I’ve decided I’m not a stalker. OK, I realize that most stalkers wouldn’t probably admit they are stalkers because that would mean you are admitting that you are creepy. I am definitely not creepy.
As some of you know, I am a Greg Brown fan. Yes, I am a FAN. It is OK to admit that. Greg Brown is probably the most delicious, handsome, sexy, intelligent, deep, sexy, down home, Zen-like, sexy-hippiesque folk singer on the circuit. A stalker wouldn’t put that on a blog with their name in the title. I first saw him perform about 10 years ago in Central Illinois with about 50 people in attendance. I was surprised to see him climb on stage with a tattered cowboy hat, dirty jeans and a worn thin white tank-top. Then he started to strum and out of him rumbled the deepest, gravelly, touch you “down there” voice. Hello!
Since then I have seen him perform seven times. I have almost all his albums and just recently purchased on EBay his “One Night” record produced in 1982 by the Coffeehouse Extempore’. I don’t even own a record player. A fan would do that. A stalker wouldn’t want that kind of electronic trail.
He performed last night at the Stanos Theatre on the Cal Poly campus in San Luis Obispo. At the last minute, I asked a friend if he wanted to go and he said yes. Sometimes I regret asking friends to go because you are just not sure how they will act during the performance. When I am in a Greg Brown zone, I don’t want you to nudge me, whisper to me or breathe in my general direction. Luckily, I had my ticket so he would have to fend for himself in another section. My seat was perfect. I was nestled on stage left in the second row. The planets were aligned and I did not have anyone sitting in front of me. I was seated so close that if the stupid woman next to me wasn’t wearing such a god awful perfume, I might have been able to smell him. All was perfect minus the minor distractions of the loving couple next to me and the hairy backed man located off to my right. Even back hair can disrupt a perfect evening of Greg Brown.
Greg was in good spirits. He joked a bit with the crowd and even recognized a friend in the audience. I wondered what it would be like to be Greg’s friend. I looked over at Joe Price (Greg’s friend) and wondered what was so special about him. I decided I might secretly touch Joe at the end of the performance. A stalker might do that, but so would a fan, so I was ok with that.
The performance was intimate and pretty much perfect, but came to an end too soon as usual. I hooted and hollered, but there was no second encore.
As the crowd started to file out I made my way toward Greg’s friend. Just as I was about to make my move my friend joined up with me and intercepted my plan. Damn-it.
We made our way out the exit and I was walking slowly. We exited and I realized we were at the back of the Theatre. Greg probably would come out this way. I decided to stall our exit by saying I needed to go back in to the theatre to use the restroom. I did. I urged him to buy a CD. I lingered contemplating the crappy art on the wall. Then I thought this is the right time. He wants to go right, but I say we can get to the parking by going left. We walk and…there he is in his tank top standing at the back door of the theatre. I knew it. He was there with the friend I almost touched, but now I have my oblivious friend chatting away, distracting me of my focus. He sees my line of sight…and dumbly says, “Hey, that’s Greg Brown. Let’s go over and get my CD signed.” I halted, frightened. I’ve never talked to Greg Brown. I mean I’ve watched him talk to other fans while I stood back. I’ve had the opportunity. He once sat close to me at a Folk Festival and I just looked at him with his green, over the shoulder messenger bag with a giant ink stain on it, but I have never marched right up and said “I’m your biggest FAN!” I mean come on, I’m not a freakin’ dork. So, there I am standing so close to a possible meeting and I was frozen. A fan would walk up to him and say they were a fan. A fan wouldn’t really care if they sounded like an idiot. A fan would have brought their 1982 Greg Brown “One Night…” album with a perfect pen to have him sign it. No, I wasn’t his number one fan.
I realized that I am in the star struck purgatory. I am probably stuck for eternity between “Stalker” and “Number One Fan.”
I’ve decided that I am Greg Brown’s Number One…Lurker.
