WOMAD
II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO
[with
musical interludes sung to the tune of “Solsbury Hill”]
Climbing
up a Redmond hill
I
received a sudden fright
Heard
a song, my heart stood still
“You
sure the concert is TONIGHT?!?”
When last you heard from our intrepid heroes
(that is, Jen and me), we were wrapping up an e-mail report to
Solsbury Hill at around 9:45 am on Sunday. With Jen
politely reminding me of the time every 2 and a half seconds, I
signed off, paid my extravagant Kinko’s fee, and dived into
the rental car just in time as she burned rubber straight to
Marymoor Park.
“Impatient to get there?” I asked
as we blasted through our third yellow light.
“Just a little,” she admitted,
scattering hapless pedestrians to the four winds.
Quite a few traffic lights were blinking red
due to some electrical problem, so it took a little longer than
we anticipated to complete the drive. We arrived at about
10:08 and parked nice and close, as opposed to the hideous
boonies we'd been banished to the day before. Even if
Seattle decided to harass us with a blustery, icy drizzle again,
at least this time our car would be in the same zip code.
Since Jen contracted terminal Butt Fatigue
from sitting on the ground on Friday, we’d adopted a blanket
as a key accessory from Saturday onward. Sometimes it was a
pain to lug around, sure, but I didn’t mind; first of all,
it helped to stake our space, and second of all, Jen got stuck
carrying it all the time. ; ) Grabbing the blanket and
festival programs, we walked briskly toward the gates, anxious to
begin this day of all days.
And then it happened.
About halfway to the gates, we heard the
strains of "Digging in the Dirt" echoing across the
fields. "How nice," I said. "They're
playing one of Peter's CD's as background music from the main
stage. About time they played one of his songs." Indeed,
it was, since “When You’re Falling” was the lone
token Gabriel tune I’d heard during two full days of
between-act recorded music.
"Yeah," Jen replied. We
walked in silence for a moment more. "Must be the
Secret World Live CD. Sounds live."
"It does," I mused. We
continued walking briskly.
Finally, as the music continued, Jen's
expression grew thoughtful, then worried. "You know,
that doesn't sound like the Secret World Live version."
As if to punctuate her words, the sound of feedback echoed from
the stage.
For a single, horrified moment, we just
stared at one another. Then, in near-perfect unison, we
*screamed.*
"HOLY [expletive deleted], HE'S PLAYING
LIVE, RIGHT NOW!"
We ran.
"Are you sure the program said 8pm, and
not 8am?" Jen wheezed. "Yes, it was 8pm!" I
yelled. "He must be rehearsing!" What I
*thought,* but didn't say out loud, was that perhaps he’d
finally snapped from all those years of snide “late”
jokes. “You want early? I’ll give you
little wise-ass bastards early! How d’you like *them*
apples, eh?”
So as we tore across the grass, I had only
three thoughts in my mind:
1. Peter Gabriel is playing live, and
I'm missing it.
2. I've got to get in better shape.
I may die before we reach the gates.
3. If I don't die, Jen will murder me
for insisting we stop at Kinko's instead of holding a vigil here
from the crack of dawn.
When we staggered to the gates, panting, we
saw a short line of people waiting anxiously outside. At
first we thought it was just the will-call ticket people, but
then we noticed a few folks abandoning the line and straining for
a glimpse of the main stage, noses pressed against the chain link
fence like sad pound puppies. They weren't letting people
in yet! I was probably the only person on site thanking my
lucky stars for this, since if we’d missed any actual
front-and-center time -- well, suffice it to say Jen would have
been a lawnmower, and you can fill in the blank about what
botanical feature my derriere would have been. The natives
were restless, let me tell you. One lady in an US shirt
with short blond hair bounced up and down in line like a
three-year-old in dire need of a bathroom, wailing "Let us
IN! Let us IN!" Thinking that seemed as good a
plan as any, we immediately joined in a hearty round of bouncing
and wailing. It had no discernable effect.
