Among other things, I remember staring at this steaming plate of food: prime rib, mashed potatoes, green beans, an involved salad (with tomatoes and almonds and mandarin tangerines). I thought, this is supposed to happen, but I wasn't really sure if I was hungry. In moments like this, hours before you play a huge show in a legendary venue in front of a thousand riled kids, it's difficult to not want time to stop. If time stopped, the question would not be do I want to eat this meal, in fact there would be no more need for questions, I could just exist in this perfectly paused room, on the cusp of so many realized dreams, wanting nothing more, perpetually exhilarated.
I searched for the pause button for like five minutes; it must have seemed funny to Marc Del Chiaro, who was sitting across from me, enjoying his meal in a more typical manner. He cut his food, chewed, and swallowed. I sat and looked around, at the posters, at the enormous concert hall a few feet to the west, at the other bands eating around me. I couldn't believe it.
I've been writing and performing music for 11 years, seven with my current band. When I was 12 or 13, I went to my first concert ever at the Fillmore. I saw Everclear and Letters To Cleo perform on the same stage I stood on for 30 minutes in front of 1,000 people. Let's rewind, it was, after all, one of the most interesting days of my young adult life.
The rest of my band arrived at the Fillmore before 5 p.m. There were already kids in line for the show. The sound guy promptly got mad at us for showing up with twice as many high school percussionists as he'd been told. He thought there would be ten, but with the band leader and parents there were 23 of us. Noah and Evan smoothed out the wrinkles. By the time we soundchecked everyone was happy, or at least curious, and we were allowed to run a song with the line. One mom told us that everyone eating dinner during our soundcheck came out from the back to watch. It sounded great on stage, and the few dozen people milling around applauded after the run-through.
At some point, my band decided that we should leave no ideas untried for our Fillmore performance. Our set was a conceptual Rorschach; anything could happen. There would be many firsts, including our first live cover song, our first bunch of songs with more than three members, namely a keyboardist and rhythm guitar player, and, to be sure, our first performance with a high school drum line.
After sound check, I checked the line of kids, which had grown to reach the end of the block. I stared at my food, joked with Mr. Del Chiaro—who was playing rhythm guitar—then ate. It was delicious.
We gave each of the 16 drummers a BRL prism shirt and they looked exceptional, scurrying around the venue like energetic billboards. It was the least we could do. They were giving up their first Saturday of summer to perform with us for five minutes. What a great group of kids. They are all better musicians than most of my band, save for my drummer (Noah) who teaches them by day in Sacramento. It seemed like minute ago (it was two months) that I watched the kids win a Nor Cal marching competition.
The doors open and friends, family, and strangers poured in. Much of the crowd arrived a full hour before our set time, and as the stage hand came up to tell us we were on in five minutes, the Fillmore looked absolutely packed.
Our final idea was to walk on stage to our own song, the remix of "Tender Colors" (download
HERE), which would also be our finale with the drum line. The Fillmore accommodated us perfectly, and I can't explain the rush of seeing the lights go down, having my own (whispered) voice pump through the hall, and listening to the cheers of excited kids. We waited two minutes, then walked on stage in the midst of our own remix to even more cheers. I felt incredible. I made sure to take a good look at every edge of the crowd. I couldn't see the edge, but I tried. I danced a bit to my own track. Told the monitor-man to fade it out, then we began.
The first song we played at the Fillmore Auditorium was called "World Leaders," which is pleasing on levels I probably won't appreciate for years. I broke a string in about 20 seconds. It phased me, but we carried on. Between songs Evan joked about our
site ("it looks like it was made by a third grader") while I switched axes, announced "The Ultimate Yes" (download
HERE), then proceeded to play the best set of my life. This is first time in my experience where the roar of the crowd—not to mention the size of the crowd—grew with each song. It was invigorating.
Our third song was "The Exception," a brand new song that moves my band in a brand new direction. It felt great; Evan and Noah were fans of "The Exception" before it was even a BRL song. They pushed me to finish and record it. Playing that song live was our greatest moment as a three piece. (It was also our last moment as a trio, at least that night.)
Then we brought out Mr. Del Chiaro and shredded through "Growth Strategies," our first time playing that song live. Watching the video, I can see myself getting comfortable on the massive stage in the massive room that made my voice (actually) sound massive.
After "Growth," with Mr. DC smiling in the wings, I said "say hi to Dave," and the crowd goes bonkers. I remember laughing at the noise on stage. Dave Weiss was one of Noah's students two years ago. Mr. Weiss seemed
more excited and gracious and confident than anyone. Before the set he made me want to cry by showing me a $120 pair of glow-in-the-dark Nikes that he bought on Ebay but had never worn. He'd been waiting for just the right moment to debut them and he knew this was it. He didn't put them on until moments before hopping on stage, as if to preserve their power until just the right moment.
I announced to the crowd that we were going to do a cover, a song "written by a dear friend of ours." Not entirely true: we did do a cover, an unhinged rock-opera version of "The Best" by Tina Turner. She's not exactly our friend... yet! This was the part of the set where the cheers seeped above our performance (you can hear screams in the video before the choruses). Much of the crowd was too young to know what the hell was going on, but the older crowd members pushed forward. Some even shrieked. When we hit the chorus—imagine Weezer in 1994 playing "Undone" at their first sold out show—it felt like I was personally detonating a weapon of raw joy.
"You're simply the best," I sang, and the five-member version of my band crashed back into the song behind me.
Sonic boom!After "The Best" I felt elastic. I took off my guitar. Our sixth member for the night, Jono (another ex-prodigy of Noah), joined us on ramshackle percussion. We played the remix version of "Solid Towns," originally the last song we wrote for our first album. I scuttled about the stage with a camcorder, pointing it at groups of kids who cheered and reacted, looking me in the eyes. I started the song in a hoarse whisper and ended by strapping on my guitar and blasting out the final chorus in unison with Evan. Somewhere in the middle, I sang the hook from "Born In The USA" over the swelling instrumental bridge.
Then it was time. Security pushed the crowd back five feet and our line of drummers marched in front of the stage. I toweled off, drank water and started uncontrollably smiling. This is what music is all about: it's about sharing moments with your closest friends and their closest friends and families. Not to mention a thousand strangers. As Noah led the drummers through their intro, the sound of rhythm filled the hall. At the end of their intro, the kids all started yelling "this is what it looks like when I'm doing what I want," the quintessential lyric of the song, of our band, of my life.
At some point the song ended but the room was still full of sound. I talked to so many happy people that night. More importantly, I achieved something undeniable, something as rare as floating up the Eiffel tower or driving across country for the first time or graduating or making a record. It will take a moment to come down, it will take a few moments to find out how we'll recreate the experience. One thing's for sure: we won't have to worry whether or not it's possible. It is.
