The Automatik

The Everyones
Sloan
Jet
House of Blues
July 18, 2004

I thought that having to wait a month or so to see Sloan after buying the tickets to the show would mean that my giddy, fangirlish anticipation would have waned somewhat and I’d be able to relax and not make a fool of myself. But I was wrong.

I honestly did not think that the show would be sold out, despite the fact that Jet was playing. Yet, my friend Tony and I met up in the French Quarter around 6:30 p.m., in order to eat something and get inside around 8 when the doors opened. We picked this little sushi place about a block away from the House of Blues. I was in the middle of eating a piece of vegetable tempura when Jay Ferguson passed on the sidewalk outside, wearing some sort of man purse and carrying shopping bags, shockingly long blonde hair blowing in the breeze. My eyes got wide and I emitted a low squeal. “It was Jay from Sloan!” Our conversation resumed and about ten minutes later, I got this faraway look in my eyes and started grinning like an idiot. Tony, whose back was facing the window, asked, “Ooh, did he walk by again?” “No,” I giggled, “I just had a flashback.”

We got to the doors at about 8:05 and we were instructed to go through the upstairs to get in since it was a sold-out show and the floor was packed. This made me anxious. They also searched my bag and made me check in my camera at the ticket booth. This made me angry, as I was really counting on getting some good Sloan shots.

When we got into the venue, we noticed that the second balcony wasn’t that crowded, and that we would actually have a great view of the band and no crush of fans elbowing us or spilling drinks on our shoes. Too bad I didn’t have my CAMERA. Tony went to get us a couple of Coronas with limes. He walked back with a strange look on his face holding two cans of Corona with limes wedged in the openings and two plastic cups. We laughed about the ridiculousness of the presentation but drank them anyway. As we waited for the bands to start, we were assailed by images on a giant video screen of “candid crowd shots” taken by House of Blues employees. Everyone in them looked nineteen and drunk or forty-eight and wasted, and the captions, pithy quips like, “We want to meet JET!” and “JET rocks!” made them look even more foolish. I began to feel ashamed of my town and embarrassed that this was where the Mighty Sloan would be playing.

I excused myself to use the ladies’ room, and saw two cougars in there, one who was having a cell phone conversation about what a wild night she had. “We were naughty last night,” she giggled, and I noticed that she couldn’t have been day past my mother. “No, not that,” she continued. “We just smiled. Anyway, he gave us two passes to see this band Jet tonight at the House of Blues. Jet. Yes, they’re from Australia. Go look them up online right now! Oh, and some band called Sloan.” I grumbled audibly as I left and cursed them under my breath as soon as I was out of hearing range.

In the middle of conversation with Tony, I remembered that I wanted to buy the U.S. version of Sloan’s latest, Action Pact, with the two extra tracks (including a Jay song! Squee!), so I scurried over the merch table. I tried to buy the CD and was informed that the Sloan people weren’t available at the moment. A note left on the table indicated that merch would only be sold between bands as Sloan had to leave immediately after the show. I was perplexed, but assumed they meant after Jet’s set. Maybe they had to get to Dallas early?

More waiting ensued. Finally, a familiar face appeared at the merch table. I went back, grabbed the CD, and plopped it down. “I’ll take this.” The guy behind the table hesitated, thinking I meant the black READY FOR YOU underwear. “Well, I only have those in Size 1.” I shook my head. “No, no, I already have the underwear. I meant the CD.” He laughed sarcastically, “Oh, well excuse me!” He complimented me on my Flashing Lights t-shirt twice (I had to represent for Canada, come on!) and I said thanks. I asked him if he was Chip [Sutherland, one of Sloan's managers] and he said that no, he was Mike [Nelson, Sloan's other manager]. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “I thought you looked familiar. You used to send out the notices on the old Sloan newsgroup on Yahoo!” I queried him about the deal with Sloan having to leave and he said that there wasn’t enough parking room for their bus. This sounded like a crappy situation, so I apologized. (I must interject here that he is a super nice person.) He thanked me for coming and for buying the CD. I told him that I’d be going to the Sloan show in August [on Centre Island in Canada] and he said he’d see me there. Then I made this lame joke about how he probably wouldn’t actually see me because there would be thousands of people there and he laughed. He also said that Chris [Murphy] would probably be coming out to talk to fans after the first band played and urged me to come back.

