Tuesday, July 16, 2002

Hey Snakecharmers:

Blogger's having major "issues" so I haven't been able to post anything for days. Sorry.

(By the way, I didn't write that thing about "Blogger rocks!"--it's some automatic Blogger thing.)

This is a super-old thing:

So I totally went to the dentist today for more drill-jawbone action, and am currently high on "V" and about to go back to bed. But before I do, a word about the White Stripes show on Saturday.

I hate to be that guy, but I gotta be that guy. It wasn't 3/4 as good as the shows in L.A.

First, it was too short--barely an hour, and the shows in LA were closer to two.

Second, Meg was not happy and was looking (apparently) miserable. I couldn't see her face from where I was standing, but the review the next day said she was stone-faced like a zombie, or something. I did notice she wasn't doing her usual maybe-she's-a-little-crazy melodramatic flirtation-with-Jack stuff, where she waves her sticks in slo-mo like magic wands, turns her head funny with her eyes closed, and leans way back and looks at him like, "I guess YOU think you're something pretty special."

None of that.

Jack seemed to be almost sleepwalking through his performance, and his solos were short and undangerous. Usually his solos are dangerous, and you think maybe he's going to fall off the face of the craggy cliff he's scaling. (But he never does.)

He did very little slide and what he did lacked breath between the notes. It was too many notes.

Only one encore.

Something was going on that night with them, and I wish I knew what it was.

I had been expecting that a show in the Midwest would be much better than in L.A., since they hate L.A. and since the crowd in Minneapolis is so sweaty and loving. But maybe their feelings about L.A. drew a better performance from them. Perhaps they felt a sense of embattlement that kindled the magic fire between them. Perhaps they felt they had something to teach about passion.

But in Minneapolis, the show reflected only their basal passion rate. Pretty passionate compared to 99 percent of bands here or anywhere, but not what I'm used to from them.

Oh yeah, and there was NO AMERICAN FLAG.

(They had a huge sexy American flag behind them before.)

Usually, it is clear that Jack will be engulfed in flames if you hold a match near him. On Saturday, it was clear that his synthetic red pants would melt, but he'd be OK.

One thing that gave me the shivers (in a good way) was that apparently Jack didn't have any clean undies, and so he wasn't wearing any, and his pants sort of shouted a detailed description of what he's working with.

When he says he's got a little something to find his baby's mojo with, he sure ain't kidding.

I'm putting out a prayer right now that Jack and Meg were not fighting, or that if they were, it was a sort of sexy we'll-never-break-up fight that makes them excited and ultimately better as a band. I hope that maybe they were just sick and exhausted and dying to get home. Maybe breaking down--but not not not breaking up.

If you want to help me, say this out loud, or something better:

Dear Jack and Meg.

We love you.

Give us the rock!

Hang in there!

Amen and pass the bottle!



PS: My friends, however, were beautiful enough to make me happy as a turtle in a dragonfly disco.

On Sunday I went swimming/rowing on the magic St. Croix River. Lenny Kravitz was a major issue that day---because of all the dragonflies.

You know, Lenny wishes he could fly/up to the sky/so very high/just like a dragonfly.

He wants to get away, he wants to fly away.

Yeah yeah yeah!

But we noticed that dragonflies don't fly so very high. They keep it close to the water, actually.

But oh man, one thing they do for sure, all the time, is DO IT. Dragonflies do it nonstop. And they do it flying. And floating. Me and Suzanne we were swimming, and a piece of driftwood drifted past, and there were two dragonfly couples on it, both doing it. It was a very '60s vibe happening on that piece of driftwood.

The only thing is, when they do it, the guy sticks the end of his tail onto the chick's head. It's not very intimate. Not a lot of room for variation or special whispers.

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