Rock stars and common people are two sides of the world defining each other through the creation of otherworldly distance that at certain stratospheric level of stardom is like believing inherently natural for Michael Jackson to moonwalk his way to the toilet. How we know them, consume their music in form of personalized media bubble packages of YouTube videos or iTunes downloads in our private minds and their disillusioned twitter accounts build its own copy of reality of the embodiment of the artists. A twisted simulacra of getting used to enjoying them acting as a band in a video or hearing over the radio that sometimes it feels more intimate and real than actually seeing them live ten metres away with horn blowing high-pitched decibels ripping your hair off. To somewhat frame the sentiment grandiosely we can refer to what Umberto Eco said of Disneyland, “ We not only enjoy a perfect imitation, we also enjoy the conviction that imitation has reached its apex and afterwards reality will be inferior to it.” ("The City of Robots" Travels in Hyperreality). That is pretty much what swimming in my head when I compare armchair travelling to backpacking and when I went to Phoenix’s concert few months ago without any pre-emptive action to deal with my subconscious uneasiness of detachment and ignorance toward the band for the past 3 years especially their latest album because basically the girls just wanted to have some fun and take whatever the night was offering after rough week of selling bourgeois bohemian products to the Bobos picking up pieces from the recent economic collapse. I was just hanging on the bittersweet whim of my past addiction back in college, toward playing their earlier hits banging my eardrums and half-witted brain at 3 AM, helping me to survive from quoting and overanalyzing Baudrillard for my final thesis. Even Googling first over the who’s who in your Blackberry had been passed as intrusive if not unthinkable (to my defense), and my sole knowledge that the vocalist is having relationship with Sophia Coppola was sufficient for me not to be obsessively remembering what he actually looked like (which became quite a hassle later that night). As Phoenix rose from the ashes of its old-self, they and people watching became a whole different reality for me that night. Talking about people who came to watch, it revealed to me through an unexpected juxtaposition that I played undermined role of a postman delivering certain strangers’ happiness since I was the one who kept my friend’s and his friend’s friends’ tickets jumbled in my shoulder bag with mine. The plan was I gave them the tickets over quick dinner and dashed off to regroup with my slightly more groupie girlfriends who already at the scene and whose extended knowledge on pop culture and recent Phoenix news would be my guidance post from getting lost in musical limbo. Yet unaccustomed by pre-concert backstage stalking activity, I was pretty flabbergasted under my calm exterior to know from an insider that the band was having dinner at the same place (which considered one of the hippest and classiest restaurant in town - citation needed) I was going to bringing in the tickets. So tracing back to New York caste system in the years of The Age of Innocence or even in today’s Gossip Girls, I was this Brooklyn girl strutting her way and tumbling charm to an Upper East Side dinner only to act like a less composed die hard fan in front of well-reserved strangers, exploiting my beginner’s luck to have a picture with a group of white guys we assumed as the band. After laps of total self-deprecated action and an awkward hi to my ex boss who actually owned the place, sponsored the concert, and probably witnessed my downfall from grace, I was made to believe that I just took the picture with the friendly band mates without its lead man who was acting as the loner guy from Mars, sitting lazily at the table. But without me knowing, this Thomas Mars stood up all of sudden in time for picture and down again to enjoy his tea by the time I thanked the standing members. That’s how the invisible voice accompanied me all these years disengaged with the visible remoteness of an alien showing at the backdrop of a picture. I am that typical girl you meet for the first encounter that says ‘I’m sorry” too many times for no particular reason that usually preceded by heavy courtesy and lingering timidity or even carelessness and childishness of wanting to runaway from any trouble and inconvenience possibly caused during my motor mouth moment or my simply nonchalant behaviour which I exhibited quite frankly at about having picture with Mr. Mars twice in one night, this second time totally an accidental sabotage over my friend’s chance as the band passed through us on their way huddled to the private lounge at the after party. We were just these two girls waiting for our drinks to come when my girlfriend shocked the three of us and proximity itself that the guy she was waiting all night actually coming closely to her direction and the only thing that attracted the other groupie for a signal of celebrity nearby was our utterly amateurish silent panic. He kindly refused to take picture but finding that quite snobbish and pitied over our stubbornness, he relented in the split second only weirdly enough I got to be taken with first as she was holding the camera and I was right beside him. As every twist of the story takes place before we know it, the bouncer already saved him up from the gathering crowd because an insistent girl thrown herself and took my friend’s slot. His final denouement was a feeble and helpless protest yet considerate and humble to our ears, “She was first…”.
This elaborated commotion earlier pretty much making me missing the opening act of rustic Naif and starting in the middle of the S.I.G.I.T (Super Insurgent Group of Intemperance Talent) who apparently had the talent to go live as insanely rocking as it is recorded and burning the night in high anticipation with their scrawny look of long-haired late 70s rock band screaming long riffs of rollercoaster ride in a forgotten rock land. Yet the young night turned an unexpected downslide as their somehow ironic remark onstage of not knowing what Garuda called in English (screaming out loud, “It’s Phoenix...Hello?!” against thousands of euphoric audience apparently a futile action) and the anti-climax performance from Rock ’n Roll Mafia who had the hard time that night and years to come to live up to their name if they kept their inappropriate resilience to play electronic gung-ho with robotic spirit of New Order era.
Almost thirty minutes of complete flat lining boredom trying to toss away giant bouncing flattening balloon across the room while the other hand wearily holding the empty glass of overpriced beer with medleys of getting to know your new friends and catching up with some old friends later, the main attraction resuscitated us from a near death experience by revisiting the haunted spirit of Franz Liszt himself in his 18th century glories as the pioneer of mass hysteria catalyst and early fascination inducer on artist as celebrity and live performance, through the beautiful chaos of speedy "Lisztomania". The crowd turning to heated pack of sardines jumping and galloping rhythmically through its every jive. It reverberated “from the mess to the masses.” indeed. With an encore too sweet to last, our crazed hunger over this addictive electrifying rush to the brain seemed inauspiciously unquenchable through their nonstop detour to Wolfgang Amadeus and some classics. We floated through "Love is Like a Sunset", raved over "Funky Square Dance" and the susceptible crowd weathered by nostalgic hearts already beat according to the stormy vibration of "Run", it was running from the core of the gig.
To come to think of how these French alt rock philosophers not only have supported me pulling through my sanity from another French postmodern philosopher but also now through the darkest hours of capitalistic doom adulthood only seems to offer; and seeing them with beatific expression toward us built brief solidarity and mitigating shield in the menacing crowd of self-interested strangers starving for good music to go along with their cigarette breaks and autistic-stomping on other people’s feet-jitterbug. As for my friend, no worries, she managed to make her Cinderella story as she stalked Mr. Mars on his way back to the hotel as midnight struck and get all the pictures she wanted to have with the rest of the rock band who mingled with the commons without that otherworldly distance.
