In honour of the latest news of Stewart’s book, I’m squeezing in some time this weekend to continue my tale. I promise to finish it before Strange Things Happen is released. And by the way, as an act of pure defiance I will continue to refer to the band as The Police, even in running script. Take that Chicago Manual!
Part 23
How should I begin the account of a day forever etched in my memory? It’ll have to be by remembering that there was some necessary background information that I forgot to tell you about. Thus, I’ll backtrack a bit.
Jones Beach 2 was always a problem for me. Aside from sounding like the second in a series of B rated horror films, it was the one concert of the tour that I viewed with both great expectations and great doubt. Back in the ticket buying frenzy that followed the announcement of the last leg of the tour, many speculated that Jones Beach (the then one and only) would not be the last show. I’d check the Ticketmaster web site every few days and see seats were still available. I agonized over this for two weeks until I decided that it was worth buying a ticket if only for the experience of meeting so many of you fine people who had already committed to attending the show. Within forty-eight hours of my ticket purchase, Evil Nation gave me a punch in the gut by announcing Jones Beach 2. For me, it sat at the end of the tour’s final leg like a grotesque sixth toe. I wanted nothing to do with it; yet I found it fascinating. Even after the announcement of the MSG show, I deliberated over Jones Beach 2. It would be the last gig with Elvis Costello and, as the second last show, had the potential of being more off the hook than the final ever Police concert.
I also had a second problem in the days leading up to our departure for New York. Sporterella was going to miss the family concert at Saratoga. To resolve both of these issues, I decided to get a pair of Jones Beach 2 tickets for the two of us. In the interest of parity, they’d have to be lousy seats equivalent to the Saratoga lawn seats endured by the rest of the family. My kids are all about equality. If I give one an extra gram of ice cream while doling out dessert, I’ll hear about it from the other two. My attempt to find crappy seats on the resale market was going nowhere until a couple of days before I left. Lovely DM connected me to even lovelier (at least for this purpose) BABA. He had planned to go to the show with HIS daughter but could no longer attend and was looking to give his tickets a good home. This incredible person (whom I still haven’t met) refused to take a cent from me even though he would have to FedEx the tickets to my Long Island hotel to ensure I got them on time. The only thing he would take in return was my spare pair of nose-bleed MSG tickets that I had bought pre-Stewart giveaway. These, too, BABA passed on to friends for free. I’m looking into having the Church of St. Jeff canonize this man. The “lousy” tickets, by the way, were in the centre of the first row above the orchestra, only a few seats back from where I was for the first Jones Beach show. But shhhhh…don’t tell The Boy or Dancerina! Sporterella and I have managed to keep this as our little secret all these months.
All told, I attended seven concerts in The Police’s reunion tour. Thanks to my kids, Nutters and Stewart, I sat in free seats or free up-graded seats for five of those shows. There is no way I can thank this awesome community enough. If I move this plodding narrative on that might be a start. OK, the action packed Part 24?!?!!! is coming soon.
I Had a Mid-life Crisis and Brought the Kids!
by luddite lady on 15 Feb 2009 13:02
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
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luddite lady - Posts: 2224
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by DirtyMartini on 15 Feb 2009 14:32
BABA rocks and is, in fact, far lovelier than I.
[quote="luddite lady"]And by the way, as an act of pure defiance I will continue to refer to the band as The Police, even in running script. Take that Chicago Manual![/quote]
Right on.
Thanks for the latest installment, llady!
[quote="luddite lady"]And by the way, as an act of pure defiance I will continue to refer to the band as The Police, even in running script. Take that Chicago Manual![/quote]
Right on.
Thanks for the latest installment, llady!
Dramatic highlights & a unique musical cosmos. Guaranteed.
-
DirtyMartini - Posts: 9622
- Joined: 03 Mar 2007 18:38
- Location: Around.
by luddite lady on 16 Feb 2009 07:12
Part 24
The morning of the second Jones Beach show saw me once again trying to rouse my kids out of bed. With much moaning and effort on all sides, we eventually got ourselves to the Long Island Railroad station and on to a train to Manhattan. Our mood improved as we got closer to our destination. Of all the places we have travelled to in the U.S., New York City is where my family feels the most at home. New York is pretty much Toronto on steroids. And this is one occasion where I consider steroid use a good thing.