"Digging in the Dirt" ended,
"Family Snapshot" began, and we seemed no closer to
admittance. Finally, the gate volunteers, probably sensing
that things could get ugly (and deciding they definitely weren't
getting paid enough to lay down their lives for this), began
letting people into the festival grounds. By the time I got
my ticket torn, the ticket-takers on my side were moving at
hyperspeed. The teenage guy who waved me in had a vivid
"Please don't hurt me, I'm just doing my job" look of
horror on his face as he practically threw my ticket back to me
and quickly snatched the next one with the air of a man who was
moving for his life. I think he could see the headlines in
his mind: "HAPLESS TEEN TRAMPLED BY CRAZED GABRIEL
FANS; 'DON'T SEE WHY THEY WERE IN SUCH A HURRY,' POP STAR
SAYS." As Mac Cat has often written, he is a man with
no concept of time -- or the raw power of his own appeal. ; )
Once again, we sprinted like Olympians.
I think I may have coughed up my spleen, but I didn't care.
This was worth sacrificing a spleen for. There was only a
teeny smattering of people at that hour, mostly WOMAD staffers
and volunteers, I'm guessing, now joined by the running loonies
from the gate. Plastering ourselves amidst the line of
people at the stage barrier wall, Jen and I stared in disbelief.
He
was something to observe
Came
in close to hear his voice
Not
too close -- We had the nerve,
But,
damn the wall, we had no choice.
There he was, onstage directly in front of
us, clad in light gray pants, an untucked gray oxford shirt, and
a black vest, his color scheme echoing the prior day’s
Seattle sky. Stationed at his keyboard with a paper cup of
tea on the floor by his feet (sorry, Mac, not coffee -- you could
see the little tag dangling down the side of the cup), he was
enjoying a laid-back rehearsal with the bald Tony Levin, the bald
David Rhodes, some bald guy on drums I didn't know from Adam, and
some other guy at a keyboard over on the side whom I later
discovered was James McNally of the Afro Celt Sound System
(thanks to Lee for helping to jog my memory in various places
here!). He looked woefully out of place with his full head
of hair; it seemed as if head-shaving was some sort of bizarre
initiation cult ritual required to enter PG's band, and muscular
men might leap out of the woodwork at any moment, wrestle him
kicking and screaming to the ground, and shave him bald to
enforce the conformity. ; ) Singing backup along with David
Rhodes was an attractive young woman in jeans and a sweater
(not bald either, just to be clear about things), her voice so
low I wondered if her microphone was turned off. She looked
slightly uncomfortable with the audience, but very underwhelmed
about Peter, as if being near him ranked on her Thrill List right
up there with flossing her teeth. This blasé attitude
surprised me a bit. I remember thinking, "Man, if that
was any of us up there, we'd look just a *leetle* more
enthusiastic. . ." Of course, that would never be any
of us up there, since 1. most of us can't sing worth squat, and
2. we'd be too busy gazing at him worshipfully to sing, and 3. at
that point, Peter probably wouldn't feel secure having any of us
within a tri-state area without some sort of sturdy structural
barrier. We were giving off the sort of vibe which
foreshadowed having to pry us off his legs with a crowbar
(“No! I’m not letting go till you release the new
album! And give me an autograph! And possibly a
hug!”). Anyway, as it turned out, she had
excellent reasons for her eerie immunity to Gabriel Mania. More
on this "mystery backup singer" later.
As we watched in awe, he noodled with the
sound arrangement, asked "Could we get a little more
kick?" with some of the instrumentation feeds, occasionally
flashed his trademark grin at the band and the crowd, and flubbed
lyrics like nobody's business. I think all of us in the
front were mouthing lyrics by the end, so if he was only
proficient at lip-reading, he would've had it made. Since
this was ostensibly a “behind the scenes” rehearsal,
they hadn’t bothered to camouflage the equipment when
they’d wired him for sound, so a conspicuous yellow wire
stretched from ear to waist like a really cut-rate hearing aid
(please, lord, not a sign of things to come! The goatee and
the head-shaving were traumatic enough). I’m pretty
sure a sound pack was stuck in a side pocket in his pants leg.
It seemed uncomfortable, as he grasped at his waist and adjusted
it from time to time with that subtle wiggle of a man whose
underclothes have shrunk just a bit too much in the wash. Either
right then, or during the evening concert, or possibly both times
(the details are fading, I’m sorry!), he had a nervous
stagehand scuttle out from the wings and fiddle with it (which,
let’s face it, has to be a nerve-wracking job, frisking
Peter’s torso in front of an audience. Then again,
that just might describe quite a few female fantasies out there).