Greg Brown
10 comments:
Oh, Julia, I can so relate. I have been close to Greg many times, but hardly ever do more than smile and nod. Dumbstruck! My husband has developed a sort-of relationship with him and always has a small conversation with him. I have gone so far as to send him my homemade blackberry jam via my husband and also some of our North Carolina Blackberry wine. He is always very gracious. His commment on the wine was "bet you could really get drunk on this". A far cry from his poetic song lyrics, but also one of the reasons we all are crazy about him. Imagine my delight when I first heard the song "Betty Ann"! All the other women were jealous, and the lyrics are so flattering! Can't wait for my next show. It may be a while since I see no mention of the southeast on his schedule. For now, I will have to live vicariously through all the lucky ones who can make it to a show. Thanks for sharing.
I once caught a stalker on the Northridge campus. I was sent a heroes "thank you" by a detective who thought I was brave. But now I am feeling brave for even being your friend. I am feeling violated and stared at. I am feeling like if I bought you a greg brown statue you might turn it into a voodoo doll and then I would be some kind of freaky accomplice to some hootenanny voodoo zombie act of naughtiness....
-n.l.
Hey Julia, it's good to know there are more Greg Brown fans in this area. If you get another chance just walk up to him and say hi. I had a chance to do just that in Berkeley a few years ago and ended up having a short conversation with him. He even gave me some pointers on how to play a couple of his songs. I wanted to stick around after the San Luis show on the 8th and run into him again but my wife is not as an enthusiastic a fan as I. Good luck at the future shows.
Wayne
I thought the SLO show was one of the best I've ever seen from Greg, and I've seen dozens! I think Joe Price's attendance is part of what made him so happy. I agree with another responder, Julia... Just walk right up to Greg and say Hi. Tell him you enjoyed his show and say thanks for all the great tunes. He'll be nice, especially on a night when he's having such a great time as he did in SLO. But don't say you're his biggest fan, 'cuz he already knows that's ME!! :-)
I've never seen Greg Brown... but I'm right there with you on your stalker tendencies. I have it bad for pop star Darren Hayes... I can't help myself where he's concerned and I become quasi-stalker myself.
I used to be accused of being a Greg stalker. One of my many early runs was 10 shows in six venues in six towns in six nights. On the road to one of them, I mentally prepared a short speech to convey to him my deep appreciation. His immediate response was "Get over it"! Since then, I have. Ran a Scrabble tournament for one of his charities that had him playing the other so-called stalker finalists. You can play a Greg Brown Trivia game at www.gregbrown.org that I put together for charity fund-raising a few years ago. At the conclusion of the the live version, we crowned the biggest stalkers. Greg used to tour the Pacific Northwest more than he does now. When he comes around, I go to his shows and I enjoy getting to talk to him. He wrote the coolest birthday song ever for me and performed it in front of 1,200 people. Oh yea, and who else has an autographed pair of his underwear?
Great review Julia. Now please reconsider how you define "bigget fan".
OK, I hate to tell you all this, but I paid top dollar for a coveted Greg Brown souvenier, and autographed at that! Yes, I bought a pair of his boxers. I had seen some fakies on eBay. But I know fakies when I see them. See, I have a friend of a friend of a friend who talked him out of a pair, and then, knowing I would pay top dollar, sold out to me, his biggest fan, not you, you, or you... so all you wanna-be fans grab you some chonies from your laundry and just pray you have what I have framed.
Marley Melds Music And SF
SF author Louise Marley, whose novel The Child Goddess has been nominated for an Endeavour Award, told SCI FI Wire that she also sings opera and benefits from both writing and music.
For a very enjoyable book to read, I definitely recommend 'Marcella: Princess or Pawn' which can be found at http://www.marcella.cc - you can even read the first chapter for free!