The main purpose of our trip was to pick up my ticket for the final Police performance at Madison Square Garden. I was pumped. Even my kids were impressed when I showed them my confirmation e-mail from Cynthia Oknaian with its heading VIP TICKETING. I was to pick up my ticket from window 7 of the MSG box office. When we arrived, it first appeared as though the box office was entirely closed since the blinds were drawn on all the windows.
My sceptical daughters went on the attack, “Look! They’re not even open!”
“What a waste of time! At least we’re close to Macey’s.”
“Yeah, let’s go!”
“Not so fast,” I interrupted, pointing out a solitary open window. It was number seven. “MY window is open,” I announced triumphantly.
There wasn’t even a line for me to wait in. The man at the box office looked at my e-mail and driver’s licence and turned to a set of alphabetized mail boxes behind him. After shuffling through a few envelopes in the appropriate box, he pulled out one with my name on it. From that envelope, he handed me another one containing my ticket. I had to sign the outer envelope and then I was on my way with a ticket in my hand that had been bought and left for me by the drummer of The Police. I had just gone straight from window 7 to cloud 9.
When I first saw The Police with my friend Debbie back in 1982, our wild seventeen year old imaginations would have never dreamed of such a scenario. I’m still in touch with Debbie. Her daughters go to school with mine. I’ve yet to sit her down and tell her this whole story. Even with e-mails, photos and ticket stubs as evidence, she may well not believe a word of it. I can’t blame her. I would have found this story dubious if I had been told it on my way to the last Toronto Police gig in November 2007. Connecting the dots from that concert to this moment at the box office, I realized I had experienced a bit of my own “A Message in a Bottle” story. I went to the November show feeling like a dork for attending it alone. However, as I was alone, I was better able to observe those around me. I noticed the flag and its entourage going into the arena and I noticed Stewart’s mad pointing. As a result of that, a little natural curiosity, a crazy on-line community, and an extremely generous drummer, I was preparing to attend a history making concert with hoards of ecstatic people I knew. Not only was I “not alone in being alone”, I was just plain not alone.
The morning of the second Jones Beach show saw me once again trying to rouse my kids out of bed. With much moaning and effort on all sides, we eventually got ourselves to the Long Island Railroad station and on to a train to Manhattan. Our mood improved as we got closer to our destination. Of all the places we have travelled to in the U.S., New York City is where my family feels the most at home. New York is pretty much Toronto on steroids. And this is one occasion where I consider steroid use a good thing.
The main purpose of our trip was to pick up my ticket for the final Police performance at Madison Square Garden. I was pumped. Even my kids were impressed when I showed them my confirmation e-mail from Cynthia Oknaian with its heading VIP TICKETING. I was to pick up my ticket from window 7 of the MSG box office. When we arrived, it first appeared as though the box office was entirely closed since the blinds were drawn on all the windows.
My sceptical daughters went on the attack, “Look! They’re not even open!”
“What a waste of time! At least we’re close to Macey’s.”
“Yeah, let’s go!”
“Not so fast,” I interrupted, pointing out a solitary open window. It was number seven. “MY window is open,” I announced triumphantly.
There wasn’t even a line for me to wait in. The man at the box office looked at my e-mail and driver’s licence and turned to a set of alphabetized mail boxes behind him. After shuffling through a few envelopes in the appropriate box, he pulled out one with my name on it. From that envelope, he handed me another one containing my ticket. I had to sign the outer envelope and then I was on my way with a ticket in my hand that had been bought and left for me by the drummer of The Police. I had just gone straight from window 7 to cloud 9.
