Let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want to drink a Moscow Mule with Tweedy? I was bummed that I went home after the Utah Arts Festival on Sunday instead of going out. Listen, kids: Always trust your gut, especially if it involves really expensive hand-crafted specialty drinks. If only I had known!
Go ahead and listen to this as you continue to read.
So, my goal for Monday was to end the night with a photo, kind of like this.
And I was hoping that it wouldn’t be as awkward as my run-in with Paul Simon at Sundance this past January.
A short tangent: I caught Simon’s doc on January 22, my birthday, and secured an invite to the afterparty. It being my b-day and all, I thought it would be a reasonable request to have ol’ Paul leave a little jingle for my voicemail. The moment came, when after 10 minutes of shaking hands and kissing babies, the most amazing singer-songwriter of all-time was ready to peace out. My date saw how awkward it was that I was staring at him with mouth agape, and he was only five feet away. So she stepped forward and thrust out her hand and said, “Love your work.” In a bewildered state, I, too, shook his hand (which felt like a wet fish sculpted out of dough -- how dissappointing!) and, I really think, I might have just mouthed this. Really weird. Then he left.
So, my goals this time were pretty reasonable, I thought -- just a simple photo with the second-most-amazing singer songwriter of all time.
I was willing to bring Jeff a smorgasbord of food, at least what we had left over, money or even give guitarist Nels Cline an offering of my friends (at least the dude on the right), for his excellent shredding during the show.
I had been feeling kind of bummed about halfway through the show because all of my friends were making fun of my phone, because it wasn’t taking photos. Below, you’ll find some shots taken by Marci Thrall on her "awesome" iPhone. So, I really wanted to make this work.
OK, seriously, I wasn’t that down 'n' out. It was probably one of the best shows I’ve been to in years. Wilco played well over two hours of tunes (here’s the setlist) and went deep into their catalog -- this was not just an affair to pimp The Whole Love. The thing about seeing Wilco live is, yes, how awesome their songs are, but also how dynamic the little moments are -- the fills and transitions. Obviously, this isn’t a concert review, but know this: If you missed the show, you dropped it. For a moment, I was considering driving to Boise tonight for a repeat.
Anyway, when I ran into a few musician friends who had the green backstage pass, I thought, “No problem, I got this.” I was also trying to impress a girl -- you know how it is. So, I used my skills of investigation, and found out where the party was, but no one would give me a damned badge. I thought about drawing one, or whipping out one of the many souvenir backstage passes I ALWAYS have in my wallet or showing a confusing photo, but, alas, nothing seemed like a decent-enough idea. I even had a guy with a radio contact someone important, which I felt like a real putz about this morning.
Nothing worked. I wish I could say the evening ended with ONE STINKING PHOTO -- that's all -- or even a little conversation about the weather (check it at :50), but it ended up with me pitching a tantrum at the City Weekly office.
I have not given up -- nor will I ever -- on a good drunken quest to meet one of my rockstar idols.
Next time, Jeff Tweedy, you antlered, guitar-playing cyclops. Next time.