Great performances
Editorial
So after I sent in my last entry, the Minnesota nice kicked in hardcore and all I could think as I was lying in bed trying to force myself to sleep was "I just purged 5 years of growth and frustration and I hope to the gods in heaven I didn't ostracize some of the most important people in my life, who love and live for theater, by doing so. Oh god, what will they think?" Then my mom called me at 2am to tell me my sister was in labor and I was suddenly wide awake again with much different priorities on my mind.
Max William Metzger. 6lbs 3oz.
I burned him a mix CD immediately.
I'm sitting in a suburban house in a small town in Southern Iowa right now, and my new nephew is sleeping on the other side of the walls. Y'know they're right: family is the most important part of your life, whether it be the family you're given or your friends, the family you choose. With my camera always always near, I met Max at the hospital, watched him come through his front door for the first time, watched as their two dogs were introduced to their new brother, watched as they gave him his first bath at home. With my camera down, I held him as much as possible today.
I wish I could freeze these moments forever. And I do. I try to. That's why I write and take photos. To capture that fleeting moment of life, to hold on to that one amazing night. Sometimes my words and pictures are just for me, sometimes they are for my friends, sometimes an audience of perfect strangers.
The first time I saw Marah in their hometown of Philadelphia five years ago, I will never forget literally grabbing my gut at one point in the night and thinking "this is EXACTLY what my life is. This is perfect. This is everything." Then I went back to dancing and photographing and air high-fiving the people across the packed venue I had only just met in the bar beforehand. I would go on to experience many more shows with this group of twenty odd people. I always say we've experienced the very best and almost worst of each other. And even though I haven't seen many of them in about five years, they are all still my East Coast concert family.
When I was at The Suburbs Tribute to Bruce Allen show a couple months ago, I stood back with my camera and constantly scanned the sea of shining balding heads and graying hair. I couldn't help but think I was witnessing these people, who sold out First Ave, reliving the best times of their lives as they spun and waved and sang along with their beloved band. At the end of the show, I was in the photo pit and caught the drumstick as it bounced off the barrier. I looked up at this woman who was reaching out to me with grabby hands, who had been in the front row the entire night, and I saw the desperation. She wanted that keepsake and would appreciate it more than I could. I thought about how much I cherish my Social D & Roots drumsticks, recognized that look in her eyes, and handed it over. She mouthed thank you with tears in her eyes. I figured it would give me some good rock'n'roll karma for the future.
I knew that Suburbs concert would be an amazing night. This was a celebration of one of the greatest Minneapolis rock bands, and that's why I pitched it to my City Pages editor to photograph. I didn't know a single song before I walked in but I left and immediately texted my friend Heidi "I need Suburbs tunes STAT." Then I drove home in a daze of glee, heated up some samosas, and stayed up til 4am editing my photos, the only other gift I could give that community besides a drumstick.
And then there's Bruce Springsteen, which has colored the past ten years of my life so intensely, introduced me to so much. I have had hours long conversations with a couple people in bars about our Bruce lives, linked arms and danced with Spaniards on the beach of Barcelona as a cover band played Thunder Road, seen him 23 times in concert in the past eight years all across this country, met the most fantastic fans of all ages, cried and rocked out with them as our favorite tunes rang out over a sea of people, a community of crazies. Then, we hobble out of the venue, ravenous for street vendors or leftover tailgating goodies. The party doesn't end until you shut your eyes in the wee hours of the morning to dream of the next show. My greatest goal from the first concert I shot was to get the opportunity to photograph a Springsteen show. Until then, I'll work up my local and national ladder of musical loves, a few shots of whom I have included in this entry. When the Bruce opportunity happens, it's time for a new goal.
I have seen grown men cry, women scream, rooms pulsate with a rabid audience as they thrash back and forth for an hour or so, two people wail a soul tune in a banged up Honda, an arena full of tens of thousands sing the same song. I have laid alone, face down in my underwear on my living room floor at 2 am listening to side B of my favorite album, sorting out whatever issue was pressing at the time.
Photos, in order of appearance:
JoAnna James at the Varsity
The Suburbs at First Ave
Little Man at First Ave
Ike Reilly at the Cabooze
Jason Isbell at the Varsity