When I first saw The Police with my friend Debbie back in 1982, our wild seventeen year old imaginations would have never dreamed of such a scenario. I’m still in touch with Debbie. Her daughters go to school with mine. I’ve yet to sit her down and tell her this whole story. Even with e-mails, photos and ticket stubs as evidence, she may well not believe a word of it. I can’t blame her. I would have found this story dubious if I had been told it on my way to the last Toronto Police gig in November 2007. Connecting the dots from that concert to this moment at the box office, I realized I had experienced a bit of my own “A Message in a Bottle” story. I went to the November show feeling like a dork for attending it alone. However, as I was alone, I was better able to observe those around me. I noticed the flag and its entourage going into the arena and I noticed Stewart’s mad pointing. As a result of that, a little natural curiosity, a crazy on-line community, and an extremely generous drummer, I was preparing to attend a history making concert with hoards of ecstatic people I knew. Not only was I “not alone in being alone”, I was just plain not alone.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
-
luddite lady - Posts: 2224
- Joined: 20 Nov 2007 05:05
- Location: Searching the world for symphonic gamelan
by luddite lady on 16 Feb 2009 17:17
Part 25
After we picked up my ticket, we took the subway down to the Village. (DM, you gotta admit The Village just looks wrong here. One point for the Chicago Manual…oops, make that two.) We were going there to drop off my spare MSG tickets at BABA’s apartment house. I felt so artsy talking about going to the Village for a real purpose other than being a tourist. The Boy was happy to explore a part of New York that he’d never visited before. My daughters, on the other hand, got increasingly grumpy as each subway stop represented a greater distance between us and Macey’s. I had no trouble leaving the tickets with the doorman at the apartment house. I had them in an envelope with BABA’s true name and address on it, but given my track record of trying to connect up with Nutters in the real world, I was expecting another hassle. Next, we ate a late lunch at a typical New York diner. Although we had been to New York City on four previous occasions, this was surprisingly the first time my family had visited a diner. How had we missed that experience before? While we ate, I kept quoting Seinfeld to amuse myself and annoy my children. After lunch we only had enough time to take the subway up to Penn Station and catch a commuter train back to Long Island. My shopaholic daughters were royally pissed off.
We had to rush once we got back to the hotel. I set up Dancerina and The Boy for the evening by ordering a pizza to supplement the other yummies we had left over from the grocery shopping spree from the day before. As I showered, Sporterella pulled her green T-shirt out of the luggage and started to decorate it for the show. She is my family’s Queen of the Last Minute. Anybody who knows how I operate realizes that she accomplished quite a feat wrestling that title away from me.
I walked out of the bathroom bedecked in towels and Sporterella ran up to me flourishing a felt fabric pen.
“Do you have the concert tickets? I’ve got to see where our seats are.”
I glanced furtively at Dancerina and The Boy, whose eyes were glued to the TV.
“Why?” I whispered. I was not ready for the battle that would erupt if those two found out about our great seats.
“You’ll see,” she smiled, “Just give me the tickets.”
“OK, but keep ‘em to yourself…and can you please hurry up.”
I went back in the bathroom to get dressed, but Sporterella was soon banging on the door, “Is my seat number 3 or 4? Are the seats numbered from left to right or vice versa?”
“I fail to see how it matters,” I yelled back.
I could tell though that she was obsessed with this so I dressed quickly. I didn’t feel comfortable with all this yelling about seat numbers as long as The Boy and Dancerina were around.
“What’s this about?” I asked emerging from the bathroom.
Beaming, Sporterella showed me the back of her T-shirt. On it she had written “I’m with STEWPID!”
“I’m trying to figure out which way to point the arrow.”
I had to laugh. I was wearing the T-shirt Dive had designed. The front had a large Andy Warholesque picture of Stewart and the back had the word Nutter in capital letters. We’d be a perfect pair.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “It’s not like the seats have our names on them. Put the arrow any way you like and we’ll sit accordingly at the venue.”
“Oh right. I just didn’t want to insult some random stranger with a misdirected arrow.”
Then Sporterella showed me the front of her shirt. It read Lil’ Luddite and the sleeve said “I’m with Luddite Lady”
I was amazed. Not only was my daughter tolerating my adventures in Nutterdom, she was actually proud of them. All this after denying her an afternoon of shopping in Manhattan.
