A Small Fantasy

Oh, how I've come to love the music of Laura Veirs, even though Mrs. Olaf and I had to walk out of her performance at Tacheles in Berlin last August. You see, the club was about the size of your average living room, in what looked like a bombed-out cavern. There were so many people in the club that the temperature had risen 30 degrees above ambient, and yet even more people were coming in. We managed to grab a beer thanks to heroic mob plunging by yours truly, and then we stood for 45 minutes waiting for the opening act. More people surged in. The temperature got even higher. The only restroom lay on the far side of the space, and people were wedged up against the door. It was time for Laura Veirs.

Ms. Veirs and the Tortured Souls were late.

At last, after an hour and a half pressure cooking in that meat chamber, the band came on. Mrs. Olaf noted, "No fire suppression system in here." Did I mention that everyone, including us (out of self defense) was smoking? Although Mrs. Olaf is tall, she was squeezed in so tight that she could only catch glimpses of the stage. We were both drenched in sweat. More people squeezed in.

We lasted for two songs. I thought I would pass out. The air was blue and we were physically resisting attempts to reach the bar through us, until people were literally vaulting over the crowd to get a drink. I have never been in such a crush in my entire life. Somehow, through sheer determination, we pushed out through the mob and into the hallway, and thence into the cool summer evening.

"The 'Tortured Souls'?" Mrs. Olaf said. "How about the 'Tortured Audience'?"

And we both cracked up. We're just too old for that scene, and that's a shame because Ms. Veirs is a wonderful songwriter and a solid performer. It's just that this venue--compared to the previous evening when we'd sat in the Club b-flat, sipping single malt, beer chasers, and sitting within chatting distance of a fucking incredible quartet--was like a college exercise not unlike stuffing a Volkswagen that had been driven into a steam room.

But I still dig Laura Veirs, and someday, in my miserable fantasy existence, we're gigging together.

I still feel bad about leaving early. Sorry, Laura.