Radiohead (8-13-03)
August 20, 2003 - 4:49 p.m.
Radiohead, at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, Massachusetts (please don’t call it Boston; I will make it back home long before the Bostonians). I am so digging this band.
The problem with being my age and digging the music that I so dig is finding someone to accompany me to concerts. My friends laugh and tell me I listen to some weird shit, but that they admire my craziness. I’m not crazy; I just want to see Radiohead.
A couple of months ago, I called my brother, Tim. He let out a slight groan. “Neil called me about it yesterday. I’m really not that into them.”
Me, excitedly, “Neil wants to go, too? So we’re all going, right? Tickets go on sale tomorrow. I’ll get three lawn seats.”
Sigh. “Yeah, alright.”
Last Wednesday, Tim, Neil, and I went to see Radiohead. Tim drove. We hit the road just before 7:00, ample time to get to Mansfield, figuring the band would take the stage around 8:00. I brought my Hail to the Thief CD for the ride. Neil was appreciative, as he had not yet heard it, and Tim grumbled about being subjected to too much Radiohead in one night. According to the weather forecast, there was a chance of a passing thunderstorm. Ah, the risk with lawn seats. We were driving for about ten minutes when it started to pour. I told myself the storm was coming from, not headed for, Mansfield. I was right; the rain stopped before we crossed the state line.
As we approached our exit, we saw traffic, lots of it. “This can’t be for the concert; I’ve never seen it this bad. There must be an accident up ahead. It’ll be okay after we get past it.” This time I was wrong. It was a sold out concert, Radiohead’s only appearance in the Northeast, so all of New York and New England were en route to Mansfield. We inched along painfully slowly, as cars from Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and New Hampshire tried to merge from four lanes into one. I was having an internal freak-out (internal because Tim gets pissy when I get panicky). “Please, please-please-please, let us be on time”: my mantra, my prayer. I wondered if the traffic cops were in communication with the venue management – please-please-please – to let them know to delay the concert because there were a hell of a lot of fans stuck in traffic.
Our pre-concert traffic jam entertainment consisted of watching guys exiting cars, running down the embankment, relieving their bladders of too much beer, and returning to their friends’ vehicles which had progressed only one or two feet during their absence. A good argument for penis envy, for sure. I drank the Sam Adams Cherry Wheat that I had intended to suck down in the parking lot and hoped my bladder would forgive me. The car ahead of us straddled the breakdown lane in an attempt to stop the weasels who whizzed by to our right. Well, I guess there’s no stopping a Radiohead fan, because the weasels simply maneuvered around the straddle car, risking rollover down into the embankment. It took FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to drive that last 3 miles to the parking lot. Forty-five excruciating, nail biting minutes. Please-please-please don’t let Radiohead be on yet.
We couldn’t hear any music from the parking lot, a good sign. “Count the rows so we know where we parked.” The huge parking lot had no signs or markers. 1-2-3-4- and then we heard the audience cheer. “They’re on – hurry!” We ran to the entrance gate, got frisked, had our tickets scanned, and made our way up to the lawn area by the end of Radiohead’s first song. I was sweating from running in the humidity. “Hey, guys, when was the last time you SHOWED UP at a concert all sweaty?” I love irony.
Radiohead blew my mind. I could feel the hypnotic rhythms and rich layers of music right through to my core. It was a sort of musical masturbation, a feast for my ears. I danced (by myself). Surely, anyone watching me would have thought I had taken a hit or two of something, but I hadn’t. I wasn’t tasting the sky or anything like that. I just danced and grooved through the entire concert. Neil laughed a little, and Tim just shook his head. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anyone else who saw me, either. I wanted to dance, so I did. Who cares about what a bunch of strangers think?
It was all just so damn good – the music, the lights, even Thom Yorke’s dancing, which resembled mini spaz attacks. I was surprised to hear Creep (were they acknowledging their biggest U.S. hit?), and a little disappointed that they didn’t include Optimistic (I was so hopeful – there’s that irony again).
Radiohead played for nearly 2½ hours. Tim admitted he liked them, but I don’t think he’s a full-fledged convert yet. Conversely, I think I had something like four, maybe five, orgasms. Yes, yes, yes!
We walked back to Tim’s car in row 44. We would return in 42 hours for Ozzfest.
I love being a rock chick.
Autumn
The Trilogy Begins - August 02, 2007
Autumn Has Left the Building - July 19, 2007
The Nail - June 04, 2007
Ungolding - June 01, 2007
Bollocks - May 29, 2007