What Ike Said, What I Saw

Last Friday, I crouched behind Tony Nelson in the green room of The Cabooze as Ike Reilly, his groupies and his band sat in front of us.

Tony snapped portraits as I manned the light box. Ike, who I had been introduced to about ten minutes prior, looked drunkenly, directly at me.

"You are very put together," he remarked.
"Thank you," I answered quietly, smiling.

Tony swiveled around laughing, "Was he talking to you?"

I sorta answered but stayed focused on observing, occasionally attempting wit but mostly staying silent, trying to learn, dressed in my light blue western shirt with stars and sparrows, a navy blue bandanna, and bright red lips.

Focused and accessorized had thus translated to put together. Flattered and sweaty, my feet were scratched and sticky from a beer bottle that had been broken and fallen against my Chaco's, my ears rang from a lack of plugs (IwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylessonIwilllearnmylesson,) and the bright red long-wearing lipstick had actually cracked and coagulated on my lips.

In other words, I had just witnessed one helluva rock show.

At one point, as I was snapping a (few) hundred live shots for my archives, my musical WonderTwin and her HowWasTheShow review, Tommy Odonnell's mic stand began to fall from the stage towards the audience and specifically right onto me. My first instinct was to cover my camera and, by doing so, the stand hit me right on the head. I lifted up one hand and my audience neighbor lifted it the rest of the way up. Everyone else danced and cheered along, unfazed.

I was completely fine, it felt like an awkward, embarrassing tap, but Tommy looked down from the stage, horrified. He reached for my hand, grabbed it and shouted above the music.

"I'M SO SORRY! DID I HIT YOUR CAMERA OR YOUR HEAD???"
"MY HEAD...BUT IT'S BETTER THAT WAY!" I screamed.
"BUT I CAN BUY YOU A NEW CAMERA! I CAN'T BUY YOU A NEW HEAD!" he screamed.
"IT'S FINE! I'M FINE!" I screamed.

One helluva show.







I knelt down and just kept observing a photographer and a rocker. Many girls and a few boys lined up to get their picture taken, meet him, say hi. Ike and the band remembered some and welcomed others. Girls piled on top of each other just to sit close to him. Everyone except me and Tony seemed drunk, especially Ike, who rested against the fake wood paneling in his wife-beater, torn jeans, and slicked back hair, like a lost cast member of Grease.

"Are you seriously okay?" Tommy asked again.
"Seriously, I am. I'm really hard headed. But I'll send you any medical bills," I answered.
"Sure, the Ike Reilly Insurance Policy will cover any damages!" he answered back, smiling.

I kept watching Ike with his doting fans and I got this overwhelming sense of third party observer. It was like I was watching who I had been with so many of my rockers whom I love and follow (and hoping I wasn't that drunk or doting.) I was watching me the first time I met the Bielanko brothers. Ike was awesome and I had a great time at that show but I am just a casual fan. I don't own all his albums, don't know most of his songs and this was only my first concert of his (though not my last, for sure.) I just couldn't stop thinking of Marah, which makes me want this NYC/Philly trip to happen with every fiber of my rock fan being. It's not Bruce because I've never met Bruce, only shook his hand and watched him through his tinted van window (that is not/maybe is a little as creepy as it sounds.) Meeting the Marah boys in Brooklyn '05 was my first real experience with musical idols becoming real people to have drunken conversations with. It was awesome then and an awesome site to observe now.

"Thanks guys so much!" I waved as we left, lugging all the camera gear around my dirty shoulders. "That was so awesome! Have fun!"

It all felt so normal, like I was a part of this musical world. It was normal and huge at the same time.

Before I was a rock fan, I was Little Miss Broadway. I was raised on trips to the theatre in downtown Kansas City. For a good eighteen years, that was what I loved, that's the majority of music that made me cry and yelp with joy. My dear biotech's recent blog entry not only had me aching for a return trip to NYC but reminded me of one of the greatest examples of Jonesie ridiculousness.

An EXTREME guilty pleasure in my past (and still sorta current) showtune loving repertoire is the song Mr. Mistoffelees from Cats. For some god awful reason, it just made (makes) me happy...further evidence that I am indeed a flaming homosexual in a woman's body.

Hello....GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY (and creepy)!



Jonesie Ridiculousness: My parents took my sister and I to Cats a few times growing up. One of those times, we were about ten rows back. I fell asleep some time after the show started. Head down, dead asleep. Until that bone rattling drum beat/horn blow when Mr. Mistoffelees comes flying down from the ceiling.

With the mancat flying down from the ceiling and the orchestra swelling, I was jolted awake, flew back into my seat and I crossed myself, Eastern Orthodox style. What. the. FUCK!?!?!? I have no earthly idea why that was my first instinct. I'm not sure who else saw me. All I remember is being completely disoriented (and yet completely mesmerized.) It's almost as if the gods were speaking to me through the power of the cats and their giant codpieces. I blame it on that mysterious pussy power.

That is why I'll never be as cool as Ike Reilly.