Basically, I think it’s been so long since he’s
performed, that he’s forgotten how annoying some of the
accoutrements can be (we fans, for example, can be tremendously
annoying!). ; )
He stood relatively still behind his
keyboard while he sang, concentrating on the sound mix, although
(unless my memory’s confusing the rehearsal with the later
concert) he led the crowd in that hand-raising move he always
does during the “whoa-ohhhh” chorus of “In Your
Eyes.” He did acknowledge the crowd after each song,
thanking us for our applause. At one point between songs,
somebody hollered out "GOOD MORNING, PETER!" at top
volume, and he chuckled and replied "Um, good morning"
into his microphone, triggering ripples of laughter and applause
at his acknowledgement, and the surreal incongruity of the
situation. Yes, we're pathetic, I admit it. Peter
Gabriel saying "um, good morning" to us validated our
existence on the planet! Okay, perhaps that was a bit of an
overstatement, but it did feel pretty dang special. The
whole atmosphere was mind-bogglingly intimate and friendly, as if
we privileged few had been invited to just hang out with him and
watch him jam for awhile. Man, did we ever hit the jackpot.
: )
Just like during his Friday presentation
(when he called the prior speaker “a hard act to
follow”), his mannerisms betrayed that wry, diffident,
ironic quality that's such an inherent part of his charisma.
It's like he can't begin to grasp why everyone's making such a
fuss over him, and it's all a bit amusing and embarrassing.
After he hit one of his stomach-chilling Gabrielese half-singing,
half-wailing notes, then smiled shyly at the crowd response, the
lady beside me gasped, "My God, he really doesn't know how
amazing he is, does he?"
While I’m on the subject of wry,
diffident charisma, I should take just a second here to mention
in more detail how much Kathryn Tickell impressed me on Saturday,
since I was in too much of a hurry in my prior report. Besides,
this wouldn’t be in the true spirit of Peter without
diversions and digressions galore (just wait’ll I get to the
thrill-a-minute “what I had for lunch” section)!
In addition to being a genuine prodigy on
her pipes and fiddle, Kathryn Tickell had the same sort of
endearing persona as Peter Gabriel, that sweet, reticent,
self-deprecating humor that makes you want to hug him and take
him out for tea and biscuits. Also like Gabriel, she
transformed when she played, shifting from pensive to passionate
with a rush of unexpected kinetic energy. She thoroughly
charmed the audience with stories of a hometown where
everyone’s related to one another, a pack of uncles who all
own one of the same four suits mail-ordered from *Farmers
Weekly,* an adolescent brother who thinks of nothing but beer,
and the ambiguity entailed in writing a song to commemorate a
historical battle when you’re not quite sure if your patron
favors the winners or the losers (should it be a happy little
victory jig, a mournful dirge, or a bit of both to be on the safe
side?). Believe me, any child born with half of her genes
and half of Peter Gabriel’s would be able to bamboozle
anyone into getting anything it wanted, unto the point of
complete world domination. Their DNA must never fall into
the wrong hands, or we’re all doomed! ; ) Then again,
world domination by Gabriel genes might not be a bad thing,
although, unlike under Mussolini, the trains most definitely
would *not* run on time.
Back to Sunday’s morning concert!
Tony Levin and David Rhodes looked even more blown away than
Peter at how psyched (or possibly psycho) their impromptu
audience was. As we cheered wildly in response to PG’s
slightest word and movement, they kept casting amused glances at
him, implying he was in for a lot of joshing later. The
chemistry between those musicians is nothing short of spectacular
-- they look as if they’re genuinely fond of one another.
Grinning devilishly, Tony kept training his camera at the crowd,
inciting us to wave more wildly than those people who always hang
out in the background of the Today show. At some point,
I’m pretty sure Peter filmed the crowd as well, but I admit
I’m not positive about any fact relating to him, since my
brain was locked in such a “Holy [expletive deleted],
that’s HIM!” infinite loop that I’m doubting the
accuracy of anything my memory is dredging up now.