Oh, I can also relate. I'll tell you of my four possibilities of talking with the man. For the first time since becoming a fan (I am from Iowa so had heard him several times without plugging in, I guess), I saw him at Seed Savers in 2003. I left my friends on the hillside and sat by myself off the side of the stage. At one point, he stood not 7 feet from me while he watched JOE PRICE play for a bit. I couldn't think of a thing to say to him! I was paralyzed. The next time I saw him was almost a year later at an all day (2 actually) festival in Lansing Iowa. He was standing off to the side of the stage all afternoon, watching the various Iowa bands perform. Once again, paralyzed, while one of my friends, who is not a fan, casually walked up and offered him a beer. I thought, I should have my favorites CD for him to sign, but if I walk the two blocks back to my vehicle to get it, I'll miss time just watching him, what if he's gone when I get back? Loser. So ten days later I see him at the next Seed Saver's concert. While JOE PRICE and Iris and Karen Savoca are all playing, he is hanging out up the hillside by the house. This time, I have come prepared, I have a pen and my favorites CD and have drunk most of a bottle of wine. With my heart pounding, I walk up and ask him to please sign it. He surprises me by asking what I would like him to play, I am stupid and blurt out irrelevant stuff, but then as I am walking away, I turn and tell him he touches my soul with his music. I can't believe I said that out loud-I'm from Iowa. But I am flying high and remember very little of the rest of the evening. Luckily, I now have the Seedstock CD to fill me in. Then #4, he's coming to our little town again this summer as a benefit for the local free clinic. He's personal friends with some people I know. I get myself on the organizing committee so I can get front row seats. He comes to the party after the concert and casually sits around while various people chat with him. How can they do that? I just stand nearby, lurking, I guess. I listen to the conversations, can't think of anything profound to say so he won't think I am a ditz like my friend who is trying to bum a cigarette from him. Finally, she leaves and comes back and I ask her to please not sit down next to him again, but let me and take my picture. He agrees, I have a shit-eating grin on my face, but I never do talk to him-except to say thanks several times, for the benefit, for the picture....whatever. Loser.
The “Bet”
As strange as it may seem, this trout fishing story begins in a rental car in Cincinnati, Ohio and ends with a rental car in Portland, Oregon. A few years ago I was attending the annual meeting of the American College of Sports Medicine in late May, and listened to my good friend, Don, tell me about the audio tape of a folk singer he’d made from a performance he’d heard on public radio; he wanted to give it to me because he knew I had developed a recent fascination with fly-fishing. As I am originally from Michigan, my buddy from graduate school in North Carolina thought I might enjoy this folk singer’s references to fly fishing and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the recording was of a live performance by Greg Brown, a talented songwriter/storyteller from Iowa who recorded a show he did in Traverse City, Michigan. The CD has become one of my favorites.
I listened to the tape as we drove, and was relatively unimpressed except for the fact that I remember thinking, “This guy has an unusual voice…kinda funky!” The meeting went as meetings usually do, and I gladly boarded the flight back to Portland, Oregon having politely refused Don’s offer to take the tape. You see, having grown up without much exposure to music I know little of what’s “out there”, and have never really strayed far from the soft rock station on my cheap truck radio; some might say I’ve been on the losing end in that regard. I guess I’d have to agree. I don’t recall exactly when it happened, but I know that sometime during the flight I kept singing to myself, “Happy, happy, happy…by myself…”—come to think of it, it could’ve been over Iowa. In any event, I decided somewhere between Ohio and Oregon that I should ask Don whether he’d send me the tape in spite of my earlier refusal. He did.
Several things happened in the coming months. First, I nearly wore the tape out as I listened to it over and over again during my long drives in search of trout. Also, I shared the tape with several friends and my twin brother, Al, a fly-fisherman living near Ann Arbor, Michigan. One of my good friends—Graig—is a mentor of sorts as far as my fly fishing is concerned; in five years he’s taught me more about fly fishing than I think I could learn on my own in a lifetime. As a result of his squash-playing talents he is often referred to affectionately as the “Maestro” (we Seinfeld fanatics also call him “Bob Cobb”). Since his initials are “G.A.S.” I sometimes call him “Gasman” (it fits). He enjoyed the tape and shared it with Anna, his wife. She also appreciated it and shared it with her children, as did my brother. As if some contagious disease had infected us, we found fly anglers, their spouses and children from Oregon to Michigan singing, “Happy, happy, happy… by myself..". Barely-passing grades in college psychology classes prevent me from making any authoritative attempt at trying to explain it.
This is where the story about folk music becomes a story about fishing. The Gasman and I had just fished one of our favorite lakes and had successfully caught and released our fair share of big brown trout (his fair share being much larger than mine). While removing waders and stowing gear for the hike out, I casually made the following statement: “Within the next 20 years one or both of us will fish with Greg Brown.” The Gasman contends that he heard the word “bet” somewhere, and I easily tired of trying to convince him otherwise. Nevertheless, the 20-year “bet” involving a six-pack of beer was born.
