The Automatik

House of Blues
September 22, 2001

His name’s Rhett “Handsome” Miller, he’s a serial lady-killer

Am I the only person in the world who gets depressed after a really good concert? I get such a rush from seeing a truly great band, a band I adore, particularly when it’s a band that I’ve waited to see for years. For days afterward, I mope around in melancholy, wishing I could rewind time and relive the whole event, overcome with sadness that it’s over and I may have to wait years experience the glory again.

Such was the case with the Old 97s. I found out a few weeks ago that they were playing at some stupid daytime festival with a bunch of lame bands, but I wanted to go anyway, cos I’d seen them on Austin City Limits in 1998 and was totally floored by their talent and energy. But I never quite fell in love with them. I happened to catch them on HBO’s Reverb last weekend and once again, I was transfixed. And now I was totally smitten. All week I was listening to them again in earnest, giddy with the anticipation of seeing them live. When I discovered that they were playing a REAL show at the House of Blues on a Saturday night, I said, “Screw that dumb festival!” and clapped with glee.

I got there early, but I decided I wanted to position myself stage right fairly quickly, as I didn’t want the crowd to creep in and usurp my front row spot. So I suffered through the boring and cheesy opening band, something which I am quite used to from my many years of club shows. What I wasn’t prepared for was some mohawk’ed drunk loser and his girlfriend shouting, staggering and shoving, threatening to tear up my ticket to bliss. It was packed by the time the Old 97s hit the stage and Mohawk’s elbows and boot clad feet were dangerously impinging on my personal space. Then, the shouting became screaming, the staggering became jumping…on my bare toes Twice. My pain and anger transformed me into a madwoman, pushing Mohawk away and shrieking, “I didn’t wait three years to see them for you to ruin it, asshole!” His girlfriend responded by grimacing at me as if I was completely overreacting and slurring, “He’s just Dancing!” And then Mohawk tried to grab my arms which were angrily crossed in front of my chest and “dance” with ME. As fucking if. I haven’t gotten that pissed since I yelled at the frat guy who was chattering during Jeff Buckley’s show. I was practically spitting and clawing at the guy.

Things escalated after I moved and many audience members were grumbling and complaining, some of them even fleeing to the other side of the stage as well. The band took notice of the situation and stared, horrified, as Mohawk continued his reign of terror. Singer Rhett Miller stood there with the most sad and unbelieving look on his face until security intervened and dragged the offending parties away. Then bass player Murry Hammond tried to break the tension by making a little statement about how we all could benefit from some peace during these troubled times. And then they rocked the house.

Their energy is infectious. I never sing along at shows but I was shouting out the lyrics to every song I knew, dancing and cheering and applauding until my hands hurt. It was a nearly perfect set. I haven’t seen a band this good in many, many years. The feelings of rapture lingered for hours. And not even Mohawk’s shenanigans could destroy that.