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Author Topic: 08/17/05 Oakdale Theatre Wallingford, CT  (Read 4804 times)
Bubba Ho-Tep
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« on: February 07, 2006, 07:08:10 AM »

08/17/05   Oakdale Theatre   Wallingford, CT

“Saigon……Sh*t……I’m still only in Saigon….”

It was my third and final Brian Wilson concert of the week. I saw him the previous Friday in New Jersey (amazing) and then Sunday back home in Saratoga (flawless). Brian had been in good form, looking perfectly natural and even throwing in some scat freestyle during Smile. I had gotten autographs a couple of times before from Brian during the Paul Simon tour of 2001, but did not have the privacy with which to properly plead my case to him. Also, he seemed to be semi-catatonic on one occasion, writing his name on my program with a robotic efficiency, an emotionless lack of enthusiasm, like a musical Mr. Spock on heavy downers.

I’m not really comfortable around celebrities (or anyone for that matter), so I don’t go out of my way to be a pest, but I knew I’d kick myself if this turned out to be Brian’s final tour and I didn’t get backstage at least once to meet him in person. I told my wife prior to the concert that by hook or by crook, I’d get us backstage. You always see all these lucky fans getting to meet him, having their pictures posted on the websites, and here I am, lifelong devotee with nothing to show for it other than a concert program with an unintelligible scribble on it.

Every other concert I have attended in my life proclaimed that no photographs were allowed, so I did not bother bringing a camera. Being on the cutting edge of technology, I do not have a cell phone or a digital camera anyway. Once I heard from the kind folks at the facility that cameras were indeed allowed I did not immediately think much of it, as I still did not have the slightest clue as to what would follow. All I had was a hollow threat I had made to my wife about getting backstage.

This was my first time attending the Oakdale Theater in Connecticut. Looks oddly pedestrian from the outside. Inside, it is one big Car Commercial with toilets. Speaking of toilets, where was the men’s room? I looked to my left; I saw a woman’s room. I looked to my right; I saw a woman’s room. What sort of madness was this?

“I don’t see any method at all.”

So we wallowed in the lobby waiting for the doors to open. A blonde fellow with spectacles walked by us and I nudged my wife. “Nelson,” I said. Soon he was joined at the concession stand by Bob Lizik. I moved closer to them, yet made no attempt to interrupt whatever covert operation they were performing. A few minutes later Mr. Probyn Gregory walked past us. This time I gave him the shout out and he paused to speak to us briefly. I told him how we’d been following them around the East Coast like true believers and he dug that. My wife is easily star-struck, and stood there without being able to speak. If she was star struck now, just wait until later…

Before long they opened the doors and we went inside. Nice place. Not very “rock and roll”, but comfortable. Sterile is a word that comes to mind. Our seats weren’t quite as bitchin’ as they had been at the previous shows, but we were still third row, far left. Not that bad. Within spitting distance of Darian.

Then a door on the side of the stage opens. A tall, balding cat wearing a leather jacket and shades strolled out, looking lean and mean with an attractive woman on his arm. I nudged me wife once again. “David Marks”, I said. My wife, who has been living with a Beach Boys fanatic for five years, said “Who?” *Sigh*  So I quickly recapped the complete history of the Beach Boys in under 30 seconds and then spotted Pat (Bluebird) from the Blueboard. I had not introduced myself to her before, but had seen her around and she knew me from Brian’s site, so I yelled her name out and got her attention. Again, I don’t usually like to go up and talk to people, but I figured if I were to get backstage she’d be the one to do it.

So I’m up there near the stage having word with her when Dave Marks comes up and embraces her. He sticks a hand out to me and I shake it. Nice guy. I ran into him in the can later, but that’s another story. Cutting to the chase, good old Pat hooks my wife and me up with the magic red wristbands and now I realize that I am two and a half hours away from going backstage and standing before my master and letting him pass judgment upon me. I gave my wife the wristband and made sure to say, “I told you so”, as she had doubted my determination to get backstage. It was at this moment that two problems became apparent to me. First, I had nothing for him to sign. No biggie; I’d go to the concession stand and get (another) Smile program. Problem number 2 was more severe: we had no camera. No way of documenting this historical moment in a fan’s life. The concert hall was miles away from the nearest convenience. If I was going to meet The Big Man, I’d have only my poorly functioning memory to preserve it.

