Metropolis mayhem

I went to the Martha Wainwright concert at the Jazz Fest last weekend. There are not many artists I’m willing to herd myself into a crowd of sweaty, slightly drunken fans for, but Martha is one of them.

So, I’m standing in my little carved-out space at the Metropolis, and the opening act, this whistling-violin-guitar playing guy Andrew Bird comes on. Now, this guy can really belt out a tune with his whistling antics. It was impressive. What was NOT as impressive, was the man standing beside (practically on top?) of me. The-backpack-toting-I’ve-already-had -about -15+ beers-and-it’s-only-7:30-and-yes-you-had-better-well-hope-I-don’t-have-a-mean-case-of-dandruff-because-there-is-going-to-be-a-lot-of-mad-head-shaking-going-on-in-this-corner man to my immediate left was problematic from the get-go.

First off, he made what I will, in all fairness label a strong attempt at mimicking the whistling from Andrew Bird. However, as is the case with anyone who doesn’t know a song off by heart, it’s impossible to sing directly in synch with the lyrics, because you don’t KNOW THEM YET. So buddy next to me is whistling notes totally off cue, and it’s maddening. When Martha does finally come on stage, it becomes immediately apparent that the real show is going on right beside me.

Buddy is screaming his head off. He’s throwing his hands around, the backpack smashing into his neighbours, the dandruff flying wildly. No one is looking at the stage, everyone is looking at my bosom buddy. And yet, his friends, the five or so people with him, are apparently oblivious, and every half hour or so tap him gently on the shoulder and say, ‘Wannanother beer, Steve?’ (I truly deserve serious accolades for the heroic restraint I demonstrated in not ripping that plastic cup from his hand when the tally crept upwards of 20).

But, it made me realize something. No matter how crazy someone is, no matter how much he drinks, yells, or how little he washes his hair, that someone will still have friends who love him. That even though each of those friends was delivered a blow to the stomach from the backpack, and one even got a fist to the head when Steve-O felt the need to show hearty appreciation for a song, they never let him know just how irritating he was. They shrugged their shoulders when met with angry, frustrated glances from other concert-goers, and tapped Steve affectionately on the shoulder when he took a sip of his beer. But most of all, they made sure he had a good time, Steve-style.

Now. If that’s not friendship, I ask you, what is?