Music, Money and Misery in Massachusetts (Part 2)
Yesterday on Zombie Fights Shark!:
"In short, with the Commons and the wharf, we were having a great time. Good company, good food, pleasant day and exciting, interesting surroundings. Things were going great.
Of course, that can only mean that things were about to go completely to hell..."
And now... the exciting conclusion:
Okay, when I say "go completely to hell," I could be accused of slightly exaggerating. Nobody died, the ground didn't split open and swallow whole chunks of Boston, we weren't savaged by maurading bands of Red Sox loyals for accidentally letting the word "Yankees" pass from our lips... nothing like that. What actually happened was more like a series of increasingly-intense irritations that served to, if not outright kill our mood, than at least drive our mood out to the middle of the forest and leave it there to die.
So...
The First Irritation: We realized after we'd already bought the tickets that the concert venue wasn't... ha ha... technically in Boston. No, that would be far too convenient. The Tweeter Center, as it's called, is actually located just south of nowhere in a town called Mansfield which is about 35 miles away from where the bus dropped us off. As we don't have a car (see: bus), we had to figure out some way to get from point A to point... well, let's call it point Z because any other letter would imply a closeness of points that just wasn't there. Now, because we knew about this ahead of time, I was able to use the magical internet to find out that, Yes!, Mansfield could be reached by train and that, Hooray!, the pick-up point for said train was in the same building as the bus station. Once in Mansfield, it was only a quick less-than-2-mile cab ride to the Tweeter Center. We were in business!!!
The Second Irritation: Turns out, the only way to get from the train station to the Tweeter Center was by cab and the cab companies had, long ago I'm sure, decided that they were going to exploit that fact like a motherfucker. A five minute, under 2-mile cab ride... 15 dollars. The sensation of being dragged into a back alley, beaten with a brick, and having my wallet taken washed over me like the onset of food poisoning. But, okay, fine... whatever... 10$ for the train, 30$ round trip for the cab... little more than what I'd hoped, but it's okay. At least we know what's going to happen and it's all somewhat good.
The Third Irritation: Of course, that 40$ plan only holds up if we can catch a train back to Boston after the concert. The last train out of the Mansfield station: 10:30pm. The concert's probable end time: 11pm. Because I have yet to learn how to manipulate time and am really lacking in my teleportation skills (I'm just lazy; there's no excuse), that 30-minute time difference might as well have been us just missing the last chopper out of Saigon. Nothing we could do. We would have to take a cab and pray it wouldn't be too expensive to take us back to Boston. But, okay, fine... whatever... we're here at the concert venue and we're ready to rock!
The Fourth Irritation: One forgets, living in New York for an extended period of time, how shitty concert venues can actually get. Here, we've got a bunch of converted warehouses that allow the average music fan to get within spitting distance to whatever messy-haired, ironically t-shirted rocker is currently setting the world on fire. Intimate environments breed good shows like rats in the subway. The Tweeter Center is your classic "amphitheater" style venue. Meaning, if you're not in the first 20 rows, you might as well be in the parking lot. Our seats, Row N, Sec. 11, weren't the worst in the place, but they were far from good. This, mind you, is no fault on the ticket buyer... the fault rests squarely on the shoulders of the venue builders; those who care much more about packing people in as deep and as widespread as possible. Hold your arm all the way out and give 'er the old thumbs up. Now look at your thumb. That's about how big the lead singers of each band were. Not exactly a rock and roll fantasy. Not helping matters was the fact that this was an open-air venue and, because life's just like that, it had started to rain. Also, we had this guy sitting in front of us: "Wooooo!!! Fuckin' WOOOOO!!! Hey, It's my bro's first concert!!! WOOOOO!!! How old are you girls? 15!!! WOOOO!!!! I'll totally buy you beer!!! WOOOOO!!!!!!" But, okay, fine... whatever... we're hear to see a band and, despite the distance, they're going to great.