On to some general thoughts on the music --
and no, I have no clue in what order the songs were played.
*heavy sigh* You know, I’d give my left arm for a
better memory -- it’s shedding all the details of which
songs he played, and how, in favor of a generalized “whee,
was that ever a grand old time!” impression. For more
accurate musical details concerning both the morning and evening
concerts, take a look at Scotto’s and Lee’s excellent
reviews. They must’ve had a notepad with them, or
they’ve been taking memory improvement classes -- or else
I’m shedding memory cells at the same rate Peter’s
losing active follicles.
Anyway, everybody but Peter and Tony left
the stage for the very spare but affecting “Father,
Son.” Jen and I didn’t recognize “Come Talk
to Me” until he started singing (we squealed to one another
“Is this the new song?”). We also did the
“Is this the new song?” happy dance when he started
“Signal to Noise,” then finally recognized it. When
he broke into "Solsbury Hill," the crowd immediately
went into a hyper clapping-bouncing mode, raising fists in unison
for the “Boom boom boom!” part. That song is so
incredible live! I actually don't enjoy the original
version all that much (sacrilege!), but I adore the live
versions. The energy is so high and joyous, it's an instant
celebration. He did start out singing a bit lower-keyed
than usual, which seemed a reach for him; it was far too soft and
strained. It sounded vastly better when he finished the
song in his familiar higher register.
The single most memorable moment (for me,
anyway) was how he croaked the deep-voiced part of the "In
Your Eyes" chorus in his voice from "Kiss that
Frog" (you know, the "Get your prince" line).
Lots of cheers and laughter for that, inspiring another playful
grin. I really do think he was enjoying all the adulation,
despite being a bit abashed at it. After all, it's been
awhile. It was probably nice to know that his appeal hasn't
gone down in the slightest, despite a lot less hair, a few more
pounds, and a few more years (and many fans who must also confess
to a lot less hair and/or a few more pounds and years. I
plead guilty to the latter, but have avoided the former, having
robustly hairy female genes). I can attest that his voice
is as resonant, sensual, visceral and rich-textured as it ever
was, maybe more -- that same indefinable mix of spirit and flesh,
ethereal and earthy. He is looking older, yes, but he's
still got the effortless charm, the dimpled grin, the intense
eyes, the graceful hands, and still sings me right into a
boneless puddle --
Um, did I say that last part out loud?
*embarrassed cough*
Er, disregard that last bit, would you?
Got a bit carried away. Thanks muchly.
Anyway, in mid-rehearsal, someone tossed a
small oblong bundle up onstage, trussed in string -- possibly a
T-shirt, possibly something else wrapped in fabric (in which
case, it’s probably safest not to guess). Whoever it
was had one heck of an aim (possibly CD Hurling Woman!), since it
landed right at Peter's feet. He picked it up, smiled and
nodded his thanks, then handed it to a stagehand to take away.
After he'd finished up, thanked the crowd, and walked to the rear
of the stage, two gals beside me begged a security guard to give
him their gifts, too. Reluctantly, the guard complied.
As Peter accepted the items, returned to the stage edge, and
offered additional gracious thanks, I hastily snapped a picture.
Now, although he’d been almost this
close before, he’d been performing, stationed behind a
keyboard. There’d been a certain sense of distance,
albeit far less in this soundcheck/rehearsal than in a formal
concert situation. However, having him addressing us
directly in this utterly unexpected way threw me into such a
state of Peter-proximity shock that I didn’t think to take a
single additional picture while he stood there in that ideal
pose. Maybe just as well, though, since I really lived the
moment with an absolute immediacy, not mediated through a camera,
not thinking of anything save the incredible fact that he was
there. Unfortunately, one unintended side effect of my
immersion in the moment was the way I stood slack-jawed and
stupefied as a brain-damaged guppy.
As soon as he reached the stage edge, fans
more coherent than me immediately bombarded him with both
questions and overt expressions of worship/adoration for this
morning's concert and his music in general. You could tell
from the befuddled look on his face he was having trouble hearing
individual statements, but he was doing his darndest to remain
polite and responsive. I can't remember the exact wording
of the exchanges, but I think some of them went something like
this.
