Texas or California: A Love Story
Note: This piece was originally published in the music newspaper, “Echo and Buzz.” I wrote it about 7 years ago. It is based on a real experience I had, it is my favorite story and it is perfect for Valentine’s Day. Enjoy!
She came through the crowd at the Troubadour in Hollywood with confidence. She was not going to be denied enjoying the show from up close. Forget that the room is small. Only 400 people at capacity, and this was a sold out show. As she approached, me and my buddy stood near the stage. She excused herself and squeezed past. She stopped at the group of people beside us. Was that her husband? I had noticed him standing next to me earlier. He was wearing a t-shirt of some barbecue or burger joint in Dallas. I almost asked him about it. It made sense that he was from Dallas since we were all there to see the Old 97s, a Texas-based band. Anyway, I didn’t say anything to him, but soon after she arrived I struck up a conversation with the woman. OK, a conversation in a crowded general admission venue with less than 5 minutes to the headliner is more of a shouting match. The crowd is buzzing, the Nineties alternative punk tunes are blaring through the PA and every time a roadie comes out to tape down a wire the crowd mistakes him for one of the band members so a roar goes up.
I found out she was from Dallas, and she implied she was with the three people who preceded her to our space. “We came to Los Angeles just to see the Old 97s,” she shouted in my direction. I understood. I travelled to Arizona once to see the Red Sox play. I went to Chicago to see Snow Patrol as they opened for U2 on the first date of a US tour. So, I knew the draw to see your favorites in different places. Her next statement, though, confused and intrigued me.
“I can’t wait to see how they treat Californians.” I asked her to repeat her statement to be sure I heard it correctly. I had. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, they are so good to their fans when they play in Texas,” she replied, “that I wonder if they are as nice to you here.” At this moment I am faced with an undeniable fact, she is in love with the Old 97s and she has come to make sure they are not cheating on her with California. So I did what any good representative of the Golden State would do, I lied! But I did not lie by denying the affair with the band. Instead I fueled her jealousy by saying, “They always tell us here that we are their favorite.”
She gave me the stare of a jilted lover and denied the possibility as Rhett, Murray, Phillip and Ken took the stage to prove to one of us who they loved the most.
If smart lyrics, great harmonies, wicked guitar playing, thumping rhythm section, enthusiastic crowd sing-alongs, and inspired vocals are any indication, then the Old 97s proved they love California the best. But like all love stories it was not that simple. I think the band knew Texas was in the crowd and they were going to test her love. The first test came when a young fan mistook the mood of the room and violently threw himself into the sweaty crowd. His writhing body somehow made contact with Texas, and she bent over succumbing to some sort of pain. Upon recovery, she place her hand on my forearm and yelled, “Who does that at an Old 97s show?” I had only one possible response, “Welcome to California.”
As the band banged away at their set, the crowd worked themselves into a fevered frenzy with each fan trying harder than the other to prove their love of the band. Texas and I would catch each other’s eye from time to time as we sang along. Watching her sing along to the songs of her home state, lost cats, and love gone wrong, I knew her love was more than just lip service to the band, and that I was on the verge of something dangerous.
But we got sidetracked. Derailed by a plume of smoke and a skunky odor emanating from in front of us. As if announcing the election of a new pope, a septuagenarian had lit up the fattest hand-rolled joint I had ever seen and was freely sharing it with others around him. I laughed as I leaned into Texas’ ear and yelled, “Welcome to California.” But Texas wasn’t laughing. She was holding her nose and said she would lose her job if ‘they’ found marijuana in her system. She was playing the good girl to get the band to love her! Coy was a good look for her. Damn!
Demure and innocent was an act she would continue until the end of the set. After a grinding version of “Most Messed Up” the band left the stage in what was obviously a tease for an upcoming encore. As I caught my breath and searched for some cool air amidst the sweaty crowd, I caught Texas clapping and screaming for an encore while simultaneously realizing no one else was. “Why isn’t everyone making noise? C’mon! Make noise!” Her naiveté was attractive, I won’t lie, but I knew I had to burst her bubble, “Welcome to California. We don’t cheer for an encore here, they come back out no matter what.” I couldn’t tell if her continuing to make noise was a defiant expression of her love for the band or denial that the band loved California more.
And then they were back on stage. First, Rhett performing a song no one heard because of his long hair, lithe figure, guilty smile and big Gibson acoustic guitar. Then the full band took the stage and after a two song prelude the night climaxed with an explosive version “Time Bomb.” And it was over. The band left the stage after a little small talk and promises to be back one day. Then I looked to my left and saw her. Texas stood seemingly alone, probably wondering who they loved best. Texas or California.
I shook her hand to say goodnight and in a small way concede. When I touched her hand I swear I felt her concede a bit, too. Then, as I awkwardly fist-bumped the man I now assumed to be her husband and turned to leave, I knew I was in trouble. I was in love. With the Old 97s. I wonder if there are tickets available for their Dallas show?