Later that year I learned that Greg Brown was scheduled to perform at the Clinton Street Theater in Portland, Oregon. It took little for the Gasman and me to convince Anna and Lucy that a folk concert after dinner would be fun. Although he and I work at the same university and play squash several times a week, I thought it would be fun to socialize off campus with him and our wives. Somewhere in the months before the concert I wrote to Greg, inviting him to have a drink with us before or after his show to talk about fly-fishing. I don’t recall the specifics of the letter, but do remember that it explained the “bet”. Not unexpectedly, I received no reply, and once again was bothered by the notion that there was a good chance I was bothering this guy. It doesn’t take a math genius to figure that with a tour schedule of 100+ shows a year there are sure to be overzealous fans who can make an Iowan regret sharing his talents. I didn’t want to be a part of that.
Being certified members of the 40+ crowd we found our concert-going skills somewhat rusty as we waited in line at the Clinton Street Theater for the 10:00 p.m. show. The fact that it was unusually warm and muggy that evening meant that even with open doors the small theater would dissipate little of the heat generated by the crowd of fans who’d attended the 8:00 show. All in all, with the exception of the temperature and the Kelly Joe Phelps fan that annoyed nearly everyone in the first 12 rows, the show was great. After several encores we left the theater and stood on the street outside with the crowd, glad to be out of our seats.
Unbeknownst to the Gasman, I had tied some trout flies to give to Greg, in the event we could find our way to meet him after the show. In fact, some months before his tour through Portland I made a phone call to the Brown home in Iowa, inviting him to share dinner or a drink with the four of us. Sheepishly, I have to once again admit I felt like a stalking, folk singer “groupie” after the phone inquiry seemed to surprise the woman with whom I spoke. Nevertheless, I thought it might be worth peeking into the bar next to the theater to see if the entertainer had escaped for a beer. He had. I met him at the bar and introduced the Gasman, our wives, and myself and gave him the assortment of flies as a kind of “Welcome-to-Oregon” token of appreciation for his tour through town. Greg graciously accepted the flies and declined my invitation to buy him a beer by indicating he’d beaten me to the bartender. In a few short moments several autograph-seeking fans (probably groupies) discovered the hideaway and made their requests of the folk singer. We departed, acknowledging it was well past our bedtimes anyway.
Several months later I learned that the guitar-wielding angler was scheduled to perform in Portland once again, this time with Kelly Joe Phelps as an opening act for Laurie Lewis at the Washington Park Zoo Summer Concert Series. The Gasman and I agreed to make a picnic of it with Anna and Lucy, bringing the kids along with us this time. A blanket, fried chicken, potato salad and plenty of Margaritas to go around made it an evening to remember. I once again had tied some trout flies for the fly-fishing poet and managed to give them to him during his warm-up on stage. The Gasman and I stood at the stage for a brief time talking with Greg about fishing Colorado, when another fan got his attention to offer a wrapped gift of sorts, whereupon I thought to myself, “What a groupie!” It was a great time once again, but this time an uninhibited woman “dancing” in front of the stage annoyed the crowd. Had I not been sitting in the audience I at that point I would’ve to the conclusion that folk music audiences are a weird bunch. The songs contained such meaningful lines such as, “We have no knowledge—so we have stuff, and stuff with no knowledge is never enough…it just won’t get you there”, and “Children, they don’t need a lot of stuff…children sure do need a lot of love…”; it’s not too difficult to see why they’re contagious.
Some time after the concert at Washington Park I learned that Greg Brown had again planned a springtime tour through the Pacific Northwest, this time in Portland after shows in Corvallis and Hood River. I had missed my kids’ elementary school fund-raising “Carnival” a year earlier to enjoy the performance at the Clinton Street Theater and couldn’t justify missing it again, so I arranged to catch his mid-week show in Corvallis—this time with the entire family. It’s difficult enough to find a baby-sitter on the weekend, let alone a mid-week school night, and besides, the kids seemed to enjoy the concert at Washington Park the previous summer.