"Do you know how much your music means
to people?" one female fan yelled, and he shuffled shyly,
smiled a bit, and said "Thanks, that's very nice to
hear." A male voice hollered "When's the new
album?" which he conveniently ignored (drat), although the
laughter peppering the crowd indicated that most of us heard the
question just fine. Then someone asked "Are you going
to be doing a signing here at WOMAD?" No doubt the
question was inspired by the way that almost all the other
artists had done CD signings after their performances. He
squinted and indicated that he couldn't hear. The woman
repeated the question, "Are you going to be doing a CD
signing?" He thought for a moment, and finally
hesitantly replied, "Um, yes, a little one." Thanks
to this comment, I kept several pictures in reserve on my camera
. . . which didn't get used. There was no CD signing, unless it
was the best kept secret since *UP*’s projected release
date. So he either changed his mind, or was merely
acknowledging that he might do a signing at some indeterminate
location at some indeterminate point in some indeterminately
vague future ("Yes, I'm doing a signing, I'm doing an album,
don't pester me for logistical details, I'm an artiste!"),
or he didn't hear the question right in the first place (which
leads me to wonder -- what question did he *think* he was
answering? There's a fun game of Peter Gabriel Jeopardy for
you. I personally vote for “Does Phil Collins have a
brain?”).
After that, he thanked everyone again and
walked offstage, as many people continued to yell out their
heartfelt gratitude for that morning's impromptu performance.
Adrenaline coursing madly through our veins, all of us in front
proceeded to shriek, "Can you BELIEVE what just
happened?" to each other in voices high enough to set dogs
howling miles away. “That was so nice of him! He
did the whole set just for us!” the lady to my right gushed.
“Yeah, it was incredibly nice, but he did need the
practice,” I replied -- then froze as I realized just how
catty my comment sounded. It wasn’t meant that way, I
swear! I just meant he needed to get the feel for the stage
set-up prior to the actual concert, particularly after not
performing for so long. Enjoying my frantic backpedaling,
she burst out laughing.
Quite a few people were wearing concert
T-shirts, confirming a hard-core fan presence. Jen and I
were decked out in our black T-shirts airbrushed with a copy of
the bright purple Peter Gabriel photo in full stage make-up from
the Armando Gallo book. A friend of hers made 'em, and they
are pretty impressive-looking, let me tell you. We had a
*lot* of folks ask us about them. Unfortunately, they never
attracted the attention of Peter himself (probably just as well.
I can hear it now: "Did you have copyright permission
to make those?" "Errr . . ." “To
the monkey cage with them!” “No! Anything
but the bonobos!”). Too bad we never got a chance to
make up the T-shirt idea we’d hatched a decade ago,
featuring a doctored photo of both of us clinging worshipfully to
Peter’s legs, with “Gabriel’s Angels” as the
caption. We actually did have a Photoshop-skilled friend of
Jen’s make up the photo back in the mid 90’s. Getting
photos of us clinging to a man’s legs involved having
snapshots taken of us hanging onto Jen’s friend’s legs
in the backyard -- wouldn’t you have just *loved* to see the
look on the guy’s face who developed those? Alas,
Jen’s friend’s computer suffered a terminal crash, and
the masterpiece was lost forever.
We proceeded to mutual introductions,
discovering the guy and gal to our left, who hailed from the
Chicago area, were Michelle and -- blast, I've forgotten his name
already, so we'll call him Wossname (in tribute to Terry
Pratchett, one of my other idols). The lady to my right was
Lillian, and you can see her in of one of Tony Levin's photos
(lucky wench)! We then all began what was to be a lovely
day of bonding, exchanging what we came to call our Peter Gabriel
Insane Fan Stories. Jen and I recounted how we'd met buying
tickets during his Secret World tour, then ran into each other
again at the concert, then became pen pals, then friends, and
ultimately sisters-in-law after I married her brother! Lots
of folks claim Peter Gabriel music changed their lives, but I can
show you 6’ 1” worth of conclusive male matrimonial
proof. ; ) A woman behind us who’d brought her
young teenage son to the concert confessed that she’d been
uncertain if she should spend the money or not to come to WOMAD,
but her husband, with admirable tact, had informed her that she
should go “since, let’s face it, you aren’t
getting any younger, and neither is Peter.” Ol'
Wossname told a hilarious anecdote which I will call the
"glass of water" story (otherwise known as the
“How *Not* to Win Friends and Influence Peter” story),
in which he managed to inextricably insert his foot in his mouth
in front of our musical hero. I'm talking major treadmarks
on the uvula, here. I've begged him to submit the story to
Solsbury Hill himself, since he and Michelle tell it far better
than I ever could, so I won’t recount it now and steal his
thunder.
