the Change I Wish to See

… it’s more of a series of observations.

We went to see Mos Def at the 9:30 Club on Monday.  Yep; on a school night.

Wait, wait, wait.

I’m getting way ahead of myself.  The title says “complaint.”  You didn’t think this post was about things going as planned, did you?  The beginning…

There were two shows that night.  Doors for the first were scheduled to open at 6:30p; doors for the second, 9:30p.  Call it a penchant for sloppy seconds, or not knowing about Mos coming until the 6:30 was sold out, but we had late show tickets.  We rolled up and got in line at the door.

me: Weird.  That sounds like generic house audio coming from inside.
Miss Bianca: *shrugs as only someone who dates an over-thinker can*
me: Why doesn’t it sound like Mos is in there?  It’s 8:35…

Turns out the line by the door was the wrong line.  Go figure.  The real line was about 20 yards behind us, peeling out of the side alley.  This is where the whispers started.

stranger 1: I heard Mos Def isn’t even here yet!
stranger 2: You’s a lie.  You just mad cuz we almost left you…
us: *slow, silent blinking*

We stood shaking for about another twenty minutes.  How cold was it?  I now have a scar on my left cheek from where a tear-turned-icicle fell.  We made jokes with the girls behind us about having to drag ourselves, frozen, to Howard U Hospital right up the street.  The 9:30 Club staff tried to assure us they had everything under control.  Correction: they might as well have come out and thrown buckets of water on us.  They were about as helpful as…

staff 1: Stand there.
staff 2 (not 3 minutes later): Why the [french] are you standing there? Against that wall, please.
staff 3: Mos just isn’t here yet. He’s at the airport, though.
us (in unison, via silent mouths and screaming eyes): The airport?  Which airport?  The one within reach, or one of the two 40 minutes away?

It was 9:15p.  We had “learned” from “reliable” sources that Mos definitely wasn’t there yet.  They were still going to do the 6:30p, even if it was the new 10:00p.  And as for the original 9:30p performance, we just had to wait and see.  Meanwhile, we wondered if sadness could be measured in Fahrenheit and I nearly lost a hand trying to tweet the whole thing.

Enter Crazy Lady.  I’d have a picture for you, but I lost the use of my right hand during the tweet fiasco.  So, if you can imagine, imagine her in a “fur” coat that looked much more like a caramel-colored Snuggie with a hood, hiking boots, capri jeans, bright orange socks in that “Where’s Waldo” sweater pattern, and bright orange sunglasses resting atop the kind of hat Picabo Street might’ve worn while competing in Lillehammer.

She had parked across the street from our line, plainly illegally, and then disappeared into the alley in front of us.  When she came out, she bent over and looked at something out of sight.  She called to it.  Miss Bianca thought it might’ve been a cat.  It wasn’t.  It was an orange safety cone; an inanimate, unresponsive object.  She picked up said cone and had her partner-in-crazy use it to mark her parking spot as she pulled away.  She was reserving it, which Miss Bianca solidly noted was odd, seeing how blatantly illegal it was to park there in the first place.  And by “pulled away” I mean, with her car facing east, pulled away east about 5 feet, turned around violently in a double K-turn, and then sped off east.  That’s right, she completed a full freaking circle achieving absolutely nothing.  In her haste to cover no distance at all, she nearly hit two people.

But just when it seemed it could get no worse, Mos Def arrived.  Though at first, no one knew it.  Why?  Because he rolled up in a 1996 Montero Sport.  Not a bus; not a bus.  A 1996 Montero Sport.  We laughed, because, well, that’s awesome.  He said, “Sorry;” we, fans, quickly forgot we were upset.  It’s 9:30p.

It’s then a few of us realized there was a line developing near the door; you know, the very place they told us we couldn’t be.  We asked a staff member.  He said he didn’t know what we were talking about.  We re-explained.  He didn’t get it.  Losing our patience, we tried to break it down nice and easy for him:

us (now about 5 of us have formed a bonding unit): There’s a line at the door.  We were in it about an hour ago.  They told us this line was the real line.  But now, there are about 75 people by the door, who got here after us and all the people behind us, as if you’re gonna let them in before us.
staff dude: Yeah.

Too cold to slow-blink and try again, we gave up.  After a while, we got the attention of staff-guy-with-a-goatee-shaped-like-a-spear.  He got it, but had no idea how the confusion could’ve happened.  He promised us he’d work it out.  And he did.  A few minutes later, the first 30 or so of us in the correct line were shuffled off around the corner and let in to the Backbar.  It was about 11:30.  We were grateful beyond words for the warmth, but have you ever entered the Backbar?  Again, this is not a complaint, but it’s like being smuggled into a loading container on the docks.  Here’s a glimpse of the journey in pictures:

Inside was bliss.  No arctic wind blasts and the waiting music (Naughty by Nature, Black Sheep…) spurred a party: hands waving, crotches grinding, celebrate, good times.

Soon we were upstairs, and much like you, thinking this story was over; that we’d see an awesome show and go home tired but satisfied.  Mos took the stage at midnight.  And we tried.  We did.  But damnit, everybody had used all their energy jumping up and down outside, over-working their immune system, just to stay warm.  We were outside in well below freezing wind chills for three hours.  Mos and his DJs desperately tried to get us involved, but the energy was just so flat.  Even Mos was tired and a little off.  He abandoned the set-list plan and at one point thumbed through a book trying to find songs to perform.  He was good.  Everything he does is good.  But it wasn’t meant to be, for any of us.  And so sometime after 1:15 am, when I turned to Miss Bianca and realized the “is it bedtime, yet?” glaze had set on her eyes, too, it was time to go home, before the show was even done.

We headed out, defeated, and jumped in a cab.  But unlike so. many. other. cabbies. in this city, this cabbie was a cool guy and had a GPS.  I tried to get a picture of it while moving:

But it gets even better.  He was listening to some sweet Lite FM station and so we got to ride in exhausted glory to Gloria Estefan’s “Here We Are.”  And yes: I (lamely) sang along.  And yes: Miss Bianca just laughed at me.  And yes: we were so tired from staving off hypothermia and were so unable to function on Tuesday, that had we been given any real responsibility to get something done at our respective places of employment yesterday, we probably would’ve both lost our jobs.

But that’s why this is mos def not a complaint.  (Some) Mos Def: check.  Jobs: check.  Each other: check.