As I schlepped back to where Tony was saving our spot (bless him), I felt completely dejected. How typical that Sloan’s bus couldn’t find a parking spot in the notoriously overcrowded French Quarter. The one glimmer of hope was that I’d get to talk to Murphy. Soon, The Everyones started their set. Interestingly, they were listed on the HOB website as The Anyones, which as it would turn out, was a much more appropriate moniker. I immediately disliked them, and not just because I was annoyed at how the night was progressing. They were old-looking and not like the way that Cheap Trick don’t look 23 anymore but still kick ass. They looked like they had done one too many lines of coke off of hookers’ asses. They sounded like cheesy, sleazy, L.A. club hucksters who had left a string of broken hearts and promises on their way down to Rodney’s English Disco.

The singer was dressed in a t-shirt, blazer, boots, and jeans, and had this god awful faux-Warren-Beatty-in-Shampoo hairstyle. He smacked his gum their entire set (and not in a cutely annoying way like Sloan’s Chris Murphy). At one point in the first song, he actually laughed in this poor approximation of a Hammer films villain, leading Tony to speculate that their next song might be a modern reworking of “The Monster Mash.” He bowed, he made lame hand gestures, and he even whipped out a flute and tried to work it. It didn’t. Neither did their terrible rip-off of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Tony and I came up with this whole, post-Spinal Tap performance art piece that involved midgets dressed as leprechauns doing jigs and blowing bubbles into the audience. We secretly hoped he’d break out a triangle and try to “jam.” It didn’t happen. I behaved poorly and tried to heckle him, but my voice was only heard by the people standing around me (who were actually amused and agreed with me).

After their set, I kept one eye on the merch table until I saw a Sloan member, in this case, Patrick Pentland. When I first found out about the show, I had visions of meeting the entire band and taking photos, and generally charming them to death. Yet I couldn’t not take the opportunity to meet Patrick, even if he has always seemed to be the most unapproachable member of the whole band. He’s much shorter and thinner in person. And with his newly super shorn hair and those trademark black eyeglasses, he cut a rather intimidating figure. I said hello, thanked them for coming and explained that I’d waited for years for them to play in New Orleans. I tried to elicit sympathy from him about how my camera was being held hostage and that I was annoyed about all the Jet fans, but he was having none of it. I realize that he couldn’t bitch to me about any of these issues, but I was dog-paddling and I didn’t have a life-preserver. My mouth was made of paper and I was stuttering.

I took a deep breath and said, “This is going to sound crazy but…” which are probably the seven worst words with which to start off a sentence to a rock star. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. I explained that I’d met my husband on the old Sloan Message Board and that I wanted to thank the band because without them, I never would have met him. He said, “Congratulations” and actually smiled, but I was heading into the 12-foot end of the pool at this point and there was no stopping me.

I blabbered something about applying for residency and moving to Toronto (“Brampton, actually”) and he said something vaguely approaching good wishes. I finished with the frightfully inane, “Well, that’s all I wanted to say” and stammered an introduction, offering my hand. “I’m Patrick,” he replied, to which I responded with the most insultingly stupid thing I could have possibly uttered at that moment: “I know who you are.” Dear Lord.

I skulked away, internally cringing (as I’m sure you are now, dear readers) and was so numb with humiliation that I couldn’t even relate the full story to Tony. I don’t even remember much of our conversation during my recovery. This was not the way my first meeting with members of Sloan was supposed to have occurred!

Sloan took the stage a little while later. I cheered wildly and tried in vain to start the Sloan chant. No one around me (save Tony) was even a Sloan fan, so I’m sure they all thought I was insane. Too damn bad. I screamed along to all the songs, I whooped, I clapped, I jumped up and down, and I danced. When they did the blazingly rocking and sloppy “Sensory Deprivation,” I cheered for Andrew, and seriously, who wouldn’t cheer for a guy wearing white jeans AND a white denim jacket? Chris was like Animal on the drums, except with dimples and glasses (which soon fell off). They did both “Lines You Amend” and “False Alarm” and I screamed for Jay until my throat was sore. “Ready For You” and “Live On” kicked ass, as did “She Says What She Means” and “Money City Maniacs.” Patrick did a bit of fist-pumping, much to Chris’s amusement. There was definitely some out of tune guitar playing, which also amused Chris greatly.

About halfway through, someone down on the floor finally started the Sloan chant and Chris picked it up and dialed it. I sort of wished I had a Canadian flag to wave at that point. “The Good in Everyone” was so engorged with feedback that I barely recognized it. (But it’s so kick ass and it’s only two minutes long.) They finished with “If It Feels Good, Do It” and “Gimme That” and though they were splendid, I was feeling sad that this was it, this was my going to be the end of my Sloan experience in New Orleans, and I’d never be able to get it back.