A few weeks before his tour through the Pacific Northwest began, I wrote to Greg to invite him on a trout hunt should his schedule permit. Once again, I related the story of the “bet”, reminding him that if he couldn’t fish this time out there were still some 18 years left. Included with the invitation were a self-addressed, stamped envelope and a separate page on which he could easily RSVP. The 3 options on the sheet were 1) “Yes, I would love to go fishing and will call you”, 2) “Yes, I would like to go fishing, but I can’t this time”, and 3) “Go away…leave me alone”. I figured that the guy needed a way out in the event I was getting on his nerves. To my surprise, I returned from a 3-day trip in Spokane in early May to find a letter addressed to me from Iowa City, Iowa. Cool. The fact that he hadn’t used the self-addressed, stamped envelope was puzzling. I fully expected the letter to indicate that he had forwarded my name and address to the FBI with a request to incarcerate me for violating some stalking law. However, I was delighted to see that the hand-written letter briefly described his itinerary and indicated that there might be a possibility of wetting a line during his 4-day stay in Oregon.
I decided to call him at home in Iowa City before he left for California. I figured that if I didn’t talk with him before he left Iowa that the probability of getting together would be considerably reduced. I got the answering machine the first time I called. There was no doubt that I’d reached the correct number, as the simple message was unmistakably Greg’s voice. After leaving what must have sounded like an unintelligible message about fishing, I pondered what to do next. It seemed reasonable to me that if he didn’t call me to confirm my invitation that I’d have to call him again. The next evening I called again and was fortunate to find myself making plans to fish for trout with Greg. We agreed that the show in Corvallis would provide a good opportunity for us to finalize plans for the outing.
The next order of business was to invite the Gasman along to fish with Greg and me. I figured that he would never believe me if I told him that I won the “bet” with 18 years to spare. From the moment I extended the invitation I could do little to convince him that it was not some intricate practical joke I had cooked up. He accepted my invitation, knowing that the lake we planned to fish (with or without Greg) held the possibility of another 18-inch trout like the one he’d caught a couple of weeks earlier.
The 90-minute drive to Corvallis was well worth it, although 85 minutes too long in the opinion of Stephen, the 10-year old; 7-year old David dealt with it by sleeping for a good portion of the drive. After a “kids dinner” at Burger King and 30 minutes of browsing through the local book store--the “Book Bin”-- we picked up our tickets and waited for the show. The traditional fly assortment was crudely packaged in an empty audiocassette case, wrapped with some information about the lake near Hood River, Oregon. This time I’d relayed the flies through the woman at the ticket booth, emphasizing that it was very important that the singer get them; assuredly more important to me than Greg. During the show I began to wonder whether he’d received the flies.
Once again, the show was great. After the second encore we left the theater and I headed backstage. After hesitating for a moment or two, I heard Greg’s voice and opened the stage door to poke my head through. I quickly introduced myself, hoping that the other entertainers might forgive the intrusion, whereupon Greg invited me to come backstage. We spent just a few minutes arranging for a 9:30 a.m. pick-up on Friday at the Hood River Hotel after Greg double-checked to make sure that it was indeed where he’d be staying. I found it mildly amusing that it appeared he wasn’t sure where he was staying Thursday night; it was as if it wasn’t all that important. I was concerned when I learned that he hadn’t received the flies I’d relayed via the woman at the ticket booth. After tracking down one of the ushers—who kindly investigated the details of the transfer—I was assured that he did get the flies. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered all that much to me if the flies had been lost, except for the fact that they included 4 or 5 “Spolek Specials”—a particularly effective wet fly invented by the Gasman. The collection also included several wooly buggers; potential trout-getters for the trip on Friday. It wasn’t the cost that made me hope they weren’t misplaced but the fact that I thought I’d done a fairly decent job tying them.
