The (Mostly) True Tales of a Brandi Carlile Fan, Part 1

Part One: The Fandom

I just returned from my trip to Seattle, a trip I admittedly took simply to attend a “secret” Brandi Carlile concert. Yes, I will readily divulge that I spent $300 on a plane ticket, got on a teeny plane which made me nauseous, and flew 1,000 miles just to see a band play. When my mother asked me, “Are you going to follow this young singer around the entire country?”, I told her that if Brandi would just play in LA, I wouldn’t have to. But alas, Brandi lives in Seattle, and only plays “secret” shows in towns she lives in, apparently. How dare she. Besides, I wasn’t actually going to see Brandi. I was seeing “Late Morning Lullaby,” with The Fighting Machinists as their opener.

Upon making my arrangements to attend this show, I already knew there was going to be havoc wreaked by the internet forum members. For weeks before the show, I wondered how I was going to bring two of my real-life friends into that mix, especially given their general aversion to internet fandoms. To people who don’t know the strange and almost cult-like lure of internet fandoms, they can be intimidating. After all, these are the people who get something signed (sometimes it’s a body part) after every show, the people who seem to have intimate conversations with Brandi at every show, the people who all became soul sisters after spending a week together on a cruise featuring Brandi and other folk musicians, and the very same people who told me about this show in the first place. I wanted to meet these notorious folks, and figure out how they manage to socialize with a semi-famous musician so much. However, I had no idea how I was going to make it all come together.

Once the much-awaited day arrived, I had to figure out who I was going to be that day. I had to decide between joining the madness (which I’m never very good at), or being the fly on the wall and just observing (which I’m very good at, but often feel left out of the madness as a result). After watching “Almost Famous” last week, I considered Lester Bangs’ advice: never become friends with ‘em. This seemed like a good rule of thumb – be friendly, but don’t get too involved. Be an observer, but an observer with a little bit of an inside edge, thus making the resulting review knowledgeable, but distant enough to be critical. Now, I’m no Cameron Crowe (not that I consider Crowe to be the genius that he seems to think he is), but every once in a while, I am a writer in my own right, and I thought I should have the proper perspective.

I finally settled on a happy medium: I wore a name tag, stood on line for two hours, introduced myself to all of the people that I’d been exchanging banter with over cyberspace, and finally scored myself a cushy spot in the fourth row, dead center, looking straight at Brandi. I even talked to and flirted a little with the cute girl sitting next to me during the opening act… until her annoying guy friend decided to switch places, and thought that standing in between us was the best place for him. We exchanged a couple more glances after that, but when the show ended, it was just too crowded to deal with any one, and our very short lived romance fizzled faster than a Brandi fan’s fingers fly when dialing ticketmaster for tickets. Anyway, where was I? Oh, right – happy medium. I did not, however, participate in the pre-concert tailgating on a Ballard street outside the bar, sit behind Brandi’s grandmother, videotape the entire concert (I only filmed one song, you see) and stream it on the web, call a friend in Tokyo, Stockholm, or Amsterdam and have her listen to the entire concert on the phone, line up at noon, or stalk Brandi or any of her band mates after the show.

From my perch on a barstool in the fourth row, I was perfectly happy to stare directly at Brandi, even if it meant I couldn’t see Josh (the cellist) at all. The lights dimmed, the opening band took the stage, and suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. It was me, 200 other sweaty fans, my friends, the cute girl, and Brandi and the twins. As soon as The Fighting Machinists took the stage, I remembered why I love live music – it’s the collective high you experience with the rest of the audience, that moment where you know that 200 (or 2000, depending on where you are) other people just felt the exact same thing you did at the exact same time. It’s an experience you share with 200 strangers, and actually, the anonymity of it is part of its appeal – which is why I was wary about becoming too ensconced in the fandom. Once you lose that anonymity, the experience is changed...

When the show ended, reality started creeping in again, and my real life friends and I made a beeline for the merch table so we could buy our T shirts and get the hell away from the crowd. Torn between my exhaustion, my real life friends, and not wanting to feel left out of the fandom, I reluctantly said a hasty goodbye to whoever I could find, and as quickly as it started, the worship service was over. Once outside the bar, lacking what else to do, we headed straight for the car and home, as one usually does after a concert ends – or so I thought.

I later realized that I had indeed failed my initiation into the fandom by going home straight after the concert. I mistakenly thought that attending the secret show would be enough to get me in the door, but apparently, in order to gain the premium membership, there were still some steps to be taken. The correct answer would have been to avoid the mad rush for the door, and instead walk farther into the bar, thus being part of the resulting conversation with Brandi herself. It turns out getting a word in edgewise with the unassuming star is part of the initiation ritual for all new members, and I failed. After all, this is a club whose membership is based on the admiration for one person, and if I can’t manage to get near her, what kind of member am I?

... Please click on over to "The (Mostly) True Tales of a Brandi Carlile Fan (Part Two: The Concert)" for the rest of the review.