It’s June 2013, and Julia, my 15 year old daughter, my baby, the little girl who used to sing along with Barney the Purple Dinosaur, is on her way to a “Mike Stud” concert with her friends — Mike Stud being an up-and-coming hip-hop white rapper dude, I’m told, from Rhode Island. I’m the lucky dad who gets to drive this teenage fan club to the show at Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel in Providence, where Ramones and Iggy Pop played some 32 years earlier.
The four girls – all 15 and looking significantly older, God help me – can hardly contain their excitement, and their talk quickly turns to the pre-show “meet and greet” with Mike Stud, for which their parents (myself included) have paid extra. They are a little stressed out about what they will say when they “finally” meet this Junior Eminem.
“Oh my god, I don’t know what I’m gonna say,” says Colleen. In the rearview mirror, she appears to be talking directly to her phone.
“I’ll be like, ‘pleased to meet you, Mr. Stud,’” says Hayley.
The girls all laugh. “Mr. Stud!” they squeal in gleeful unison.
Hayley sighs. “I’ll probably just hug him and cry,” she admits. “I guess I’m just not that good at meeting famous people.”
And I think to myself, who is? Certainly not me.
Julia and her friends have been “big fans” of Mike Stud for all of six months now, and when pressed they admit they don’t know a whole lot of his songs by name or by lyric. He’s awfully cute, though, and within a few hours they’ll each have a new social media profile photo of themselves hugging the stud that is Mike Stud.
Talk about immediate gratification! Like many of my ilk in 2013 – pushing 50 years old, pushing a 40 inch waist – I’ve been a big fan – a serious fan – of any number of recording artists for decades. And I still don’t have a picture of myself with any of them. Not a one.
And on the exceedingly rare occasion when I have actually met one of those musicians who “mean so much to me,” I’ve been quite the camera-less doofus. A doofus…like…me, trying to explain to Pete Thomas, Elvis Costello’s faithful drummer (who I literally bumped into during in line for the restroom at the Newport Folk Festival one year) how he’s been the “omnipresent backbeat on my car stereo” for two thirds of my life or something equally as cringe-inducing. “Sorry to bother you, but…” That poor man, having to suffer through the gushing, babbling likes of me.
Or…like…me, feeling duty-bound to tell British pub-punk Graham Parker, after a small show in Boston 30-odd years ago, how much my recently-deceased brother JB loved his albums. “Sorry to bother you, but…” I started, and tried, and failed to explain. “Sorry for your loss,” Graham Parker replied, nice as can be, but clearly uncomfortable. I felt closure for my brother, who never got the chance to get a photo with Graham Parker, and I felt so very stupid for myself, all at the same time. I still full-body cringe at these memories, but I’m glad I have them, nonetheless.
I often ask myself – why this behavior? What compels otherwise (ostensibly) rational people to linger around after a show, in hopes of catching their favorite artist on their way to the tour bus? What makes us write a fan letter? What drives us to seek an opportunity to tell a complete stranger how much we love them and to get a photo with them? Because we love them. We really love them.
My friend Gary loves, loves, loves Bruce Springsteen. Me? I respect Springsteen, but Gary’s devotion to Bruce is singular, impressive and highly-representative of the population of music lovers with whom I associate. He’s seen Bruce countless times in concert, and for Gary, meeting Bruce someday would literally be a dream come true.
“I dream about it often,” Gary replied to my 2013 Facebook post asking friends about their musical heroes. “After years of thinking about what I would say, I can only hope to keep calm and say ‘thank you’ for being the best part of the last 40 years of my life.” And to you, Gary, I say, “I totally get that.” I bet you do, too.
In response to my Facebook call for anecdotes, my former co-worker Jennifer, posts a wonderful reply that perfectly illustrates the joys of the elusive “oh my god I met them and got my picture taken with them” moment: “The Bee Gees had been my first concert ever in 1979, and I saw them again in 1989… and at the 1989 concert I got to be in the front row, and on a dare I held up my Bee Gees lunch box for them to see. Barry actually stopped playing, elbowed Robin and they both pointed at me, winked and laughed. It was really great. I never thought I could top that until 1999, when Philips Electronics sent me to Las Vegas to manage the PR for the ‘One Night Only’ concert. I got to go backstage with them and introduce myself…I kind of recounted the lunch box story, but didn’t want to look too crazy, so I scaled it back a bit. I told them I was a huge fan and I was able to get my picture with them. Barry introduced me to his granddaughter and we chatted a bit. It was really amazing just being in the same room with the three of them. They were truly so patient and appreciative and it was a dream come true for me!” Lucky lady, that Jennifer! She knows how to meet famous people.
PJ, my friend from high school, reported that he’s seen Cheap Trick in concert at least 12 times, by his reckoning. “They’re a fun band who keeps it simple and love to play, no matter how large or small the crowd is,” he told me via Facebook. “When I met the drummer (afterwards), I was like, ‘great show, enjoyed the music and look forward to future recordings…’ It was simple. You treat them just like anyone else…just thank them for their work and wish them continued success. Too many people go crazy when meeting a celebrity, and I believe they know when you’re a fake or overdoing it.”
My college friend Lisa replied that she’d seen U2 15 times or so at that point, but has never met any members of the band. She should compare notes with Mike M., another college friend, who has seen U2 at least 20 times without meeting them. My friend David H. added that he too has never gotten a picture with Bono or The Edge, despite having “a high U2 count” – making it sound a little like rock and roll cholesterol.
But there is always hope. Not too long ago, a cheerful woman from England posted a photo of herself with my musical idol on the “Elvis Costello Collector’s Guild” Facebook page. Her caption? “The picture I’ve waited 37 years for.”
Still time, perhaps.
P.S.: Gary got his selfie with Bruce Springsteen in 2011.
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