Lillian, meanwhile, was from the Seattle
area, and had been to prior WOMADs. She told us how PG had
attended last year in a tourist capacity and simply listened to
the acts; several people had ostensibly spotted him watching
Bonnie Raitt from off to the side of the crowd. Everyone
was disappointed when he didn't go onstage and sing with Paula
Cole, Lillian confirmed, and even claimed to have written a
"letter of complaint" to him for not performing -- not
sure if she was serious or joking! Lillian also mentioned a
WOMAD tradition of a grand finale "monster jam" in
which a whole bunch of acts get up onstage and groove together.
Unfortunately, no such event took place this year. Wah!
I
had to leave for some tasty rations,
I
just had to trust their protestations,
My
heart going boom boom boom
"Please,"
I said, "Watch my things,
I'm
staking out my home."
Directly
behind us, a latecoming couple was debating whether they could
safely leave their blanket to reserve their spot while they
wandered around to enjoy the rest of WOMAD. We in the front
row had no such faith in the general run of humanity, especially
when prime Peter viewing was at stake. As we settled in for
the long haul, we outlined a battle plan in which we would all
save one another's places when we left for necessities such as
food and trips to the dreaded Honey Buckets. The few folks
who had been in front of us were apparently WOMAD volunteers, and
had wandered off after the rehearsal, so Michelle, Wossname, Jen,
Lillian, and I all had superb spots directly up against the stage
wall in front of Peter’s microphone. We weren't about
to surrender them to anyone! We all immediately spread out
our blankets, jackets, and bags in a territorial marking gesture
that was about as primitive as it gets without involving bodily
fluids ("MY place! MINE! GrrRRrr!"). By
then, the day had, against all odds, transformed into a
gloriously sunny one without a hint of rain. Although this
was ironic, since most of us had dressed in accordance with
Saturday's sub-arctic temperatures and were now sweating buckets,
we peeled off some clothing layers and rejoiced. Even the
weather paid tribute to the Greatness That Is Peter! So
what if he doesn't have his own Bobble Head Doll like Ichiro
does. ; )
In
line with the sunnier weather and the presence of Peter, the
crowds were about triple what they'd been during the previous two
days. I was treated to a glimpse of what WOMAD is usually
like, according to Lillian, and realized that although I'd frozen
my tuckus off the night before, the plus side was that I hadn't
waited in huge lines for bathroom privileges, and had virtually
been able to sit on the laps of any act I wanted to see.
It had been cold enough that the idea of sitting in their laps
for the sake of body heat alone was awfully tempting. There
was only a single indoor structure on the public grounds of the
festival, a lovely old museum building that was dedicated
exclusively to the use of VIP and media. By Saturday
afternoon, I was fervently wishing I’d thought to stay in
touch with Crystal Ann, so I could beg, borrow, or buy her media
badge. None of us peons were allowed in, no matter how much
we hung around the fringes and gazed jealously at the windows,
coveting the toasty dry warmth inside. The beautiful people
inside laughed their carefree laughs, sipped steaming cups of
complimentary coffee, and occasionally sent the guards outside to
savage us with trained attack dogs for their amusement.
Well,
perhaps I exaggerate a teensy bit. Still, when you stick a
hapless Arizonan outdoors in intermittent freezing rain from noon
till 9:45 without a break, that Arizonan will be chilled to the
bone. I'd wanted to see Oysterband, but gave up after a
single song. Although they sounded good, only Peter himself
distributing autographed preview copies of “UP” would
have been enough to keep me in that rain. When we trudged
back to the car that night, I had to physically pry my cramped
fingers open to let go of my bag.