Bands: We were there to see Counting Crows, a favorite of both Emily and I. Opening for them were The Working Title and The Goo Goo Dolls, neither of which we cared anything about. The Working Title started off and, despite the lead singer's eerie vocal resemblance to the Counting Crow's frontman Adam Duritz, they were spectacularly meh. Not bad, but not engaging in the least. Following them was The Goo Goo Dolls, a band I've actually broken fingers against car stereos attempting to turn off as quickly as possible. They weren't as bad as I'd feared; oddly-plastic looking Johnny Resnick had a good rapport with the crowd and they played a couple of songs that reminded me of high school, which is alright I guess, but again, meh. The one good thing, the lone happy stretch of time, was the Counting Crows. I've seen them a few times now and the guys just don't give bad concerts. I know a lot of people don't dig them and, honestly, I don't fault them for that... they're not for everyone... but for those of us who count themselves among their fans, seeing them live is worth just about anything.
The Fifth and Final Irritation: I should have seen this coming and the fact that I didn't irritates the crap out of me. We get a cab, we tell him were we're going and, like a virgin asking "Will it... hurt?," we inquire about the price.
Seventy-five fucking dollars.
I cannot accurately describe what it's like to have your brain implode, scream and weep at the same time, nor can I give you a good feel for what it's like when your stomach turns it's self inside out and your whole body just says, "Oh fuck this" and you go limp with shock. Suffice to say, not fun. We, of course, had no choice. We had to make our bus. So we grabbed our ankles, forced a smile, and the cab driver drove us back, the contents of our wallets now in his.
End: So, of course, we made it to the bus station. We made it through the midnight drive in the cramped, crappy bus. We made it through the long wait for an R train at 4:30 in the morning. We made it, finally, home. We slept.
I'm sure this will all be hilarious in a few months. Okay, maybe a few years. One thing is for certain, though... Boston is a beautiful city. But you can be damn sure we're not catching another concert there until one of us randomly finds a box of money.
"In short, with the Commons and the wharf, we were having a great time. Good company, good food, pleasant day and exciting, interesting surroundings. Things were going great.
Of course, that can only mean that things were about to go completely to hell..."
And now... the exciting conclusion:
Okay, when I say "go completely to hell," I could be accused of slightly exaggerating. Nobody died, the ground didn't split open and swallow whole chunks of Boston, we weren't savaged by maurading bands of Red Sox loyals for accidentally letting the word "Yankees" pass from our lips... nothing like that. What actually happened was more like a series of increasingly-intense irritations that served to, if not outright kill our mood, than at least drive our mood out to the middle of the forest and leave it there to die.
So...
The First Irritation: We realized after we'd already bought the tickets that the concert venue wasn't... ha ha... technically in Boston. No, that would be far too convenient. The Tweeter Center, as it's called, is actually located just south of nowhere in a town called Mansfield which is about 35 miles away from where the bus dropped us off. As we don't have a car (see: bus), we had to figure out some way to get from point A to point... well, let's call it point Z because any other letter would imply a closeness of points that just wasn't there. Now, because we knew about this ahead of time, I was able to use the magical internet to find out that, Yes!, Mansfield could be reached by train and that, Hooray!, the pick-up point for said train was in the same building as the bus station. Once in Mansfield, it was only a quick less-than-2-mile cab ride to the Tweeter Center. We were in business!!!
The Second Irritation: Turns out, the only way to get from the train station to the Tweeter Center was by cab and the cab companies had, long ago I'm sure, decided that they were going to exploit that fact like a motherfucker. A five minute, under 2-mile cab ride... 15 dollars. The sensation of being dragged into a back alley, beaten with a brick, and having my wallet taken washed over me like the onset of food poisoning. But, okay, fine... whatever... 10$ for the train, 30$ round trip for the cab... little more than what I'd hoped, but it's okay. At least we know what's going to happen and it's all somewhat good.