On to the concert itself. Having seen him the previous nights, I was a bit disappointed. Brian seemed distracted, and did not have the spunk he had displayed before. His hands froze at his mid-section for most of the show, as they have been known to do from time to time. The rest of the band also looked to be a bit tired, going through the motions. Still, we had a good time, although we could not concentrate much on the show because of our nervousness about the upcoming meeting with Brian.

When the show ended, the chosen few lined up at the side of the stage while the crew dismantled the stage with machine like precision. I watched with dismay as the band appeared and plowed out the door. Hanging with the band was not an option on this night. After an eternity, we were led like sheep up a metallic gray stairwell and into a sterile hallway. The wife and I were second to last in line, which I figured was good, for Brian would be relieved knowing he was almost finished with this uncomfortable business.

I felt like I was going up the Nung River to find Colonel Kurtz. I was very nervous and started to sweat. I frantically fanned myself and dried my hand on my pant leg. I did not intend to shake his hand. I am not worthy of his touch.

A guy who looked like Dennis Hopper came up to me in the hall and got in my face. “Hey, man, you don't talk to Brian. You listen to him. The man's enlarged my mind. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense. I mean sometimes you'll say hello to him, right? And he'll just walk right by you, and he won't even notice you. What are they gonna say about him? What are they gonna say? That he was a kind man? That he was a wise man? That he had plans? That he had wisdom? merda do touro man!”

The line moved smoothly, with lucky individuals entering Brian's dressing room for a moment with him as the dumbstruck staggered out in awe. His handler constantly tried to reassure him, saying “Only 9 more Brian”, “Only 6 more, Brian”. The poor guy just wanted to go home.

I can remember that first moment I got close enough to His room and I could actually see Him through the doorway. He sat at a small table place in front of his illuminated showbiz mirror. Two friends sat on a sofa to his right. Then He looked out at me. He had met with many people on this night and His patience was justifiably wearing thin. It was just a job He had to do and He'd probably rather be doing anything, but this was my only chance.

“Are you an assassin?”

We reached the door and were told to enter by his assistant. There was my hero sitting at a small desk in front of me. I set down my program in front of him and my wife gave him her ticket to sign. He did not speak until he had completed signing. He took care of one thing at a time. I spat out some generic praise and told him about how we had been to three shows this week and they were all great. I told him his music meant the world to me. I told him that we loved him. He looked up at me and said "Thank you" and "I appreciate it". He looked calm and pleasant and I felt at ease in his presence. His personal assistant asked us some questions to keep the conversation going. He asked if we were going to attend any other shows. I said that sadly this would have to be our last because we couldn’t drive as far as Michigan for the next one. Brian said “Okay.” The assistant asked if we had a camera and, of course, we did not. I would have done anything at that moment to get my picture taken with Him.

I am already having trouble seeing Brian's face in my mind. At least I know that I finally got to talk to him, one on one, and tried to explain myself. I could have gone on blubbering about myself to him for half and hour, but he probably wouldn't have listened anyway. It's not his fault, he has a lot to think about. We left after a mere 30 seconds and did not try to monopolize his time. That is the sort of caring fan I am. 

“The horror…..the horror…..”

As we turned and left the room, a voice came from behind us. Brian had a final message for us to hear as we left. And while it was not as menacing as Colonel Kurtz’s final words, they were equally as cryptic, the final ravings of a madman who had gotten lost, deep in the jungle.

“I love my family…..I love my family….”

Thus ended our visit with Brian, most likely the highlight of my short, feeble life. The walk back to the car was a long one; the drive home was even longer. I took the time to reflect on the events that had taken place that night.

No matter what happens to me from now on, nothing will come close to that moment of meeting Brian. I still can't believe it happened. It’s more like a dream now. Hopefully he will tour again and I will get another shot at having a picture taken with him, which I will then blow up to poster size and hang in every room.

It gives me a goal to strive for. That’s all I ever needed, anyway.


“This is the end… beautiful friend, the end…..”

[Fade to black]
« Last Edit: February 07, 2006, 08:32:57 AM by Bubba Ho-Tep » Logged
Jason
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« Reply #1 on: February 07, 2006, 11:55:36 AM »

Great writing, man. Always good to hear from someone who met the man.
Logged
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