Her Head Was on Fire
On the ceiling of the Fillmore concert hall, above the famous black-light chandeliers, an oversized disco ball spins all night although nothing ever shines on it to make it spangle the walls with reflections like white sparrows.
And on the floor of the Fillmore concert hall, five friends celebrate a sixth's birthday by watching him dance with his whole body and sing every word to every song, whether despite the shots or because of them, we don't know.
I, per usual, fell in love with everyone who took the stage, including openers Kelly with the boobs and the voice like a blanket warm from the dryer, and the guy on the electric mandolin who looked like Elvis Costello, and even, by the end, the upright bassist from Salt Lake City who really needed a shave if not an Extreme Makeover.
And Rhett--sweet sweet Rhett. He was pretty like the middle brother from Hanson and although I was initially turned off because we have the exact same haircut, halfway through the first song when he windmilled his strumming arm across the strings in a perfect circle and then put the fretting hand in his pocket like it ain't no thang to be a rockstar, I got the whole David Cassidy/Leif Garrett thing and nearly swooned out of the polyester I should have been wearing.
And because that day was to be my wedding day, one of the guys in the group bought me my only drink, and for two whole minutes I was queen of the night as I introduced everyone to the holy sacrament that is a well-done amaretto sour, and when the band finally finally played my favorite song--one that cannot now be played at my wedding for obvious reasons--I gave high-fives all around and put my arm around the nearest shoulder, smiled a big smile and tried not to let the tears touch my cheeks.
And as the headliners played slow waltzes, I interlocked arms and swayed like an upheld lighter, and during the fast waltzes, I stomped my feet until my calf muscles were little boulders. When I hollered for a second encore, the insides of my throat stuck together not unlike my hands clapping above my head that were sticky with the juice of red delicious apples that were up for the taking in the metal tub by the door.
And as I sang and I sang and I sang at the top of my lungs as Murry played to the sky and bent back like a limbo contestant and Ken stuck his tongue out and tried not to look embarrassed and Philip filled the stage with bang crash bang and the strings on Rhett's guitar busted one by one and he had to change instruments mid-song, I was so happy to be there and forgot for a moment about the long drive home.
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The only bad thing about the concert was that they didn't allow the taking of photographs in the theater (or so the ticket said), so I was without my beloved camera for five and a half hours and boy was that rough, especially when I saw other people taking pictures during the show.
Here, instead, are some pictures from Teddy's birthday party on Thursday night, at a good 'n' cheap Pakistani restaurant where a basket of naan only costs a dollar.
Oh, I'm glad they were as good for you as they were for me. I always swoon for Rhett, even though I always say I'm not going to. :)
And "Question." Yes, a lovely song. My first fiancee proposed to me with that song. Now it has lost it's glittery sheen. Alas. When I saw them in Denver, said ex-fiancee was in the audience and let me tell you, it was AWKWARD when they played "Question." But that didn't ruin Rhett's windmill arms or Murry's Stephen King-like facial expressions. Nothing could ruin that.
I thought Murry looked like Stephen King too! :)