I imagine it must be as warm as 9 or 10 degrees as Pixie and I make the walk down to the Aragon from the spot we found four blocks north of the venue. By the time we arrive at will call, I’m past shivering and well into grimace mode, and in no mood for the shenanigans soon to be inflicted upon me by the woman doling out passes. I give her my name and show her my license. I see my name on the list. Me plus one. Pixie is the plus one. Everybody else on the All-American Rejects list has guest access. We have VIP access. She hands us guest passes.
“We’re supposed to get VIP passes,” I say politely, trying to sound vaguely bored and unconcerned as I imagine an actual Very Important Person might.
“Those are VIP passes,” she answers. “See where it says 6:45?” She points at the time written on the passes in Sharpie. “That means you can’t go backstage until 6:45.”
I know this isn’t true and I’m pretty sure that she knows this isn’t true but in any case I’m definitely sure that it doesn’t matter because we are not getting backstage tonight. Guest passes have the word “Guest” on them. VIP passes say “VIP.” That’s how you tell them apart. And we have Guest passes. Not so long ago, I would’ve made a big deal out of it, and I most likely would’ve ended up sorting the whole thing out, having made a new enemy or two in the process. Tonight it’s not worth it. It’s too cold and we’re running too late to get into a big thing over somebody else’s ineptness.
As we walk through the lobby to the stairs leading to the mezzanine, I can hear the All-American Rejects’ hit single “Dirty Little Secret” being played over the P.A. When we reach the mezzanine, I realize it isn’t a recording – the band must’ve just started their set. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a band that tight. Not even Green Day. It’s a minute or two past 6:00 p.m. The early starting time is probably a concession to the young crowd, most of who appear to be 16 or younger. It’s fine with me; my days of staying out until four a.m. ended a long time ago and I’m happy to be able to see the set, grab a bite to eat on the way home and be in bed by 10.
We find that although we’re allowed up another set of stairs to the balcony, the large security guy stationed at the back of the landing won’t let us through the Magic Door, which comes as no surprise. After explaining that we’re really supposed to have VIP passes - and watching Meat roll his eyes in response - I request an elaboration on the 6:45 thing, just for kicks.
“You and everybody else up here are guests of the All-American Rejects,” he explains slowly, as though I’m retarded. “This is your area,” he continues, like we’ve just won a trip to Belize or a speedboat or something. “The other band’s guests are on the other side.” He gestures to the balcony on the other side of the venue.
“So they don’t rumble,” I offer.
He patronizes me with a half-hearted chuckle.
“Anyway,” I say. “We can go back at 6:45, right?”
“No, the guests are allowed up here at 6:45,” says Beefaroni.
“But it’s 6:05 right now. And you’ve let us all up here.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“This is the guest area for the All-American Rejects, right?”
He nods his meaty head patiently.
“And they just went on?”
He nods again.
“And they finish at 6:45?”
Another nod. I really seem to be getting it.
“And we’re not allowed up here until 6:45, but you’ve let everybody up at 6:00 anyway?”
“Yes,” he says, as if it makes all the sense in the world.
I resolved some years ago to try to live my life with a modicum of dignity; to beg a pork roast in a t-shirt reading “SECURITY” to listen to reason would violate that fiat. Better to smile and walk away, thinking to oneself, “You may have won the battle, worthy foe, but I shall stomp gloriously on the steaming pile of goo you call your entrails after I win the war.”
We settle in to watch the Rejects. They have a lot of great songs and they put on a hyper, high-energy show which, remarkably, doesn’t comes off too contrived or choreographed, like every other band that thinks that putting on a good show means hopping around like a fruity dingbat, only stopping the labored frolicking occasionally in order to pose like a girl who just set up her first MySpace account.
The Rejects play all their hit songs. Last time I was at the Aragon, in 1994, Nirvana couldn’t be bothered to play “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” even though that song was the primary reason most of the people were there. If you’re selling a gazillion records, don’t be coy or moody – play your hits.
The Rejects are a pop band masquerading as a loud rock band. Their attack is a little more hard-rock oriented than punk, but the tunes don’t seem to come from quite the same AOR-inspired place as a lot of their peers on the major labels; they’re more of a singles band. And that’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. Every once in a while it’s nice to see a bunch of young guys kicking out the jams with little regard for putting on a jaded, detached hip act or making dim-bulb sociopolitical observations; every once in a while you just want to hear really loud songs about girls.
