|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
# 29: Summer Babe (Rainy Version)
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
By Maura Madden
Summer is the season of outdoor contentment, made glorious by concerts in the park, fireworks at the beach, plays performed in amphitheaters and films shown on a rooftop. It is the just reward for winter, the season of being stuck indoors. Everyone spends the crappy, rainy part of spring fantasizing about which outdoor entertainment they will be enjoying during the summer months. And Iıve had some good luck, like Thursday when I went to Summer Stage and heard my friend tell a story to thousands of people in Central Park. That rocked. But I did miss a screening of 'Planet of the Apes' at Bryant Park. There was a brief shower early in the evening and I was certain the film was not going to be shown. But several hours later, I realized that it had turned into a gorgeous night and the film definitely played. Ah, the weather is a fickle mistress.
I've been waiting patiently for a certain rock star to grace the summer with his presence since sometime in March, when I saw his face on the brochure for Celebrate Brooklyn, the Prospect Park film and movie series. That seminal rock star is Mr. Stephen Malkmus, lead singer/songwriter of Pavement, the seminal indie rock band of my generation. Well, so say all the magazines. Malkmus and the band gave voice to all the emotional incapacities of the male of wasted style, writing songs reflecting the rigorously lazy intellectualism of every liberal arts pretty boy, boys dressed dirty and made sexy by moth-eaten tee-shirts. Songs that made everyone rejoice in the worth of low self-worth, and taught girls that a practiced detachment was the key to the heart of an indierockthrob. Every time someone plays 'In the Mouth a Desert', an asshole gets angel wings. Thank you, St. Stephen. No, but seriously, I love you.
So Friday night I declined all other early evening plans and committed my heart and soul to hearing Stephen play in the park. As I left my house to meet my friend in a nearby F train station, the sky looked slightly gray, but not so bad. I did pack an umbrella, 'cause I am a regular Girl Scout, but I had no intention of using it. When we arrived at the park, some pretty girl horrible blues singer from Long Island was playing some 'rootsy' rock and roll, backed up by guys with oldman ponytails and whiteguybluesmusician hats. Not caring to listen, we got as far out of earshot as possible by going to the beer stand for a couple cold ones. Then we found a good place to park ourselves for a view of Stephen. The blues chick droned on for several more songs before finally leaving the stage. Darker clouds were now gathering. I was concerned. The break between bands was announced, and roadies were scampering back and forth across the stage in preparation for Stephenıs arrival. I was excited, but even then, I was scared.
And then I felt a drop of rain. Yes, a raindrop fell on my head. Ha, a small drop, no biggie. Just a little water. Oh, and here's another, that's fine. That's the first raindrop's friend, yes, of course, they travel together, nothing to be concerned about. Not going to move or do anything. Here's another drop, though, and another following in hot pursuit. Okay, the raindrop army has arrived. Hipster parents are covering babies in plastic stroller wrap, and people are putting on raincoats. But wait, who is that? Yes, it's just who I thought it was. Stephen takes the stage. I am so happy, that it begins to pour.
The sky is dumping rain on Prospect Park apocalyptic-flood style. Every umbrella in the place has opened so now, not only is it horribly wet, it is also impossible to see anything. Stephen is hidden behind a shield of waterproof fabric. I can hear him, but that's not what I came out for, damnation! Well, sure itıs not, but thatıs what you're getting.
We tried to tough it out for a little bit, finding a spot where we could sort-of see Stephen from the side, but we were becoming exceedingly distracted. There was lightning, followed quite closely by thunder, and you could see people doing that counting trick in their heads, trying to figure out how many miles we were from the deadly electric bolts. As my friend and I leaned on a metal fence and looked out across the sea of people under trees, or nothing, or metal scaffolding, we decided it was time to throw in Stephen's wet towel. I'm not willing to be electrocuted for indie rock. |
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
