One of the few artists I won't miss when she comes to town, one of the few artists I know all the words to all her songs, and one of the few artists I never skip a track on. LOVE HER!
So my albino twin and I wanted to go see the pocket sized rock goddess for ourselves. However we'd be damned if we were going to pay 4.50 to the "man" a.k.a Ticketmaster.
It was going to be an adventure. We'd go early - risk it - see if we could get tickets. On our way down to First Avenue we were discussing how recently she had traumatized Mike.
On a shopping expedition to the Mall of America to help him pick out a jean jacket - she outlined for him the fashion faux pas of matching your denims. So horrified that he might forget this rule he opted instead for a cord jacket. Much safer.
We had a giggle recalling the look of horror in his eyes.
"Oh my god!" she gasped.
"What?!"
"I've gone and committed my own fashion error!"
Looking down we realized in universal shock and terror that her jacket did in fact match her dark denim jeans.
"OH for fucks sake - it looks like I'm wearing a goddamn denim suit! Why didn't you stop me?"
"I didn't notice..." I must have been too excited for the show...I had let my friend down.
We stood in line for tickets, signed a homeless man's scrapbook and plate - he's going for a world record-and tried to seem hip and urban.
A skinny little fashion plate who obviously took all her fashion cues from Vogue and would never be caught in a denim suit - nor let one of her friends be caught in such a git-up, strolled over to us and asked if anyone needed tickets.
The little country mice shot furtive glances at each other...our first ticket scalping experience, did we dare? My denim encased friend nodded slyly and asked - how much? The glamour girl said - $20 bucks a piece.
Woot! Not only did we stick it to the man - but we got a five dollar discount. My simple country upbringing taught me that scalping worked in the other direction. They were printed off - we were slightly concerned since we were clearly not Rachel Whatshername. Would they let us in? We were going to risk it.
As soon as she happily left us with our $40 dollars we began to postulate.
"We can tell them she's our friend...who couldn't make it"
"Dude - I think we got taken."
"She probably said - dude look at the rube in the denim suit - easy pickins!"
There was no incident. Nor a second glance at the fact that neither of was Rachel Whosit. Mike Tice would have approved.
We went to get some dinner and then really spiced things up with some ICE CREAM!
PAR-TAY PEOPLE IN THE HIZZY!
We loitered as long as possible - and accepted the fact we'd have to see part of the opening band.
I'm not sure what they were called. I liked the first song. The second was ok - yet oddly familiar. As was the third and the fourth...what do you know - they all sounded the same.
I would have preferred the Emu.
The carefully crafted bedhair, the slightly greasy John Boy Walton doo's, and the faded vintage shirts. The drummer did have a modified bedhead beehive and we also think he suffered from hipalepsy. It's an odd form of dancing. You've all seen it before. Party hippy shuffle, party white boy does Stevie Wonder, a dash of epileptic fit. He was a hipaleptic if I ever saw one.
I love Liz. I don't always love her fans. It was drunken soccer mom central. There were even a few old accountants looking fellows in the crowd. I realize Liz has been on the scene since 93 - but c'mon people.
There was a pair of soccer moms who held real promise as the funniest people to watch. One was grinding on the male of their party – I am guessing the sober cab/drunk wrangler. The other was ripping her button down Ralph Lauren shirt from her belted jeans to flash us all her belly. No not her boobs – just her belly. Her pasty soccer mom belly. She looked a little shocked to see her own navel. Then they both started tag-teaming the speakers to dry hump them. You know you’re drunk when your shoes become enthralling to you. Belly flasher’s friend was now inspecting her shoes closely and weaving back and forth. Mom’s gone wild!
Apparently too wild because their drunk wrangler shooed them away and we never saw them again. I’m guessing it ended badly in the “oops there goes all five of my ten dollar martinis all over my loafers which I swear I have never seen look so cool before” kind of badly.
As the time for the main event drew near things got more and more crowded. Some nerd girls were trying to grind their asses into my crotch. Nope – not for gratification – merely to gain four inches closer to the stage. I thought I was going to have to break out some ninja moves to gain some personal space back.
Liz took the stage and all was right with the world. She started the show as an acoustic set of about four songs. Just a girl and her guitar. Sexy as ever, she set a nice easy pace before the rest of the band came out to get the party started.
She was amazing!
Her drunken fans – not so much. For some reason it was Drunk Chatty McChatpants night out. I guess she got a concert confused with a White House Press Conference because after every song she had to ask a question.
“LIZ! HEY LIZ! DID YOU WRITE THAT SONG ABOUT YOUR SON?!”
“LIZ WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?”
“LIZ – HAVE YOU EVER HAD THAT NOT SO FRESH FEELING?” (o k so I made up that last one)
But I did have to ask a question of my own “Hey Liz do you ever get tired of stupid drunks yelling shit at you from the crowd?”
I don’t think she heard – I did not have the pipes of Drunky McChatpants – but the semi-circle of former crotch rubbers was amused.
Drunken McChattypants was not making any friends. We all wanted to take her down. I thought my Albino bodyguard was going to break her and then trample her pieces.
It was still a good show though. There is something magical about a crowd of women singing “Give me your hot white cum” at the top of their lungs. And you know damn well the men were singing too.
My voice was a little scratchy from singing all the songs as loud as I could, but it had to be done. All of us have been singing these songs in our cars, in our showers, walking down the street – or humming them in our cubicles at work. It’s nice to come together and sing them all together.
It was a great night – and I’m sleeping in the Girls Room tonight.
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