The Eric Clapton Experience

Without further ado, a recap (as I remember) of an amazing concert experience:

4:00 PM -- I decide to leave my apartment now, extremely early. This is a risky move; I may get there way too early, and I may get stuck in two hours of rush-hour traffic no matter what I choose. My only other option is to leave after the evening rush, around 7 PM, which I decide against because I don't want to miss a minute of Clapton's set (I would have, if I'd done this; score one for the Fred-ster and solid decision-making).

4:50 PM -- I'm on Interstate 95, driving south toward the Comcast (nee Tweeter) Center, tonight's venue. Oddly, I know of two concert halls that were once named Tweeter Center. First was the Tweeter Center in Camden, NJ, which dropped the title early this decade (the name probably switched to the Mass. venue). When I moved to MA last fall and heard radio ads for concerts at the Tweet, I thought it was odd that New England-uhs were being shipped so far away. Silly me -- and silly name, I imagine, because no concert hall seems to want to keep it.

I stop at Walpole, Mass. (home of 90's alt-rock one hit wonder band Harvey Danger) and grab some nondescript pepperoni pizza from a Papa Gino's at the Walpole Mall. In case you've never heard of it, Papa Gino's is a pizza chain that's everywhere in New England. They're like Papa John's, but with garlic and positive attitudes toward wife-beating. Their pitchman is New England Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi, who had a stroke a few years back caused by using steroids. Anyway, I knock back two slices and a medium Mountain Dew, because I'm tired and need caffeine. Then, I get back on the road.

5:45 PM -- I arrive, and I'm the first one here it seems. The doors don't open till 6:30, and I don't have my ticket anyway. No alcohol is served outdoors, which is a shame. I find a dark, cool, mossy rock and sit on it, thinking about mushrooms, "Super Mario Bros. 3," and how my jeans are going to get wet. I wait for Ken (Brainpan) to arrive.

6:15 PM -- Ken arrives, and he doesn't have the tickets either. We expect the rest of our party (who has the tix) to arrive some time before 8 PM, so we stand and wait. Did I mention that it was 55 degrees and rainy outside? Oh, and the Tweet is an outdoor venue, and we have lawn seats. Under ordinary circumstances, this would really grind my gears. But, the anticipation of an exquisite rock show is keeping these thoughts out of my mind. We grab sausage, peppers, and onion sandwiches.

7:10 PM -- People from New England are weird. Almost everyone who walks past us is wearing some garment announcing their allegiance to the Red Sox, Celtics, or Patriots. Of course you like these teams, you're in New England! If you're in some different place, where people from lots of different, diverse backgrounds coexist (e.g., New York City), then it makes some sense to announce who you root for. Here, you're being redundant and provincial and plain stupid. Who are you proving yourselves to, the 4 people wearing Yankees caps out of 19,000?

Ken and I discuss how the concert would proceed if the Patriots were in charge -- Ken decides that everything would go fine until Clapton is about to begin his set, and then the lights and sound would go out. Zing!

8:15 PM -- Our cohorts (Ken's friends from Rutgers, awesome folks, BTW) arrive, tickets in hand. This is good, because my gullet requires cold beer. We go inside and wait in the customary beer line. I hand the attendant my ID and he hands it back, telling me I'm too young to be served. This strikes me as odd, because I was born in 1983 and have been drinking legally since... that's right, 2004, when I turned 21. As it turns out, people under 25 with out-of-state ID's cannot be served at the Tweeter (HA! See! I called you Tweeter!) Center, and people under 30 can't be served unless they have a secondary form of ID. We all agree this is fascism, and I have Ken buy me a Harpoon I.P.A. because he is 39 years old. Clapton is about to begin.

9:00 PM -- Clapton's nickname is Slowhand, and this makes perfect sense as he winds his way through an eight-minute rendition of "Little Wing" that absolutely blows my mind. Sir Eric is doing things with a guitar I've never seen/heard done before, and he makes it look easy. Later in the set, I mention that he seems to converse with his guitar. Nothing seems rushed, and he's always in rhythm. His rock is never hard, because it never needs to be. I once referred to Yes as the Don Mattingly of rock acts; Clapton is Greg Maddux.

9:25 PM -- Clapton is playing with his blues accompaniment, and he's playing a lot of stuff that is out of the mainstream. I'm a little lost, but the music sounds great. Clapton's age comes up in conversation; I guess he's 60, although he looks (and plays) much younger than that. The two main things everyone seems to know about Clapton are extremely macabre. They are: (1) That he once absent-mindedly left his toddler son on a high-rise windowsill, and hilarity did not ensue after the boy hurtled to his death, and (2) that "Layla," his opus, was a love song penned about his best friend's wife. When I was in fifth grade, I wrote a biography of Clapton for music class. I wish this report existed somewhere, because I want to see it. I wonder if I was Goth enough to mention either of those two things in it.

10:00 PM -- I dislike "eating sandwiches"* (*This is a "How I Met Your Mother" reference), because it hurts my pipes and I'm not terribly interesting when I eat them. HOWEVER, when attending a concert, I absolutely love it when people around me decide to eat sandwiches. There's something about the act that makes sense; it makes me calm and makes live music sound better. Once, after attending an indoor 4-hour George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic concert, my friend Morgan and I ate a half-dozen cheese dogs, just because everyone around us decided they wanted to eat sandwiches at the earlier concert. I mention this only because, while walking to the Port-a-Potties, I come across a lot of sandwich eating, which puts me in a different frame of mind. Unintentionally.

10:15 PM -- Clapton closes his set (I'm hoping I remember this correctly) with "Wonderful Tonight," "Layla," and "Cocaine." The crowd is going insane; lighters are everywhere. (People still do this?) The air is wet and damp and smells like summer is finally here. I feel great. Damn sandwiches...

10:18 PM -- I'm at the concert with 4 other Yankees fans, and we get kinda pissed when drunk Massholes chant "Yankees Suck" on the way out. Why do these people care about the Yankees so much, when the Yankees are in last place in the AL East? Sounds like an inferiority complex to me. So, we yell back "Let's Go Yankees," which doesn't go over well. You know, because we're in Southeastern Massachusetts. When the Massholes get snippy with us, we remind them that their Patriots went 18-1 last season, good enough for second best. They're now quiet.

11:00 PM -- Sitting in my car, listening to music, and waiting for any sign of movement in the gridlock in front of me.

11:15 PM -- Same.
11:30 PM -- Same. Ever wonder what happens if someone has a heart attack and dies in the middle of this traffic? It's gotta be worse than a pilot dying in mid-air, because in this situation NOBODY moves. I'm rooting for the overall cardiovascular health of each of the 19,000 of us at this concert -- at least for the next few hours.
11:45 PM -- Same. Now I'm starting to get pissed off.
12:03 AM -- Finally moving, if I get lucky I can be home by 1 AM.

12:45 AM -- WBOS-FM 92.9 just played the following songs in sequence: "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe, "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, "When Doves Cry" by Prince, and "Flagpole Sitta" by Walpole, Mass.' own Harvey Danger. It might be because I'm exhausted, or it might be because I'm a huge loser. But I loved, absolutely loved, that four-song set. I sang along to every song. Also, my fuel gauge is critically close to "E" -- I might push the Santa Fe home tonight. Let's hope not.

1:03 AM -- I'm home. Hey, after I brush my teeth and such, I should write a blog about how cool tonight was! You narcissist...