|A few of the "God Hates You" group, with Emily, the violinist.|
I guess they must really be a Christian group. I'm sorry that I threw a miniture bottle of Paul Mason Brandy at them, and nearly missed the head of the one with her back turned.
I misunderstood them. I hope they can find it in their hearts to forgive me.
The Neil Young Show
|Do I Suck?|
It was drizzling lightly most of the evening, leading up to the start of the show, and well into it.
I set up on the sidewalk, a few feet from the entrance. I tuned up and warmed up with a Crosby, Stills, Nash (and Young) song, but had to keep scooting underneath the marquis when the drizzle intensified.
A few people left before the show had ended. None of them threw me a tip, and I had the feeling that they had left, because they thought Neil "sucked." If Neil Young wasn't good enough for them, then I had little chance of getting their dollar bills. I'm not a rock-n-roll icon.
A group of young ladies came out and smoked cigarettes at one point, and when one of them said to the others "Ready to go back in?" one of the others replied "Do we have to?" This made me curious enough to ask them: "Why, does Neil suck?" One of the others hesitated a bit, glanced at the guitar on my back, and hemmed a little and then hawed, and finally spat out that Neil seemed "a little sleepy."
I wished them that Neil would pick up the pace a bit as they went back inside.
The show ended and the masses walked by, as I played Pink Floyd, and Grateful Dead.
I got the impression that a lot of them were there for social networking, because I heard a lot of people telling each other that it was nice to see them, as if they hadn't met in a while. It impressed me as a "Who's Who" in the world of people with 200 dollars to spend on three hours of entertainment by a sleepy guy. The talk was not of music, but of buying and selling and the business of life, in general.
That being said, I made about 10 bucks. There were no large bills, and the whole of it amounted to one person in 100 tipping me anything. They really didn't seem to be there for the music. Maybe they just wanted to be able to say "I saw Neil Young (who put me to sleep)" to their grandchildren someday. One lady told me that I had "missed a great show," after throwing a dollar in my case.
Cowgirl In The Sand
The scene behind the theatre, where Neil's bus was idling, was interesting.
There were not as many people hanging around as there had been for Robert Plant. This may have been due to the light rain, or the fact that those waiting for Robert's autograph, had payed 'out the ass" for a special V.I.P. priviledge, which basically insured them that they would meet that rock-n-roll icon face to face, and be able to pose with him for photos, which could then be shown to grandchildren someday.
One girl, waited in hope, cradling one of Neil's album covers and holding a Sharpie marker in one hand. She was having a conversation with another girl, who was holding something Neil Young related. The first girl was pretty large, kind of like Ricky Lake, and was setting the other girl straight upon dates and songs and lyrics and what Neil's favorite cereals were; things like that. She knew things that Neil had done back in the early 70's.
Hello Cowgirl In The Sand
|(As Close As I Could Find)|
Her long blond hair looked like it had been brushed at least 32 strokes, possibly a lot more. I felt terrible when Neil's bus pulled away, and the girl's beautiful head fell, and her whole countenance drooped and she skulked away, looking like a very sad girl from a remote village somewhere in the mountains of somewhere where few ever go, and where lives one of Neil Young's biggest fans, who came all the way from her villiage in her boots, after brushing her hair, just to see him.
"Old enough now, to change your name. When so many love you, is it the same?"
I wish he could have stepped off the bus and at least let her tell him how popular his music is in her village.
I took my soaking wet 10 dollars back to the church spot and layed down and dreamed about a cowgirl in the sand