Enough
whining! Suffice it to say that Sunday's weather was as
gorgeous as Saturday's was wretched. As I left to purchase
food, I received the first of many inquiries related to where a
shirt like mine could be obtained. Ravenous, I directed the
inquirer to speak to Jen and hustled over to the food booths.
Intrigued by the crowds which had frequented one particular food
booth all weekend, I bought a very tasty meal of marinated
chicken, vegetables, and red lentils on African spongy bread,
along with an apple dumpling with ice cream from a neighboring
booth. While waiting in line, I had a nice conversation
with a lady who complimented me on my hair (I have a lot of very
long red hair, and the constant humidity was increasing the
volume to "Cousin It" proportions. You have to
make a concerted effort *not* to notice my hair. It
blithely invades your personal space and weaves its way into all
your clothing). She attended WOMAD every year, usually on
her motorcycle. She was on call that day and fervently
hoping her pager wouldn’t ring and spoil everything. I
tell you, that's dedication. If that was me, that pager
would have met a mysterious and terrible fate, probably involving
a Honey Bucket. "I don't know, it just *slipped*
somehow . . ." You can see my priorities. Viewing
a Peter Gabriel concert beats the heck out of showing up for
emergency brain surgery, or whatever urgent mission was keeping
her on call.
I
returned to our staked-out spot and ate my lunch, but before I
had a chance to eat the apple dumpling, the announcer introduced
Lágbájá, conveying his gratitude for having such a fabulous
“opening act” as Peter. This act was worth
letting the ice cream melt for. Judging by the writeup in
the WOMAD guide, I presumed this was a downer protest band, given
the emphasis on political issues, and the way the masked frontman
symbolized the plight of the "faceless common man."
Silly me! Not by any stretch of the imagination was this
group a “downer.” This was percussion-oriented,
get-up-and-dance-yourself-sick music along the lines of Youssou
N'Dour. Their song "Simple Yes or No" (dedicated
to filibustering politicians) had the whole crowd chanting along
to the chorus -- at least, after the frontman (clad in an
eye-blistering primary clash of canary yellow and cobalt blue)
chided us all for singing in bland unison “like a
symphony,” and taught us how to properly pitch the stress
and volume of our words. He had less luck teaching us the
intricate “shoulder dance.” Since the best most
of us could do was shrug apologetically, I think our spastic lack
of coordination may have depressed him horribly.
They
featured three terrific dancers, including one gal in an outfit
which resembled a psychedelic-Africana interpretation of Dr.
Seuss's Cat-in-the-Hat, and a diminutive female backup singer who
could really just belt it out, completely out of all proportion
to her size. Although all their outfits were very
eye-catching, they weren’t terribly practical. The
Cat-in-the-Hat woman had to keep pushing the hat out of her eyes,
while the other woman appeared to be having trouble getting her
wrap-around dress to stay on. After re-tucking it about 10
times, she finally removed her headcloth and tied it around her
waist so she could get down and really dance with the drummers
without worrying about unravelling. The masked
frontman (who was a mean saxophone player) made a huge production
out of taking off his streamer-bedecked fabric mask, since it was
hot up there that day. He told us all to put our cameras
away, and even made the press put down all of theirs, and then
whipped off his mask to reveal -- yet another, smaller mask. ; )
Amid the ensuing laughter, he said that was symbolic of how when
you overcome one problem, there's always another one lurking just
behind it!
The
best part, though, was that off to the far left, in the stage
scaffolding area where folding chairs had been set up as VIP
seating, I suddenly spotted Peter Gabriel standing with several
others, happily taping the group with his handheld videocam, and
obviously enjoying the performance tremendously. Right
before the Cat-in-the-Hat dancer came out to join the group, she
was waiting over there, warming up about a foot in front of Peter
Gabriel, and he was alternating between watching her and the
band. It was really neat (in a quasi-voyeuristic sort of
way) to catch sight of him when he wasn't "on," when he
was clearly in the role of audience rather than performer, and
was just having a grand old time. Later on in the day, in
the wings on the opposite side, we also caught a glimpse of Tony
Levin watching and filming, and I *think* I caught a glimpse of
David Rhodes at one point (although with the amount of bald men
wandering around up there, I can’t say for sure). They
had their own fans, by the way; Lillian informed me she’d
had a conversation with a gal in the audience who thought Peter
Gabriel was “okay,” but Tony Levin was
“Whoah!” ; ) Lillian also appeared to be a
big David Rhodes booster. Needless to say (but I'll
say it anyway), there's something tremendously endearing about
the way the band seems to enjoy these festivals as much as
everyone else does, and get a huge kick out of the performances.
