As a teenager, I became obsessed with music. If there was a New Wave band playing, my friends and I were there, and we even managed to get onstage (General Public!) or backstage (Thompson Twins!) a few times. We waited for the bands after concerts, collecting signatures on whatever was available--a drumstick, a program, even our own clothes. We pretty much met every 80s band that played in San Diego--a-ha, Howard Jones, The Cult, Simple Minds, INXS, Madness, Spandau Ballet, Fishbone, the Untouchables, even my boyfriend Harry Connick Jr.
I spent the better part of my teen years loitering by tour buses or theatre exit halls after concerts. But I'd kind of forgotten about all that until last week...
I took Mark to see last year's American Idol winner Phillip Phillips at the Grammy Museum.
Phillip did a Q&A, then played six or seven songs with another guitarist and a cellist. It was AWESOME. Those three guys rocked, and the only thing I hated was not being able to dance without causing a scene or extreme embarrassment to Mark.
Mark was really excited to see Phillip, and even more excited to get his autograph. He told me he had the perfect idea.
"I'm gonna have him sign my drum head," Mark confided, holding up the snare head he'd just replaced. "Then, next month, I'll have Macklemore and Ryan Lewis sign it." He beamed, and I told him that was an excellent idea.
The only glitch in the plan was Phillip Phillips. The venue was small (only about 200 people), but as soon as he finished singing, Phillip darted upstairs, leaving young Mark at the bottom of the escalator, clutching his drum head and a Sharpie. It was a sad, pathetic sight.
Mark was visibly bummed. I tried consoling him, but he just shrugged it off, and tossed it aside as only a teen can do.
"Whatever," he said, heading for the exit.
But as we walked out the door, hope once again appeared. A black van sat before us, doors open, the driver nervously scanning for his passengers.
I pulled Mark quietly off to the side.
"That's his van," I whispered, nodding toward the driver.
"How do you know?" Mark asked, and I scoffed. Amateur! Ye of little faith!
"I know," I said.
Just then, some lady asked the driver the same question. The driver, who had no idea who Phillip Phillips is, said no, he was waiting for
Mark sighed. "He's waiting for some woman," he repeated.
I stood still. I knew what was coming. "Trust me, Mark," I said. "Give him 20 minutes."
We weren't the only ones waiting. A small group formed, including a young girl who jumped every time someone left the building.
"What if he won't sign it?" Mark asked, biting his nails.
"Of course he's gonna sign it," I said. "If he won't sign autographs for little kids, he's a jerk."
After a few minutes, the trickle of museum employees stopped. The backup guitarist and cellist came out and loaded their instruments into the van. Mark shot me a look of excitement.
And then, the door opened again. The little girl ran forward, and Mark followed right behind her. There was Phillip Phillips, and the kids could barely contain themselves.
I watched proudly as Mark let the little girl go first ("She was soooo excited," he said later. "I couldn't jump in front of that!"). She got her program signed, and then Mark held out the drum head, which some lady used as a table for her own program. Phillip signed both, looking up at Mark as if to say, "A drum head? That's cool, kid!" He smiled at the kids, then hopped in the van.
Mark was thrilled. He played it really cool, but he couldn't stop staring at the signature.
"How'd you know he'd come out there, Mom?" he asked. He had that surprised tone he uses when he can't believe I actually know something valuable.
"They have to come out somewhere," I said. "They always wait until the crowd is gone. You just have to figure out where the exit is, where their ride is, and wait."
He nodded. Seemed reasonable.
And I nodded, too. I never thought my groupie knowledge would come in handy, but it sure did that night. Seeing Mark so happy felt awesome.
I'll never be able to share stock tips or explain quantum physics to Mark...but who cares? He isn't interested in those things, either. He loves what I love--music--and I can certainly explain that.
Which is the most awesome thing of all.
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