Warming the Bench at the Orpheum

I sat outside for a good portion of the Robert Plant show the other night. Many people took note of my performance art - I had three fellas in various states of intoxication and in varying degrees of being earlytwenty try to school me about music and rock concerts.

I assumed the guy with the soaked shirt was rolling or perhaps he had simply taken off his shirt, placed it on the ground, peed on it and put it back on, or maybe someone holding 12 overpriced ounces of beer in a plastic cup jumped up at the sound of Misty Mountain Hop and dumped it all over him, or it was possible he had been roofing all day, or crying backwards.

Whatever the reason for his soaked state and crazed blackball eyes, he wasn’t embarrassed to approach me and tell me that “Plants voice isn’t was it used to be, but if I opened myself up to the music I would see…see the beauty of the music.”  I told him I’ve already had that conversation – a lot. And I think it freaked him out.