Things To Do Before I Die - One Down

The day began very early, and we were very excited. We walked through a somewhat deserted downtown to Tower City, and ran inside to get some much needed coffee. While we were inside, the sky opened up, and we were treated to an early morning deluge. Luckily, it was ferocious, but short-lived, and we were able to get to the MEGABUS stop by the appointed time of 8:15 in the morning. One other lady was waiting there, and she had been a previous MEGABUS patron. I was so looking forward to this trip - it was costing us $40 for the two of us to go to Chicago and back, which, once you figured in gas, tolls and parking was ridiculously cheap. Besides the fact that we could have five hours to read magazines, listen to music, play with our laptops, daydream, nap, and not drive.

It was a great plan until the bus did not show up. Luckily, some other folks started calling the service center, and we learned that they were unable to get the bus started and our trip would be delayed. Eventually, a van pulled up, and one Mr. Lewis, our would-be driver, emerged and informed us that we would not be leaving before 11 am, and then he had to scurry back to the bus garage. Some of the erstwhile travelers subsequently left for other means of transportation - one booked a flight, one couple drove. The rest of the stalwarts left in shifts to forage for food and drink and restroom facilities. I made myself comfortable sitting on the sidewalk, until it started to rain and we had to seek shelter on the stairs in the lobby of the old Post Office. What was really cool was that the remaining core formed a kind of "Alive - Lost in the Andes" thing. Everyone looked out for each other's belongings, and pledges were made so that if someone went to get food, IF the bus came, we would not leave without them. And, in fact, the bus finally appeared at 10:40 am, and we were missing one passenger, TheGirlWithTheGuitar, and we all boarded and made Mr. Lewis wait for her. Mr. Lewis had been saddled with a non-Megabus, and was not familiar with many aspects of the operation of the bus. This meant that he enlisted the aid of one of the passengers, a high school drama teacher named Marti, to act as his "stewardess", getting everyone's reservation information, and asking her to tell us that we should only do "#1" in the on-board bathroom.

Marti, and her retired librarian sister, Liz, sat across the aisle from us and we became fast friends. They told us the tale about trying to see the King Tut exhibit in the 70's, when they went to Chicago three times and FINALLY got in -this time, they have timed tickets in hand. We also spent many miles listening to a the sister's performance art routine about how Marti makes Liz go see Midsummer's Night Dream over and over, and if Shakespeare wrote anything else at all. They were a hoot, and we wanted to hang out with them all day.

We had a rest stop, and as I was getting off the bus, there was a hugely giant bug right on the ground! I scooped it up with an errant subscription card to revel DJ V with, and Mr. Lewis got all excited and took it, apparently to "add to his collection." I never saw what he did with it, now that I think about it...

Inside the rest area, I was thrilled to see a penny squishing machine! DJ V and I had the fifty cents, but no pennies! We were asking folks if they had a spare, and TheGirlWithTheGuitar pressed a shiny penny into my palm. Somehow, Marti had lived her life without the pleasure of squishing pennies, so we showed her the intricacies of the device.

We arrived at Union Station, said our sad goodbyes to the sisters, and grabbed a taxi to take us to our hotel. We checked in and got settled, then decided to check out the neighborhood. Next door to the hotel was a Starbuck's - how lucky for me! We discerned that this particular Starbuck's was designated for GayMenAndTheirDogs. So, we weren't sure if we were going to be served. We went in anyway and chatted up the barista who was doing a more than admirable job of cashiering and barista-ing, given that her entire left hand and arm were wrapped in Ace bandages. She gave us some suggestions for dinner, and then we went exploring many shops. We discovered one store of very hip and funky clothes, and decided to see if we could find something for DJ V's upcoming show. I found a great motorcycle jacket made of cheetah fake fur that I really liked. The scary part was the clerk - a very thin older woman, both arms covered in tattoos, face pierced and sporting a mohawk. Wow.

We stumbled into a cafe for a quick meal, and as it was still fairly early, there were very few patrons, although DJ V pointed out that the subtitle of the restaurant should be the place for single, overweight women to dine...

We walked back to the hotel, showered, changed and got ready to go to the Green Mill to hear Patricia Barber perform. I was slightly anxious about the trip, as one guidebook described the location as a dicey neighborhood. But all was well, and we were dropped off right across the street. Patricia Barber is one of my all-time favorite musicians, and it had been a dream of mine to see her for the first time in this venue, as it is a small, neighborhood bar. I have had the chance to see her a couple of times at "real" concert halls, where the tickets were $60. I wanted to see her in her home space, for a $7 cover.

We arrived early enough to get a table about 12 feet from the stage, with a clear and direct sightline of the piano. I was terribly excited, and so I was looking forward to a few Knob Creek whiskeys. DJ V upped the ante on class, and ordered a few champagne splits and shots of Chambord and went about preparing her own Kir Royales.

Right on time, Patricia Barber arrived and I was shocked to see how tall and Amazonian she is. She wore black pants, a black tshirt and a black jacket, and she carried a wellworn leather portfolio that held her music. She sat at the piano and removed her shoes. The first piece had a long musical introduction, and the first intelligible word we heard from her was "Shit!" Maybe she she hit a wrong note...who can say?

She performed a lot of improvisational jazz pieces, with the guitarist and drummer taking long solos. There were few standards. The best pieces were Danson la Gigue, The Summer Of '42 (in the words of DJ V, "orgasmic!"), and a slow, minimalist Ode To Billy Joe.

At the set break, I found our waitress (we termed her BitchyGirl as she never smiled and hated her job) and asked her to deliver a cognac to Ms. Barber. The next thing I knew, Ms. Barber was standing to the side of our table, and lifted her cognac to us in a salute, and nodded her head and smiled before taking the stage. It was great.

After the show, I went up to the stage to talk to her, and she took my hand and held it for a very long time. I told her it was a great show, and she agreed and then said, "not all of them are."

Flushed with my proximity to greatness, I returned to the table, and DJ V went to the restroom - followed in by Patricia Barber. So it was cool that DJ V got her own private time with Patty B.

Here is an interesting little anecdote by Patricia Barber about the Green Mill, and the nature of her job...

The gigs at the Green Mill in Chicago are always wonderful.... The club is like home and I feel comfortable there. I've worked in bars so long now that I really do identify with the characters and physical surroundings. There is the ability to step into other people's lives and then to step out again. Clubs somehow provide a window into the lives and loves and losses of those who congregate there. I think that as a musician, I've become a semi-skilled voyeur. The stage where the musicians play can function like a reverse theatre; it is in fact a dividing line between those who are living at the moment and those who are working. We are working. Many nights of my life I've envied those who are not working and wondered how it was I got myself into performance instead of life. It's impossible not to look down from the stage and see the characters as they interact. I am working and they see me working... and of course sincere performance is a baring of the soul. But there is a reciprocity in the situation too. And after the years, I believe I know more about my audience than they could possibly think I do. Everything is revealed in rhythm.