I dejectedly approached the merch table, Tony trailing behind, hoping to at least tell Mike that I enjoyed the show and to please thank Chris, Jay, and Andrew for me, when I saw Tony had moved to the side and was making big eyes and subtly pointing at someone. It turned out to be Chris. I jumped out of line and scooted over. He was signing a CD for someone and having a conversation, but I didn’t care. I sort of put my arm on his back, smiled and said, “Hi Chris,” like he was a friend that I hadn’t seen in a few months, but it didn’t faze him at all. I told him that Laura Q. said “hi” and filled him in on her latest and he made some joke about the Taft Museum that I didn’t get, so he joked about making me leave the show because I didn’t get the joke. The guy he’d been talking to pointed out my Flashing Lights t-shirt and Chris said, “I noticed that.”

When he asked if I was Canadian, I explained to him that I wasn’t, but that my husband was and how we’d met on the OSMB, that I was moving to Canada, blah blah blah. He said congratulations, shook my hand, I introduced myself, and he repeated my name. (What a politician. And I mean that in the most complimentary way, I promise.) I told him I had already thanked Patrick but that I wanted to thank him, too. “Oh, don’t thank me yet,” he warned, “You don’t know how this marriage is going to turn out.” I laughed. He tried to clarify my story with a “You met him on Sloan.net?” and I corrected him. “No, no the old Sloan Message Board.” He grinned slightly and said he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Yes, you do!” I teased, thinking he was just playing dumb. He swore he didn’t. I explained that it was the board from about five years ago and it was controversial. “I never read that thing,” he said, “there’s too many assholes on stuff like that. Like YOU,” he accused and feigned a shove. I laughed and protested.

I tried to find out more about the bus scenario and he explained that there wasn’t enough room for both buses to park in front of the HOB so they had to take turns loading out. I told him I’d see them on Centre Island in August and he actually rehashed my stupid joke about probably not actually SEEING me back to me without even knowing that I made it already! He did say that he’d see me in Canada, though. I said my goodbyes and tried to shake his hand again, and then changed my mind, saying that I’d already shook his hand like four times.

Tony and I went back to the bar. “That seemed to go well,” he offered, but I was still pretty self-conscious. We decided to leave, even though I was crushed that I hadn’t gotten a photo of me with Jay, let alone met him at all. We rescued my camera and exited, and I got the idea to just hang out by the tour bus in hopes of getting that Jay photo. A couple from New York chatted with us and then Andrew came off the bus to talk to them and take photos. There was no way in hell I was going to stammer in front of Andrew, so I just sort of subtly gawked.

Mike was wandering around, so I asked him where Jay was. He said he was looking for him, too, and would get him. After a few minutes, Patrick, then Chris, then Jay came out. The couple from New York talked to him and I took a photo of them. Murph got in on the action and heralded Patrick with a “Hey, Patty, get over here!” (I was internally squeeing about that one, but I kept my composure). Jay complimented my shirt and I smirked, “I wore it on purpose.” (Oh, the wit keeps coming back for more, doesn’t it?) He said he had to go, but I asked if we could please get a photo with him. He agreed in the most delightful way. He shook my hand and Tony’s, said it was nice meeting him, and said goodbye. I told him that I’d be going to see the show on Centre Island next month. He didn’t even question why I’d be going all the way up there; he seemed almost touched that I was even going. He talked a bit about how he was so excited about all the enthusiasm for the show, we talked about how much we liked Sam Roberts, and then he smiled and left.

Chris was standing around, talking to a girl, and I said I was leaving. “Goodbye…Leslie,” he said, making a goofy face. “Goodbye…Chris,” I replied and added, “Oh, I want a picture with you, too!” He said that the girl he was talking to could take it and then I could take one of the two of them on my camera and mail it to her. “But I don’t even know her,” I joked, “She could be a stalker!” Just then, she snapped the photo and I said, “Wait, I wasn’t even smiling!” She chuckled, “Well, you called me a stalker!” I actually said, “Mmmreeeeaowwwrrr!” to her. (I blame Chris for that display.) He turned to me and said, “I looked SOOOO good in that photo.” I retorted, “Oh, I’ll be the judge of that. I’ll post it on the website and then we’ll see who looks good.” He shook my hand again, “Okay, Leslie, I’ll be seeing you in Canada.” I waved and said, “Bye!” to Patrick as we left. And that was it.

And, yes, I’m STILL embarrassed.

For those of you who are wondering, there were:

• Four Scissor kicks
• One backbend
• One fall backwards on the stage
• One pants pull-up (maybe two)
• At least eight “get into the crowd and work the Murph Charm” moments
• One microphone lick
• One bottom-to-top microphone stand lick
• Four very old paintings in the Sloan family attics