
We were going to party with the Hollies--but we didn't. Somehow, we got to the hotel before they did and were standing around when some cars pulled up to let them out. We didn't know what to do, really, being in unchartered territory, so Wayne called out, "Hey, Graham," and gave a wave. And Graham Nash looked over, smiled the smile of a politician, and with a flick of the wrist shot a quick wave back. Then there were people emerging from cars, the shuffling of bags, intimate and knowing laughter with girls in short skirts, and then they were gone. It didn't matter, though. We had seen it. We were there. Nash had given us a wave and a smile. He knew us, we told one another, and that was that. It was thrill enough for the night and many days after. It was the topic that filled our minds and conversations. We were all recommitted to being a famous band.
The Supremes came to town. They were playing a sports stadium on the outskirts of the city in an unincorporated part of the county in a big barn of a place where they had concerts and rodeos. It was about as far from where we lived as we dared to go, but Steve, Wayne, and I stood beside the highway with out thumbs stuck out. It was twenty straight miles down one highway, and we were lucky. It only took us three rides.
Race was on everybody's minds, and we lived in the prejudiced south. But there was something else about it, too, the steamy myths of black sexuality male and female, knowledge unknown to white men and women. There was something now called "soul," and if you didn't know what it was, they said, you didn't have it. I was pretty sure I didn't know what it was, but Wayne pretended he did. He said that if he had the chance, he would sleep with Diana Ross. What about the other Supremes, I asked him? Yes, he said, them too.
And so it was that we made our way, a nighttime journey toward something exciting, something of which I was afraid.
We had no tickets, of course, but we never bothered with that any more. When we got to the stadium, we made our way immediately to the back, past the large crowd of concert goers and chain linked fences that kept them out and kept them in line, past the security guards and police, back into the darkness and pungent smells of rodeo stalls and clay yards. To our surprise, there were horses and cows and bulls penned up there now behind the stage standing in wooden corals and stalls swaying and crying out occasionally in moos and whinnies, especially when we got anywhere close. There in our Beatle boots and mod clothes, we picked through mud and straw and shit trying to find our way beneath the stage. Where were the performers? we wondered. There were trailers parked in back and we thought they were probably there. But we didn't have much time to think, for suddenly there were cowboys all around. "In here," Wayne said, and we slipped over a wooden fence and into a stall. The cowboys passed and we waited awhile, but standing there in hay and mud was worse than buying a ticket, so we took our chance and stepped back out into the open.
"What are you boys doing?" a rough voice said. A big man stepped up like he was going to clobber us. He wasn't fooling around. "What are you doing around these horses?" he asked with what seemed to us a threatening anger. I could tell he didn't like the look of us at all.
"We just want to get into the concert," I confessed, hoping that honesty would help. But it would not have mattered what I said. The man was determined. "C'mon with me," he said, forcing us in the intended direction. "Y'all don't belong in here." I wasn't sure what he was going to do and by the looks on Steve's and Wayne's face, they didn't either, and without a word, we bolted, first in one direction, then, realizing we were trapped, back to where we had come in. The man gave a half-hearted chase, but we all knew he couldn't catch us on his best day. We didn't say anything and didn't quit running until we were out of breath in a stand of pine trees far from the stadium. Nobody had followed us, we were sure. They would not find us here.
We stood for a while in the warm moonlight, getting our directions and catching our breath. We had no money and wouldn't have bought a ticket even if we had, and soon we began to make our way back out to the highway. It didn't take long before we were all hooting and laughing, each giving his version of the episode smacking of horse shit and cowboys, each tale more grand than the other.
Then the talk turned to The Supremes. We would not get to meet them and Steve and Wayne talked about the disappointment. I didn't say much about that, though. I was glad to be away, glad not to be in trouble of any sort. That trouble lay before me, I knew, but I didn't want it yet. At least not that night.
I was anxiously awaiting this morning's post (not that I'm putting pressure on you to write what you don't got to say or nothin' just that I sorta figured you had a grabbed hold of a Thread -- a Reader can feel the tugs and pulls in the words too you know).
ReplyDeleteIt's great. Really. You have an exceptional gift for imparting tone that sort of sits there under the words -- only half buried and sort of throbbing or something. And super layering. Poetic writing really.
There are so many stories of my own that compliment and overlap with yours. And yet it just wouldn't be right to leave them here.
It wouldn't be right to try to take away from the bright light of those guys in the Circle of Confusion.
Love,
A Good Groupie.
xo
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Thank you thank you thank you, Lisa. That is all I aim for, really, setting mood and tone and atmosphere, to suggest without saying. Sometimes I can do it, I think. Right now, I am trying to accumulate. Later, I will sift and augment and distill. I hope.
ReplyDeleteSet up a blog and write your stuff. I will come over and read it. CC gave me the best advice I ever got about writing. He said just write what you want. You will have an audience. Thanks, CC.
Good ol' Wayne...sleeping with Diana Ross...what a boy! ;)
ReplyDelete