There's not a primadonna among them. Although I always
appreciated the talent of Peter Gabriel’s band, I really did
come away from this concert a far bigger fan of Tony Levin and
David Rhodes than I went in.
Afterwards,
I ate my melty ice cream and apple dumpling (still very tasty,
albeit soggy), checked to make sure Lillian and Michelle would
guard our spot with their very lives (we swore a blood oath and
everything), and headed over to the “Drumming
Traditions” workshop with Jen. It entailed missing
Simon Shaheen and Qantara, but I really wanted to see this
workshop. First of all, it sounded interesting. I’d
thoroughly enjoyed the segments of the “Brazilian
Rhythms” and “Pipes & Strings & Modern
Things” workshops I’d seen the day before, although
I’d bailed on the Rennie Harris “Dance Workshop”
after I discovered he expected us to -- well, dance in a vaguely
coordinated fashion. ; ) Second of all, it featured members
of the Afro Celt Sound System, whom I hadn't seen before (I
missed the Letterman performance -- but that's another story).
I did have an ulterior motive, though. The website had
mentioned “and surprise guests” after the listed
participants, while the program had an “and more”
addendum. No other workshop had a similar notation. Knowing
Peter used to be a drummer, I nursed a tiny flare of hope that he
might come out to jam a bit, given that this Roots of Music stage
was only a few feet away from an entrance into the fenced-off
backstage area -- where, incidentally, there were a lot of
strings of lights and banners and colorful lanterns hung among
the trailers, creating a festive party-looking setup that you
could just see peeking over the fence. It looked like a lot
of fun back there, the lucky devils. I hope Andrea
describes it in vivid detail!
To
keep in silence I resigned
Andrea’d
think I was a nut
Although
I really longed to whine
For
autographs, my mouth stayed shut
Speaking
of Andrea, as Jen and I strolled toward the Roots of Music stage
past that aforementioned backstage entrance, we spied a slim
brunette gal in a very chic belted black jacket waiting with
another lady; both had the coveted badges that were the magic
ticket into backstage, warm media rooms, and Peter Proximity.
In other words, Nirvana. ; ) Ms. Black Jacket called out to
us as we passed by, inquiring where we got our spiffy airbrushed
T-shirts. As she seemed both very nice and very enthused, a
conversation commenced. Eventually, she mentioned that she
would be meeting Peter Gabriel at 3pm (it was then 2pm). Of
course, Jen and I staggered backwards when hit with this
bombshell. "Oh my God, you’re Andrea!"
I exclaimed. "Yeah, how'd you know?" she asked, a
bit puzzled by my seeming psychic abilities (maybe I was a
telepathic bonobo monkey in a former life). "I read
about the auction on the Solsbury Hill Website!" I announced
proudly, completing an improbably scripted exchange right out of
a TV commercial. However, Andrea can confirm that's just
how it happened, so there! Nyah!
We
chattered away for a minute or two, while I valiantly resisted
the almost overwhelming urge to beg and/or bribe her on bended
knee to snag me a personalized Peter Gabriel autograph (Jen
already has one, the lucky wench). After all, at $1,000 a
minute, I figured (with an internal sigh of resignation) that she
deserved to have her time entirely for herself. She was
tremendously excited (of course!) and mentioned that she'd
already caught a glimpse of him at the hotel. I told her I
hadn't sent in any suggested questions to the Hill, since I
figured my number one question had already been sent in by 9,487
other people: "WHEN WILL YOU GIVE US THE NEW FREAKING
ALBUM, ALREADY?!?" She laughed and confirmed that
she'd definitely be asking that question. After saying
goodbye, Jen and I reached the Roots of Music stage, then
promptly realized we'd been so excited that we’d completely
forgotten about the original reason Andrea had approached us --
she wanted to get a purple Peter shirt like ours. We ran
back to the entrance to give her our contact information, but she
was already gone, preparing for her big adventure.