and colorful lanterns hung
among the trailers, creating a festive party-looking setup that
you could just see peeking over the fence.
It looked like a lot of fun back there, the lucky devils.
I hope Andrea describes it in vivid detail!
To
keep in silence I resigned
Andrea’d
think I was a nut
Although
I really longed to whine
For autographs, my mouth stayed shut
Speaking of
Andrea, as Jen and I strolled toward the Roots of Music stage
past that aforementioned backstage entrance, we spied a slim brunette
gal in a very chic belted black jacket waiting with another lady;
both had the coveted badges that were the magic ticket into backstage,
warm media rooms, and Peter Proximity.
In other words, Nirvana. ; )
Ms. Black Jacket called out to us as we passed by, inquiring
where we got our spiffy airbrushed T-shirts.
As she seemed both very nice and very enthused, a conversation
commenced. Eventually,
she mentioned that she would be meeting Peter Gabriel at 3pm (it
was then 2pm). Of
course, Jen and I staggered backwards when hit with this bombshell. "Oh my God, you’re Andrea!" I exclaimed.
"Yeah, how'd you know?" she asked, a bit puzzled
by my seeming psychic abilities (maybe I was a telepathic bonobo
monkey in a former life).
"I read about the auction on the Solsbury Hill Website!"
I announced proudly, completing an improbably scripted exchange
right out of a TV commercial. However, Andrea can confirm that's just how
it happened, so there! Nyah!
We chattered
away for a minute or two, while I valiantly resisted the almost
overwhelming urge to beg and/or bribe her on bended knee to snag
me a personalized Peter Gabriel autograph (Jen already has one,
the lucky wench). After all, at $1,000 a minute, I figured (with
an internal sigh of resignation) that she deserved to have her
time entirely for herself.
She was tremendously excited (of course!) and mentioned
that she'd already caught a glimpse of him at the hotel.
I told her I hadn't sent in any suggested questions to
the Hill, since I figured my number one question had already been
sent in by 9,487 other people:
"WHEN WILL YOU GIVE US THE NEW FREAKING ALBUM, ALREADY?!?"
She laughed and confirmed that she'd definitely be asking
that question. After
saying goodbye, Jen and I reached the Roots of Music stage, then
promptly realized we'd been so excited that we’d completely
forgotten about the original reason Andrea had approached us --
she wanted to get a purple Peter shirt like ours.
We ran back to the entrance to give her our contact information,
but she was already gone, preparing for her big adventure.