The View From The Audience

While Deidre and I were waiting for the truth to reveal itself, we still had Rock 'n' Roll in common, we went to Milwaukee's Summerfest. We walked around the grounds, arm in arm, to all the different pavilions. First checking out all the typical carnival rides, roller coaster, merry-go-round. We visited the little bijouteries selling silver rings and gold crosses. We wandered in and out of the maze of booths of various craftsmen selling their homemade leather goods, caricaturists, artists, all the way down to women selling macramé plant holders. Then came the food pavilion where you could get the all American favorite pizza, fresh hot pretzels, shish-ka-bobs, corn on a stick, and Baklava. After eating we decided it was time for a beer, so we walked over to the Oktoberfest tent. We sat down at a picnic table in the pavilion to drink our beer.
"We still have a while before any of the musical acts start." I said.
"Do you want to go on some of the carnival rides?" She asked enthusiastically.
"No!" I said facetiously, looking as shocked as I could, "did you ever see those guys that put them together and run them? I'm surprised there isn't a tragedy every year, trust decreases as the number of tattoos increases." She giggled.
"Let's go over to the Marcus Amphitheater and see what time the different concerts start." She said looking at a brochure she taken out of her purse, which always made me flinch as I had an abhorrence of brochures and itineraries, a leftover from rigidly scheduled family road trips as a kid. "By the way it looks on the map, it's right around the corner from here."
"Let's have another beer, then go over." I said.

The Marcus Amphitheater rose out of the concrete like a shrine, the Taj Mahal amid the temporary or semi-permanent buildings of the rest of the fairgrounds. It was closed, a swinging gate chained and locked impeded our path to venture any further. There was a placard in front of the building listing all the shows, including the free ones. Huey Lewis and The News was the headlining act. It was thirty-five dollars a ticket to see them.
"I thought all the shows were free."
"Do you want to see them?" Deidre asked.
"The question is do you want to pay to see them?"
"Let's see Blood, Sweat, and Tears featuring David Clayton-Thomas." I said, reading the placard. There seemed to be three levels of show business visible, the headlining act playing the amphitheater, the 60's nostalgia acts were playing on the concourse, and a couple of stages were set up out in 'the meadow' playing unknown up-and-coming bands.

Bands from the 60’s had been touring the nostalgia circuit for a couple of years usually only with a key player or two from the original band. The names of the bands of my youth, Uriah Heap, The Strawberry Alarm Clock, Bread, were all ancient history to me, relics of my past. I can't even tell you what most of them sounded like now or the titles of their songs, but to Deidre they were a rich living history. The world she grew up in was a response to the 60's, so seeing these groups was like a chance to see John Kennedy alive, or at least a Civil War reenactment.

As we walked up the concourse the stages were nothing more than a trailers backed up onto the concourse, parked sideways, and the sides opened and propped up to make 'the stage'. A little green fence kept the spectators separate from the band. Everyone pushed to the front to see the band, and get off the concourse. If you weren't paying attention as you walked down the concourse you could find yourself part of an audience and not even realize it. We found the pavilion where Blood, Sweat, and Tears were playing, the band was already on stage, waiting, talking among themselves, their guitars hanging at their waists. They all seemed to be nineteen or twenty, they were lean, dressed in dark pants, wide belts, dangling earrings, headbands and pouffy hair. They would've looked more comfortable in bands like Duran Duran, or Flock of Seagulls than Blood, Sweat & Tears. There was a surge of excitement as David Clayton-Thomas walked onto the stage. People pressed in from behind to get closer. He was dressed in a white shirt and Khaki's, the tight fitting clothes and flowered patterns of youth gone. A thrill ran through me as the band started the first song. I found myself part of the faceless crowd, yelling to distinguish myself from them, as they were trying to distinguish themselves from me. I listened to the band. They were sloppy, missing cues, not bothering to play the songs faithfully. Even though I was never a Blood, Sweat, and Tears fan, it bothered me that the band didn't know the songs well enough to play them well, or didn't care how well they played. Didn’t they know they had a job a lot of people would kill for, they had the spotlight and adulation, but they didn’t have to sacrifice for it, it wasn’t theirs, it was a job, and they might as well have been washing dishes or slinging hamburgers, they were refugees from their dreams of fame and fortune, hired guitars too young to remember when the band who's name they were playing behind was alive and vibrant, and had meaning.
“I can do better than that.” I yelled to Deidre.
“What?!”
"It should be me up there."
"Men always want to see themselves as the hero of the story."
"What?" I asked.
"I read somewhere that people have the propensity to see the human face in random things, men want to see themselves as the hero." I had to admit that was the most insightful thing she had ever said.
"I still say I can do that better myself."
"Then why don't you?"
"Do what?"
"Ever since I've been with you, you've said you can do this or that better, or that someday you're going to be great. Why don't you do something?"
"I am." I said.
"What is that?" She asked, her voice suddenly changed, she was angry, she let go of my hand, "do you want me to tell you the truth?" This wasn't the first time we'd been through this, but it was the last.
"No, I don't want to know the truth, the only truth is what I create."
"Well, what is that?" She snapped, and went back to listening to the band.
"Never mind." I said.
"See, you won't even tell me what plans you have. You vaguely mention how someday you'll be famous, but not how. You're not in school, you don't do anything that I can see. It's like that Steely Dan song," and she quoted the lyrics, “you've been telling me you're a genius, since you were seventeen, in all the time I've known you, I still don't know what you mean.” All you do is sit around getting stoned, and listen to The Doors." She stood there looking at me.
“I’m searching for something new, some new world of thought and feeling.”
“What the hell does that mean?” She asked.
“I don’t know, but when I find it I’ll know.”
"You know, we could do anything together, if you'd just trust in me enough to let me in on what you want to do. You never know, I might surprise you, and might want to come along for the ride."
"I don't know, all I have is this vague feeling that something great is inside me. I don't know how, what, or why. I just feel it, but I can't ask you or anyone else to wait for anything that ambiguous. I want to be interviewed, I want leather pants, I want groupies, I want to scream, I want to dance."
She put her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, I could feel her breasts sliding across my chest, "you're my rock star."
"Knock it off." I said, pushing her away.
“Why can’t you just be?” She asked me, “why isn’t any experience enough for you? How come I’m not enough for you?” I knew the answer she wanted to hear, the answer I probably should have given her, the answer she probably deserved. But I didn’t know what to say. "Fine.” She said coldly, “if that's what you want, do it, you deserve it. Do it with some little girl who doesn't care enough about you to tell you the truth, go to L.A. and find the happy ending." People had started to notice our argument, a small circle had formed around us, little did I know how soon it would be when again I’d be at the center of a circle with spectators all around. It was a small conception. The next day she moved out of my trailer, only coming back later that week to pick up her things. A couple of months later I heard she had moved in with some guy and they lived happily ever after, I guess.
A door closed on that part of my life.

(The Last Stage is available on Kindle, Nook Books, or if you would like a signed copy of The Last Stage they're available from my website (only $20!) at Jymsbooks via Paypal, please don't forget your mailing address!)

Chapter V: The Place