I met the Gasman at his house at 8:00 on Friday morning, and transferred my gear to his rig. We had planned on meeting Greg at the Hood River Hotel by 9:30, and my Toyota pickup wouldn’t serve as a fitting transport for 3 guys, let alone 3 guys with fishing gear. The Gasman's wife, Anna, who—like him—remained unconvinced about the validity of my arrangements, met us as we loaded the vehicle. Both were certain that I’d brought an extra float tube, additional neoprene waders, and three sandwiches as part of what would surely turn out to be a grand exhibition of deception. I did little to dispel her apprehension, preferring instead to enjoy knowing that I was getting ever-closer to being the happy recipient of a free six-pack of Canadian lager. We made a quick stop for fuel at the local bakery and headed east on the interstate. During the drive to Hood River I sensed that the Gasman became increasingly more convinced that fishing with a folk-singer in the near future was a distinct possibility. Besides, I admit that I’ve pulled off some fair practical jokes over the years, but the intricate detail of events that unfolded over the course of the past week would have put me in the “Practical Jokers Hall of Fame”—the Gasman correctly surmised that I wasn’t ready for induction.
Greg met me in the lobby of the Hood River Hotel, and after checking out of his room, met the Gasman tending to his rig, making room for three soon-to-be trout catchers. He told us that he preferred to follow us to the lake in his rental car, making the Gasman’s gear-rearranging maneuvers unnecessary. Maybe it was his uncertainty about our ability to get him back in time for his two shows in Portland that evening, or perhaps he had questions about his safety. After all, one of us had badgered him about fishing for over a year, and the other has that difficult-to-describe appearance of a bird-shooting vintner. In any event, the Gasman suggested that I ride with Greg to the lake while he followed us in his rig. Greg didn’t show any signs of protest—perhaps he felt obligated by the fact that we gave him the rest of the donuts—so we headed south.
The half-hour drive to the lake passed rather quickly, despite the Iowan’s reluctant use of the accelerator. Had I been driving I’m certain that the songwriter’s hands would’ve cramped from white-knuckling the dashboard, making guitar playing later that evening a challenging proposition. It could be that I drive faster because I’m from near Detroit, Michigan, but I like to attribute it to being enthusiastic about trout. Fueled with only one cup of coffee, my driver graciously tolerated the conversation, and we soon arrived at the lake and prepared for the quarter-mile hike to the launch.
We spent the rest of the morning on a relatively windless day relaxing and catching occasional trout. The Gasman seemed to catch more than anyone else, but then again…he always does; it must be his gear. I caught a few, and the only one I saw Greg catch was an 8-incher; luckily for him I was too far away to take a photo of what could have been his next CD cover. Despite several offers to use my intermediate sinking line, he persisted in trying out various locations and flies with a floating line. Meanwhile, the Gasman continued to catch fish. The whole scenario briefly reminded me of the time my twin brother visited Oregon several years ago, but that’s a story for another time.
After our sandwich-and-beer lunch on shore we were back at it for the 3 hours that remained. The sinking line must’ve helped somewhat, because Greg hooked and landed some nice fish, including one hard-fighting rainbow near the launch site as we were heading in. It was certainly not a 40-fish day, nor were the fish of bragging proportions, yet I felt pleased about having gotten the chance to fish with Greg and get him out where he could relax and enjoy himself between gigs. Besides, we avoided the rain—something we hadn’t been able to do for at least a couple of days before.
As we loaded the vehicles to head back to Portland we raised a beer to friends and trout and visited briefly. I terminated an unrelated long-standing joke on the Gasman when I cleverly extracted the 6-month old all-beef hot dog from the heater vent in his rig. The history behind the furry frankfurter was not easy to relate to Greg, but I think he understood why I referred to the Gasman’s rig as the “weenie-mobile” (he—like my professorial colleagues—probably thinks I have way too much free time on my hands). Just before we left, Greg gave each of us a stack of CD’s as a way of showing his gratitude for our invitation and efforts. Nice. Considering his popularity, I don’t think he was just trying to unload unwanted inventory on us; but come to think of it, maybe it was a bribe to keep either one of us out of the rental car on the way back!
The drive back to Portland consisted of the Gasman and me savoring our experience, with his kidding me about who else I might think about (s)talking into fishing with us next (Bill Morrisey came to mind, but I hear he doesn’t fly-fish much). We thought Greg needed a break from both of us and allowed him the comfort of driving in solitude behind us in his rental car—sometimes way behind. We guided him to a Portland record store, leaving him to do business before his shows that evening. A brief exchange of gratitude, good wishes, and handshakes ended with us pulling away from the rental car in Portland…with no doubt about the outcome of the “bet”.
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