by Tamadude on 16 Aug 2008 06:10
PT. 13
After soundheck, while we were sitting there having little discussions speculating about when they intended to throw down these 2 delicious new covers, Brad came back and escorted us to the backstage area. We stopped at a large transport crate, but Brad only took TamaJT and his buddy up the small flight of stairs to go tour the drums, without me! But that little twist of fate turned out to be a monumental blessing in disguise.
I was a bit surprised at first to have been held back, but then when I saw Dietmar just chill-axin' on the shipping crate, in his familiar calm/cool/collected demeanor, I just followed his lead. Of course, he instinctively knew to hang back. He calmly told me that, "this is where STEWART will appear", and so I just forgot about the drums and stayed with the D-man.
Now is where my memory gets really patchy. I don't remember seeing STEWART walk up to us. I have absolutely no memory of that. All I know is that I looked up (probably from fiddling with my camera), and lo and behold there is a Stewart Copeland standing in front of me. Ya, Stewart Copeland is standing in front of me. He's drenched from his soundcheck session in the sun, and he's gotten his hat back from Sting, who had worn it during the session. Then Dietmar introduces me as Tamadude from the forum, and informs him that I will be in possesion of the Flag tonight on waaayy Andy's side. STEWART then extends his arm, and in an instant I found myself shaking the hand of a living, legendary, musical genius.
Ok, now I have to remark about the handshake. Now I've always had a wookie-strength handshake, like a kung-fu grip reflex kind of thing. I always shake hands with vigor. It's how I was raised. I have even unintentionally injured some folks with my handshake before. So the terrifying thought flew across my mind that if I shake this man's hand too hard, I could potentially jeopardize the final three Police performances. Which meant I could then expect to be lynched like the Cubs fan who robbed his own hometeam of the world series, or even the Columbian soccer player who cost his country a title, or the Flagbearer who wrecked the Flag. (<Huh?) So I conscientiously shook his hand like a wussy. Hey STEWART, if you are reading this dung, please understand that I don't usually offer up a deadfish handshake like that. I was just being ultra-cautious, and rightfully so I think!
Anyways, moving right along, I'm just standing there listening to the two of them shoot the shit like a couple of old friends. I don't recall all that was said. Stew spoke so fast and quietly; it's not possible to remember everything. I think he spoke about the covers, the arrangement of them, and the Apollo and stuff. Maybe that's why I don't recall so much; he was almost whispering at one point.
When I sensed he was about to leave, I pulled out my blue sharpie and humbly asked him if he wouldn't mind signing the back of my shirt, and of course he obliged. He is, after all, STEWART. While he's inscribing a big, bold, beautiful autograph on my back, he says something snarky about the color blue, and then something equally dubious about ebay. But I promptly reply to him that the shirt he was signing would be joining me in my casket.
Dietmar's got my camera and takes our picture in front of a big blue tarp. It's THE best picture on my camera. We thank him, and then we say sayonara, he says you're welcome, and just like that, an icon, my childhood and current hero, walks off into the darkness of a backstage passageway, and that's it. The best six minute rendez-vous of my life had just transpired. Holy sheep shit. People would kill for the experience I just had.
Whatever happened the rest of the time I was in New York suddenly didn't really matter that much. My trip had already far exceeded any of my wildest dreams and beyond, and the concert hadn't even started yet.
Man, I love New York.
TBC......
I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on the drums all day.