Polly Jean Harvey and John Parish played the Riviera Theater last night. I've been very excited about this show for some time (I've missed the last two PJ Harvey shows that came through Chicago, and she didn't tour the States much for her last album White Chalk).
It steadily became a mess, though, as most things in my life are wont to do.
Aimee bought four tickets thinking that I would go with her, she'd take a friend, and I'd take Betsy. Betsy backed out, she couldn't find anyone else to go, we broke up, and she decided that she would be too uncomfortable to go alone with me. So, I bought two tickets off of her for 45 dollars each.
I could have paid 35 bucks if I had bought them at the box office. Or, I could have paid ten bucks if I had gone to the show without a ticket.
Aimee was pleasant, but clearly uncomfortable when we met for coffee to exchange little things the other one had. She gave me my book Never Let Me Go and also a mix cd that she had made for me. There was a lot of time put into it. She also gave me some zines that she bought during her California trip. All of this was agonizing--one of those times when a present is given solely to make the other person feel like complete shit. I did.
Near the end of the conversation, I apologized, and she let me have it a bit. Very delicately, but she let me know that I treated her like shit and didn't respect her. "I know," I said. And I did. I got it--I guess the only part that I disagreed on was that we dated for such a short time that it wasn't like I owed her some grand break up. It seemed like the kind of thing where I could just drift off into oblivion. Guess not.
So, another solo show for me. I was a bit happy about it, as I didn't want to have any distractions while in the same room with the L of my L. Polly Harvey has been the object of my distant affections since I was fifteen and bought Rid of Me. She is a goddess, and I sincerely worship her. Human perfection.
I took the train--got off at the wrong stop on account of I'm drunk and just overall pretty stupid. Angry, but whatever. Glad to have my headphones.
Upon getting off, I knew it would be bad. There was no way I could sell my ticket. Cockroaches were everywhere desperately trying to sell me one--never a good sign. I soon realized that this was going to be a 90 dollar night, not including drinks and transportation. Fuck! I'd done such a good job at saving money this past week.
I didn't want to sell the ticket to a cockroach, but I finally told one guy that seemed pretty nice that I'd sell it to him for five dollars. He said, "ok", but then I said, I'd wait until I was finished smoking. He was still fine with it. After I was done, I gave him the ticket, and he gave me ten dollars. It was quite a nice gesture. A homeless guy gave me five extra dollars. I asked him if he wanted a cigarette, and he said he did. All was (if nothing else) at least ok.
I got a spot as close as I could get. Little did I know the shit show that was going to take place in front of me.
I stood next to a girl that had two people come up and apologize to her. It was strange, so I asked her about it. Problem was, I hadn't spoken in about three hours, and I didn't realize I was drunk. So my words came out all muckle-mouthed. I stuttered through some really terrible conversation (like when I was in high school level bad), and came to the conclusion that she was incredibly nice. She was, in fact, wonderful. Of course, the "my boyfriend is a photographer" conversation came up early on, but I was glad to speak with a real fan about the music before the show. She was stunningly beautiful also.
I have had a handful of concerts ruined by the crowd. It's an unfortunate but inevitable reality. Sometimes even great shows can be underscored by the fools surrounding my general area. The problem this time: pictures.
People had their cameras up the entire time taking a ridiculous number of pictures. Fucking digital cameras! It used to be that you'd have to at least put a small amount of thought into each shot. Not anymore. I fucked one up, so I'll just keep on taking them.
It was apparent five minutes into the show that this would be a photo taking rampage for about five people directly in front of me. As a result, I stared at LCD screens most of the night while I got angrier and angrier. Of course, a lot of the fuel was caused by the fact that I paid 90 dollars to go to this show, but the general demeanor of the people was atrocious.
Then she came in, right in front of us. God, this is going to make me really angry to retell. This girl was joined at the hip by some guy that looked like a spiky haired lesbian. She had this awful bob haircut--and she was dancing around like she was the only one that grasped the greatness of the music. Her godawful dancing was interspersed with making out with spiky dikey and really loud conversations. Oh, and about a thousand photos with her gigantic fucking camera.