After we picked up my ticket, we took the subway down to the Village. (DM, you gotta admit The Village just looks wrong here. One point for the Chicago Manual…oops, make that two.) We were going there to drop off my spare MSG tickets at BABA’s apartment house. I felt so artsy talking about going to the Village for a real purpose other than being a tourist. The Boy was happy to explore a part of New York that he’d never visited before. My daughters, on the other hand, got increasingly grumpy as each subway stop represented a greater distance between us and Macey’s. I had no trouble leaving the tickets with the doorman at the apartment house. I had them in an envelope with BABA’s true name and address on it, but given my track record of trying to connect up with Nutters in the real world, I was expecting another hassle. Next, we ate a late lunch at a typical New York diner. Although we had been to New York City on four previous occasions, this was surprisingly the first time my family had visited a diner. How had we missed that experience before? While we ate, I kept quoting Seinfeld to amuse myself and annoy my children. After lunch we only had enough time to take the subway up to Penn Station and catch a commuter train back to Long Island. My shopaholic daughters were royally pissed off.
We had to rush once we got back to the hotel. I set up Dancerina and The Boy for the evening by ordering a pizza to supplement the other yummies we had left over from the grocery shopping spree from the day before. As I showered, Sporterella pulled her green T-shirt out of the luggage and started to decorate it for the show. She is my family’s Queen of the Last Minute. Anybody who knows how I operate realizes that she accomplished quite a feat wrestling that title away from me.
I walked out of the bathroom bedecked in towels and Sporterella ran up to me flourishing a felt fabric pen.
“Do you have the concert tickets? I’ve got to see where our seats are.”
I glanced furtively at Dancerina and The Boy, whose eyes were glued to the TV.
“Why?” I whispered. I was not ready for the battle that would erupt if those two found out about our great seats.
“You’ll see,” she smiled, “Just give me the tickets.”
“OK, but keep ‘em to yourself…and can you please hurry up.”
I went back in the bathroom to get dressed, but Sporterella was soon banging on the door, “Is my seat number 3 or 4? Are the seats numbered from left to right or vice versa?”
“I fail to see how it matters,” I yelled back.
I could tell though that she was obsessed with this so I dressed quickly. I didn’t feel comfortable with all this yelling about seat numbers as long as The Boy and Dancerina were around.
“What’s this about?” I asked emerging from the bathroom.
Beaming, Sporterella showed me the back of her T-shirt. On it she had written “I’m with STEWPID!”
“I’m trying to figure out which way to point the arrow.”
I had to laugh. I was wearing the T-shirt Dive had designed. The front had a large Andy Warholesque picture of Stewart and the back had the word Nutter in capital letters. We’d be a perfect pair.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “It’s not like the seats have our names on them. Put the arrow any way you like and we’ll sit accordingly at the venue.”
“Oh right. I just didn’t want to insult some random stranger with a misdirected arrow.”
Then Sporterella showed me the front of her shirt. It read Lil’ Luddite and the sleeve said “I’m with Luddite Lady”
I was amazed. Not only was my daughter tolerating my adventures in Nutterdom, she was actually proud of them. All this after denying her an afternoon of shopping in Manhattan.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
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luddite lady - Posts: 2224
- Joined: 20 Nov 2007 05:05
- Location: Searching the world for symphonic gamelan
by luddite lady on 17 Mar 2009 06:54
Part 26
Sporterella and I enjoyed another picture perfect summer evening as we sailed down the Parkway to Jones Beach. In an attempt to provide a sound track for the moment, I played “Bring on the Night” on the car stereo. It wasn’t until I began to sing along that Sporterella reached the limits of her tolerance.
“Can we save it for the concert, please?” she asked with polite restraint.
“They haven’t had this song in the set list for months,” I replied.
“You know by heart the set list and the changes to it?” Her disbelief was palpable.
“Well, sure!” I answered, astounded at how little we knew each other.
“Maybe they’ll surprise you tonight and deviate a little. Being one of the last concerts and all.”
She had made a valid point. Plus, our little tete a tete had ruined the ambiance anyway. I allowed my daughter to fiddle with the car radio until she found a station to her liking, and inevitably to my disliking. Now content, she readily agreed with me that the evening was exceptionally beautiful.
It turned out that we were indeed blessed. That evening on the far end of Long Island there was a microburst, basically a tiny, isolated tornado, that caused major damage to one street. If that micro had busted some kilometres away, over top of the amphitheatre at Jones Beach, there would have been many injuries and possibly deaths. Instead, we had clear skies and warm breezes all night long.
