As you all know, Friday nights in my world were made for Scrabble and porch-sitting. Last Friday, as sheets of rain fell sideways on my windows—and many house plants threatened to bail off of the railings—I contemplated the perfection of remaining, for all eternity, inside my cozy home with Maria and the Parker Brothers.
But it was not to be. Just as I was dreaming this scenario, our friends Preston and Stacey were floating up to the house for Friday fun. Outside. In the hurricane.
Days before we knew what the weather would be like, Maria and I had committed to joining the weekend fray for Alejandro Escovedo at The Palladium downtown. Now, I have seen Alejandro—an artist I am sure will be quite familiar to you WMNFers out there—on several occasions. These occasions, too, were inclement. Perhaps Alejandro, like a wild summer storm, only blows into our fair city when climatic conditions are just right.
Well, so be it. I, and many others, will brave most any weather to see Alejandro’s brand of latin-style-roots-rock-meets-poetic-supplication just about any day. Even if I don’t own a raincoat.
Oh, did I mention that it was raining? Yeah, like ginormous bands of red radar nastiness, with the kind of street flooding that makes you wonder if a duck-tour boat might not have been more appropriate transportation.
So, we ran for the car, and did that sort of giggly, oh-my-God driving (so fun with three backseat-drivers) through the alleyways to find the closest parking spot—the flamboyant driving that only a group of good friends who have just been sharing several pre-night-out drinks find hysterical—and finally arrived (absolutely Gatorade-bucket, pouring-water-out-of-our-shoes drenched) at the grotto-like lobby that is the lovely Palladium Theater.
Some had brought umbrellas. Some had brought raincoats. Some were not shredding handfuls of paper towels in the bathroom to milk the torrents of rain from their hair. Those people were not us. But, we did not melt. Plus, we had beers, and a night of music that we knew would not disappoint.
Actually, to say that Alejandro Escovedo does not disappoint is like saying that the war in Iraq is a bit of a pickle. If they give out awards for understatements, these two are in the top five. Alejandro, usually accompanied by a band of some sort, armed himself last Friday with only two microphones and lead guitarist David Pulkingham. I do not, in any sense, exaggerate when I say the Rolling Stone simply had never heard of this man when they wrote their “Best Guitarists of All Time” list a few years ago. Forget the storm; this virtuoso is enough of a force of nature to put out a large-craft advisory.
Alejandro and David held us—yes, soaked as we were—spellbound inside the frigid auditorium, their incredible harmonies and wild, acoustic collaborations breathing transcendent promises into old Alejandro favorites like “Castanets,” and “Rosalie.” Flawless as the acoustics in The Palladium are, the duo even stepped away from the mics once or twice to enchant us with non-electric bliss. It was perfection.
Except, of course, for the unbelievably obnoxious people sitting in front of us.
People, come on. Why, for the love of all that is holy and sacred and good in this world, would you shell out fifty bucks for a show and then talk—loudly and without any sense of impropriety—throughout the entire performance? They even—and I am so not making this up but oh, dear Gabber readers, I wish I were—went out (to their car, I presume) to recover a book and read passages (quite audibly!) to one another during a few of Alejandro’s more sublime offerings. No, really. I assure you that this is true; I have witnesses. The book was Jon Katz’s Sign Off, a tome that Amazon.com tells us is an “absorbing, well-paced debut” novel from Mr. Katz, “a former producer for CBS Morning News” and it “instructs on the inner workings of a television news division.” Apparently it’s quite compelling, indeed. Maybe you’d like to read it—out load—during a quiet, sit-down occasion of your choice. Only, let me know ahead of time, so that I can skip it.
Okay, but despite the impudent halfwits—and I did finally overcome my inner fear of conflict to ask them to shut it for the last song—the show was, as Preston says, glorious. Worth every single penny. And, frankly, if they’d passed around a collection plate, I would have shelled out more. Musicians of this caliber must be supported. Thank God for people, like those at WMNF, who see the importance of investing in art over the almighty dollar.
Even if the idiots in front of you have no idea.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 3/20/08
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