I’m expecting a bloated 60-70 minute set, but the Rejects pull the plug after about 40. Whether that’s their choice or the promoter’s, it’s nice that we didn’t have to be beaten over the head. The set over, I make one last attempt to reason with the porcine security guy, to no avail of course.
We weigh our options. Mike, the guitarist for the Rejects, is the one who put us on the list. I have my cell phone in the pocket of my pea coat. I also have a slip of paper with Mike’s phone number on it. That slip of paper is, of course, in the car. Having already braved the elements once to get to this point, I don’t intend to repeat the expedition March-Of-The-Penguins-style, not that we’d be let back into the venue anyway. It’s not that big a deal, I suppose. I was just hoping to meet Mike face to face.
And I suppose I was hoping, a little bit anyway, that sometimes you can go home again, and that I’d be able to get out of this a companion piece to my 1994 article on the Nirvana/ Jawbreaker show at the Aragon. Only this time the featured band wouldn’t be some bloated retro 70s style act, but rather an aggressive, melodic band featuring a guitarist who grew up listening to my stuff. Y’know, a nice little piece to show that everything has come full circle, or that truth is stranger than fiction, or that I’m one hell of a guy no matter what they say, or whatever angle I might’ve wrangled out of it.
As it is, I’m left to my own devices. I grab my wife by the hand, grateful for her presence even as I’m almost embarrassed at how attached I am to her. She didn’t know me when I was a full time musician. She only knows the older and, I hope, wiser version of me. She didn’t ever have to deal with the me that was seething with hostility and ambition and jealousy and desperation as I tried to assert my place in the music world, and she didn’t see how much things changed when I finally started learning to drop that crap and laugh at myself a little. She only knows the post-30 me, the one that’s semi-retired from music and content to sit in front of the computer writing all day - maybe knocking off a little early to make a pot of soup or some pasta or something – rather than running around playing shows to ever-dwindling crowds and getting all fucked-up to help numb the feelings of self-loathing as I try to impress young men half my age and nail their silly female counterparts. She only knows the me that seldom listens to music anymore, the one who gets together with his old musician pals now and then so we can gossip like old ladies and tell war stories. And she prefers that to the silly, sad, rock and roll stereotype I so easily could have become.
We walk out into the cold and I can see now that it’s a perfect exit for the end of the essay – understated, low-key and focused on my wife and I as we leave the venue and head to the car, rather than on me and my neuroses as we battle it out with the forces of reason and common sense. In 1994 I was looking for a scoop – with exaggerated gusto of course, but I was looking all the same. It wasn’t really for my fanzine as much as it was for me; I wanted to get a look into the big time world of rock and see what it was all about. And not just that night, but over the next year, I got an eyeful.
That was really the beginning of the end of any crazy ideas I might’ve been harboring about trying to take this music thing to a higher level. I saw all the Hollywood clichés in living color, with all the characters dutifully acting out their parts. Melodrama In Real Life. It’s mostly sad, and on the rare occasions when it’s funny, the humor is bitter and mean. It’s not for me. That doesn’t mean that I don’t wish people in that world well. It’s just that I don’t really think I ever could have survived it. Not that I was ever really invited into that world anyway, save for a phone call here and a couple of dropped hints there.
And it’s turned out well. It’s pretty great to be remembered as having done something worthwhile creatively, especially when you know you’ve done it as much on your own terms as possible. It’s fun to go out to these things and see the young guys carrying the torch, as it were. And it’s definitely great that the back catalog is still selling. So maybe that’s my angle: things really do have a funny way of working out.
We’re almost at the car now. We haven’t been talking – it’s too cold and we’re too focused on trying to navigate the sidewalk without taking a spill on the uneven sheets of ice coating the cement. I fumble for the keys as Pixie trudges over a snow bank to get to the passenger door.
“I feel really old after that show,” she says, hands jammed in the pockets of her coat as she stamps her feet to try to stay warm. “Y’know?”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the door. “But it feels pretty good.”