The Nutters were tailgating in pretty much the same spot as the night before. So, it took no time to meet up with them. It was the same gang as the previous evening too, with some notable additions. Sporterella and I had the honour of meeting empty, plutonic, vespapod, sockii, Donna and Dietmar. D.M. got a real kick out of my daughter’s shirt and had us pose for some photos. (Ermm…by the way Kellie, if you’re reading…I’d love to see those pix if you got ’em anywhere.) I was hoping to meet Tamadude before the show. However, I was told that he was already seated inside the venue. To this day, I believe the ecstatic flag bearing Wookie was actually floating a mile above the theatre in a state of blissful Kopelandic anticipation.
Sporterella and I enjoyed another picture perfect summer evening as we sailed down the Parkway to Jones Beach. In an attempt to provide a sound track for the moment, I played “Bring on the Night” on the car stereo. It wasn’t until I began to sing along that Sporterella reached the limits of her tolerance.
“Can we save it for the concert, please?” she asked with polite restraint.
“They haven’t had this song in the set list for months,” I replied.
“You know by heart the set list and the changes to it?” Her disbelief was palpable.
“Well, sure!” I answered, astounded at how little we knew each other.
“Maybe they’ll surprise you tonight and deviate a little. Being one of the last concerts and all.”
She had made a valid point. Plus, our little tete a tete had ruined the ambiance anyway. I allowed my daughter to fiddle with the car radio until she found a station to her liking, and inevitably to my disliking. Now content, she readily agreed with me that the evening was exceptionally beautiful.
It turned out that we were indeed blessed. That evening on the far end of Long Island there was a microburst, basically a tiny, isolated tornado, that caused major damage to one street. If that micro had busted some kilometres away, over top of the amphitheatre at Jones Beach, there would have been many injuries and possibly deaths. Instead, we had clear skies and warm breezes all night long.
The Nutters were tailgating in pretty much the same spot as the night before. So, it took no time to meet up with them. It was the same gang as the previous evening too, with some notable additions. Sporterella and I had the honour of meeting empty, plutonic, vespapod, sockii, Donna and Dietmar. D.M. got a real kick out of my daughter’s shirt and had us pose for some photos. (Ermm…by the way Kellie, if you’re reading…I’d love to see those pix if you got ’em anywhere.) I was hoping to meet Tamadude before the show. However, I was told that he was already seated inside the venue. To this day, I believe the ecstatic flag bearing Wookie was actually floating a mile above the theatre in a state of blissful Kopelandic anticipation.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
-
luddite lady - Posts: 2224
- Joined: 20 Nov 2007 05:05
- Location: Searching the world for symphonic gamelan
by DirtyMartini on 17 Mar 2009 14:30
[quote="luddite lady"]D.M. got a real kick out of my daughter’s shirt and had us pose for some photos. (Ermm…by the way Kellie, if you’re reading…I’d love to see those pix if you got ’em anywhere.)[/quote]
Over here, my dear:
I'm with Stewpid: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 1531_2xZFC
luddite lady & Sportarella's back: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 1161_wui4r
Lil' luddite: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 6363_5tuxR
I'm with Luddite Lady: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 5717_a56r9
I can send you the full-res shots if your email can handle it.
Over here, my dear:
I'm with Stewpid: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 1531_2xZFC
luddite lady & Sportarella's back: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 1161_wui4r
Lil' luddite: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 6363_5tuxR
I'm with Luddite Lady: http://dirtymartiniii.smugmug.com/galle ... 5717_a56r9
I can send you the full-res shots if your email can handle it.
Dramatic highlights & a unique musical cosmos. Guaranteed.
-
DirtyMartini - Posts: 9622
- Joined: 03 Mar 2007 18:38
- Location: Around.
by Tamadude on 17 Mar 2009 20:21
[quote="luddite lady"]To this day, I believe the ecstatic flag bearing Wookie was actually floating a mile above the theatre in a state of blissful Kopelandic anticipation.[/quote]
Luddite my Lady, I could not have described that moment any better!
Luddite my Lady, I could not have described that moment any better!
I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on the drums all day.