Soon after her arrival, I had my most embarrassing moment of the night. God, I'm a fool. There was a security guard that was standing right in front of Blondie, but I didn't know he was a security guard. So I started being chivalrous and told him he needed to get out of her way. He said, "What?" And then I recognized that he was a security guard. I said, "Oh, nothing." And he said, "What?" This went on about three more times. Then he filed into the crowd. Blondie laughed and earnest laugh. Not at me, but at the situation. I really thought she was cool.
The camera was really annoying. I understand taking a shit load of pictures if the band is moving around or doing something exciting. But every picture was exactly the fucking same. So I tapped her on her shoulder and gestured that I couldn't see anything. This was her reply.
"Do you have a problem?" Then she gestured that it's a big arena, and that I should stand somewhere else (even though she inappropriately moved to the front about five songs into the set). Then she said, "Do you need a hug or a cup of coffee?"
I was fucking irate. The blond girl next to me started hissing at her. Really hissing, like a cat ready to pounce. It made me so happy. That was the nicest thing someone has done to me in quite some time. It takes a real man/lady to stand up for someone else in that situation. I can't believe that I was so drunk and painfully awkward to this girl, and she was willing to defend me.
Even after making such a boob of myself to the security guard. she still defended me. Of course, the bob didn't change her ways. This sort of thing makes some people take even more pictures more obnoxiously, and that's precisely what happened.
Of course, I then couldn't take many pictures. I did manage to get the one at the top of the page where Polly looks totally crazy. It's poor quality, but I love it!
The show was good. "Taut" was absolutely stunning as always, though not nearly as good as the time I saw it done it Paris. "Leaving California" was a highlight--it streamed through my head for the rest of the night. And "A Woman a Man Walked By" was great right after that also. Some good moments, but it couldn't compare to a show of PJ Harvey songs (she played only songs off the two albums in which she collaborated with John Parish).
The trip home was long. I sat next to this black woman holding a baby that could not have been more than one or two months old. It was microscopic. I couldn't imagine a situation where someone would be taking a tiny tiny baby on the train at 10:30 at night. All she had were a couple of blankets. I smiled at her, as some other people did, and she put her hands in her head in what seemed like a deep seeded frustration.
I wanted to take pictures on the train so desperately, but it would have been horribly inappropriate. There were so many crazy thoughts in my head. Stories, poems, narration. That's always the upside of going out alone.
I began to think of The Grapes of Wrath as I trekked on home. It was probably because I had "Leaving California" in my head.
California Leaving California
California Leaving California
No one but me is walking under palms that give no shade
I'm leaving you today
California Leave me
California Leave
California Leave Me
California
How cruel was I to think that I could you change
Oh give me some shade
Oh England come soon
How could I've believed that I could live and breathe in you
Ooh California
Killed me California
California Killed me
California
I think it's time to leave
I think it's time to leave
I told no one I'd stay
I think it's time to leave
It's a beautiful song that I think is potentially about Vincent Gallo. Maybe not.
But it's in a way similar to the Joads. They were so desperate for what the state had to offer that it nearly killed them. But in the end, Roseofsharon gave her milk to the old man. The milk of human kindness. My favorite book ending of all time--and one that keeps hope alive inside me, just like the homeless man that gave me ten bucks and the girl that hissed did.
And I returned home to find a mini-party (as I somewhat expected). Betsy was really drunk--Jon was there also, but he didn't seem even buzzed. Her sisters were having fun, and oddly, Tanesha (sp?) was there too. Amber had arrived in that night, and we had fun dancing and acting ridiculous. Amber and I stayed up until almost four o'clock singing songs about the heartland. She always brings out the best in me (even though I'm generally slightly embarrassed in the morning)--though the goofiest.
I still adore Polly, but I definitely was not satiated with the show. Not a let down; I knew what I was getting myself into, but it just fell a little bit flat.
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