The Third Irritation: Of course, that 40$ plan only holds up if we can catch a train back to Boston after the concert. The last train out of the Mansfield station: 10:30pm. The concert's probable end time: 11pm. Because I have yet to learn how to manipulate time and am really lacking in my teleportation skills (I'm just lazy; there's no excuse), that 30-minute time difference might as well have been us just missing the last chopper out of Saigon. Nothing we could do. We would have to take a cab and pray it wouldn't be too expensive to take us back to Boston. But, okay, fine... whatever... we're here at the concert venue and we're ready to rock!
The Fourth Irritation: One forgets, living in New York for an extended period of time, how shitty concert venues can actually get. Here, we've got a bunch of converted warehouses that allow the average music fan to get within spitting distance to whatever messy-haired, ironically t-shirted rocker is currently setting the world on fire. Intimate environments breed good shows like rats in the subway. The Tweeter Center is your classic "amphitheater" style venue. Meaning, if you're not in the first 20 rows, you might as well be in the parking lot. Our seats, Row N, Sec. 11, weren't the worst in the place, but they were far from good. This, mind you, is no fault on the ticket buyer... the fault rests squarely on the shoulders of the venue builders; those who care much more about packing people in as deep and as widespread as possible. Hold your arm all the way out and give 'er the old thumbs up. Now look at your thumb. That's about how big the lead singers of each band were. Not exactly a rock and roll fantasy. Not helping matters was the fact that this was an open-air venue and, because life's just like that, it had started to rain. Also, we had this guy sitting in front of us: "Wooooo!!! Fuckin' WOOOOO!!! Hey, It's my bro's first concert!!! WOOOOO!!! How old are you girls? 15!!! WOOOO!!!! I'll totally buy you beer!!! WOOOOO!!!!!!" But, okay, fine... whatever... we're hear to see a band and, despite the distance, they're going to great.
Bands: We were there to see Counting Crows, a favorite of both Emily and I. Opening for them were The Working Title and The Goo Goo Dolls, neither of which we cared anything about. The Working Title started off and, despite the lead singer's eerie vocal resemblance to the Counting Crow's frontman Adam Duritz, they were spectacularly meh. Not bad, but not engaging in the least. Following them was The Goo Goo Dolls, a band I've actually broken fingers against car stereos attempting to turn off as quickly as possible. They weren't as bad as I'd feared; oddly-plastic looking Johnny Resnick had a good rapport with the crowd and they played a couple of songs that reminded me of high school, which is alright I guess, but again, meh. The one good thing, the lone happy stretch of time, was the Counting Crows. I've seen them a few times now and the guys just don't give bad concerts. I know a lot of people don't dig them and, honestly, I don't fault them for that... they're not for everyone... but for those of us who count themselves among their fans, seeing them live is worth just about anything.
The Fifth and Final Irritation: I should have seen this coming and the fact that I didn't irritates the crap out of me. We get a cab, we tell him were we're going and, like a virgin asking "Will it... hurt?," we inquire about the price.
Seventy-five fucking dollars.
I cannot accurately describe what it's like to have your brain implode, scream and weep at the same time, nor can I give you a good feel for what it's like when your stomach turns it's self inside out and your whole body just says, "Oh fuck this" and you go limp with shock. Suffice to say, not fun. We, of course, had no choice. We had to make our bus. So we grabbed our ankles, forced a smile, and the cab driver drove us back, the contents of our wallets now in his.
End: So, of course, we made it to the bus station. We made it through the midnight drive in the cramped, crappy bus. We made it through the long wait for an R train at 4:30 in the morning. We made it, finally, home. We slept.
I'm sure this will all be hilarious in a few months. Okay, maybe a few years. One thing is for certain, though... Boston is a beautiful city. But you can be damn sure we're not catching another concert there until one of us randomly finds a box of money.
posted by Clinton at 8:34 AM
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