- Tamadude
- Posts: 1547
- Joined: 05 Jun 2007 03:55
by luddite lady on 18 Mar 2009 03:12
Thanks for the pictures, DM. My kids got a chuckle out of them. Good times! I'd love if you could e-mail the pix. I don't think you'll break my e-mail by doing so since it has managed to survive me all these years.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
-
luddite lady - Posts: 2224
- Joined: 20 Nov 2007 05:05
- Location: Searching the world for symphonic gamelan
by irishrose1969 on 18 Mar 2009 04:27
wow LL, reading this lovely story, while celebrating in true Irish style for St Patricks Day...I must say. Very nicely done. I love the T shirt designs they made up. Too cute. Thanks for the pics.
Looking forward to next installment.
Looking forward to next installment.
Proud Flagbearer Vegas 08
It is fun to be on Stewart Copeland's Wall.
It is fun to be on Stewart Copeland's Wall.
-
irishrose1969 - Posts: 1900
- Joined: 01 Feb 2007 00:23
- Location: Copelandia... My Happy Place!!
by luddite lady on 19 Mar 2009 07:16
Part 27
Sporterella and I arrived at our seats half way through Elvis Costello’s first song. Being in the first row above the orchestra, we enjoyed a fantastic unobstructed view with plenty of room in front of us for arm flailing and head banging. OK, plenty of room in front of ME for the aforementioned. Sporterella mostly sat in her seat and watched my antics like an indulgent parent overseeing a strung out four year old at a McDonald’s Playland. But that was later in the evening. I actually was very subdued for Elvis’ set and didn’t even stand up to dance until the last number. I held back partly due to my daughter’s presence but also because I was distracted by seeing so many Nutters scattered about in front of me. Since it was still daylight and I was slightly elevated over the orchestra, spotting fellow sc.netters was as easy as it was fun. I had no trouble finding Tamadude even before he pulled out The Flag. I had never met him before and he was a good distance from me. Nonetheless, he had such an unmistakable Wookie-ness about him that he was impossible to miss. The fact that he was wearing the same Stewart shirt as I also helped in the identification process. As a fellow Costello-ista, I made the effort to spot Dive Mistress in the crowd and enjoyed watching her rock out during EC’s show.
I did try my best to relish the set myself though because I knew I would not see Elvis in concert again for a long time. I remember being most struck by “Red Shoes”, “Flutter and Wow” and my new all time favourite “American Gangster Time”. When he and the band went crashing into “Peace, Love, and Understanding” I knew that it was their swan song. Nobody in my section had stood up and danced once during the set. However, there was no way I was going to say good bye to my second favourite boys with my behind planted in a seat. With apologies to Sporterella and the folks directly behind me, I was up and dancing full out. After a few moments a handful of people around me also got up and danced.
Near the end of the song I heard myself shout, “Who the hell are they?” as three guys with guitars came running out on stage.
They were wearing black suits and red ascots, but more notably, they had on Elvis Presley wigs and Elvis Costello/Buddy Holly glasses. I noticed that one of them had a beard, but I couldn’t decide whether it was real or fake.
They bounded out and started playing with such youthful, goofy energy that somebody behind me yelled, “It’s the Jonas Brothers!”
I half believed them and felt a terrible nausea of horror begin to well up in my stomach. Ironically, it was Sporterella who said to me at that moment, “Look, that one is Stewart Copeland!”
And of course, she was right. Who else is so tall and gangly and wears white golf gloves while playing guitar?
My brain exploded a little with the realization that it was The Police on stage and each of them was pulling a Stewart a la Honolulu encore with Fiction Plane. All three, and that includes Sting, were so gooberlicious that I totally lost my shit. I laughed, danced and hooted with such abandon that I’m still surprised daily when Sporterella is willing to acknowledge me as her mother. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, Stewart took to the mike.
I started jumping up and down, “He’s singing! Oh my God! He can’t sing! But he’s singing! Aaaah!” With those words, I very nearly flipped over the railing in front of me. Seriously. Sporterella grabbed my arm and steadied me.
Her eyes flashed true fear but her voice had a steely calmness, “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. It’s just a song.”
Since I was about my daughter’s age, I have often ached over the rhetorical, ironic question proffered in that song: “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”
But on that night there was nothing rhetorical nor ironic about the question that Stewart sang.
What’s so funny about “Peace, Love and Understanding”? I’ll tell you what’s so funny. Stewart Copeland freakin’ singing “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding”; that’s what!
Sporterella and I arrived at our seats half way through Elvis Costello’s first song. Being in the first row above the orchestra, we enjoyed a fantastic unobstructed view with plenty of room in front of us for arm flailing and head banging. OK, plenty of room in front of ME for the aforementioned. Sporterella mostly sat in her seat and watched my antics like an indulgent parent overseeing a strung out four year old at a McDonald’s Playland. But that was later in the evening. I actually was very subdued for Elvis’ set and didn’t even stand up to dance until the last number. I held back partly due to my daughter’s presence but also because I was distracted by seeing so many Nutters scattered about in front of me. Since it was still daylight and I was slightly elevated over the orchestra, spotting fellow sc.netters was as easy as it was fun. I had no trouble finding Tamadude even before he pulled out The Flag. I had never met him before and he was a good distance from me. Nonetheless, he had such an unmistakable Wookie-ness about him that he was impossible to miss. The fact that he was wearing the same Stewart shirt as I also helped in the identification process. As a fellow Costello-ista, I made the effort to spot Dive Mistress in the crowd and enjoyed watching her rock out during EC’s show.
I did try my best to relish the set myself though because I knew I would not see Elvis in concert again for a long time. I remember being most struck by “Red Shoes”, “Flutter and Wow” and my new all time favourite “American Gangster Time”. When he and the band went crashing into “Peace, Love, and Understanding” I knew that it was their swan song. Nobody in my section had stood up and danced once during the set. However, there was no way I was going to say good bye to my second favourite boys with my behind planted in a seat. With apologies to Sporterella and the folks directly behind me, I was up and dancing full out. After a few moments a handful of people around me also got up and danced.
Near the end of the song I heard myself shout, “Who the hell are they?” as three guys with guitars came running out on stage.
They were wearing black suits and red ascots, but more notably, they had on Elvis Presley wigs and Elvis Costello/Buddy Holly glasses. I noticed that one of them had a beard, but I couldn’t decide whether it was real or fake.
They bounded out and started playing with such youthful, goofy energy that somebody behind me yelled, “It’s the Jonas Brothers!”
I half believed them and felt a terrible nausea of horror begin to well up in my stomach. Ironically, it was Sporterella who said to me at that moment, “Look, that one is Stewart Copeland!”
And of course, she was right. Who else is so tall and gangly and wears white golf gloves while playing guitar?
My brain exploded a little with the realization that it was The Police on stage and each of them was pulling a Stewart a la Honolulu encore with Fiction Plane. All three, and that includes Sting, were so gooberlicious that I totally lost my shit. I laughed, danced and hooted with such abandon that I’m still surprised daily when Sporterella is willing to acknowledge me as her mother. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, Stewart took to the mike.
I started jumping up and down, “He’s singing! Oh my God! He can’t sing! But he’s singing! Aaaah!” With those words, I very nearly flipped over the railing in front of me. Seriously. Sporterella grabbed my arm and steadied me.
Her eyes flashed true fear but her voice had a steely calmness, “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. It’s just a song.”
Since I was about my daughter’s age, I have often ached over the rhetorical, ironic question proffered in that song: “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”
But on that night there was nothing rhetorical nor ironic about the question that Stewart sang.
What’s so funny about “Peace, Love and Understanding”? I’ll tell you what’s so funny. Stewart Copeland freakin’ singing “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding”; that’s what!
Last edited by luddite lady on 20 Mar 2009 03:18, edited 1 time in total.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
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luddite lady - Posts: 2224
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- Location: Searching the world for symphonic gamelan
by policerule on 19 Mar 2009 13:11
[quote="luddite lady"]
What’s so funny about “Peace, Love and Understanding”? I’ll tell you what’s so funny. Stewart Copeland freakin’ singing “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding”; that’s what![/quote]
This is great.
What’s so funny about “Peace, Love and Understanding”? I’ll tell you what’s so funny. Stewart Copeland freakin’ singing “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding”; that’s what![/quote]
This is great.
READY THE BLADE!
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policerule - Posts: 8142
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by Divemistress of the Dark on 19 Mar 2009 13:27
Yeah. I think that moment pretty well made my year, personally...
On Google - site:stewartcopeland.net "your keyword here" - thanks DM!!
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Divemistress of the Dark - Posts: 7873
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