Grab your brown bag lunch and head out to the school bus, ‘cause today we’re taking a field trip!  That’s right, Paste is going to see the Rome Braves take on the Ashville Tourists today in Rome, Georgia (not to be confused with Athens, Georgia).  I’d almost forgotten about the baseball trip, though, because I’ve been too preoccupied… my thoughts are consumed by one momentus thing: DAVID BECKHAM HAS COME TO AMERICA!!!!!!!  MY DREAM COME TRUE!!!!! HOW DID I LIVE BEFORE THIS?!?! GOD BLESS AMERICA, LAND OF BECKS!!!!!!!!  (read sarcasm in between the exclamation points).

So yes, in case you missed the news, David Beckham has come to America to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy. NBC even aired a 60-minute reality TV primetime special on his wife, Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham.  I didn’t watch the special (I was relacing all my shoes), but haven’t been able to escape the Beckhams. TV is flooded with David Beckham commercials, ESPN coverage and CNN and E! Channel commentary alike.

One of Posh’s first duties in America? Throwing the opening pitch at a Dodgers game…

Well I dreamt up a better scenario, appropriately timed given today’s field trip… I wish I was making this stuff up…

In this dream, Editor-at-Large, Jay Sweet, called the Paste team up to his stomping grounds in New England.  It was time for the summer wood bat baseball leagues to begin! This year New England was hosting a very special league: “The Rock’n’Roll Sluggers.”

My coworkers and I boarded a charter bus and arrived for this special event.  We walked around the bus parking lot and saw a bunch of bands had already arrived, including The National, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Of Montreal. They all had their press pictures on the sides of their buses.

The Paste team walked out to the field and saw all the bands sitting in the bleachers behind homeplate.  The league commissioner was providing instructions and rules for the league, amongst them:

1) Only five players per team on the field at any time
2) Games last for six, not nine, innings
3) A loss eliminates a team from the tournament

Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, was enfuriated by these rules.  As a real-life, out-of-dream baseball enthusiast and Fantasy Baseball League team manager, Steve thought these rules were bogus and told the commissioner as much.  The Rock’n’Roll Sluggers commissioner told him to be quiet or else Steve would be thrown out of the league… Steve got quiet.

While the commissioner went over some more rules, I talked to Jay. “We’re not a band,” I whispered.

“That’s okay, we’re uniting under a fake band name. Everyone on our team actually plays a musical instrument, so we count,” he explained. Fair enough.

First up: Paste’s Imaginary Band vs Straylight Run.

But before the game could begin, someone had to sing the National Anthem and throw out the opening pitch!

Enter: Leslie Feist. 

Wearing a bright blue sequenced leotard, much like the one she dons in her latest music video, Feist walked out onto the field with a microphone and sang the National Anthem… of Canada, her homeland.

Then she threw the opening pitch. Feist had a great arm and got the pitch over the plate at 50mph! “Let the games begin!” yelled the commissioner.

Rather than “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and other standard tunes playing over the speakers, fans were treated to live music from The Polyphonic Spree.  Following Tim DeLaughter’s lead, the band danced through the bleachers while playing their magnificent tunes.

Straylight Run was the home team and took the field first, while Paste’s Imaginary Band went to bat. There was immediately some trash talking from Michelle of Straylight Run, which surprised us because she looked so sweet.  Competition does funny things to people… even in dreams.

That was the extent of the dream, though.  Baseball, blue sequence and lots of cameos.

Hey, NBC! Next time you wanna do a 60-minute reality TV special program, do I have a fantastic idea for you....

I am a Beatlemaniac, which is saying a lot because I was born after The Beatles era.  The lads from Liverpool will get some love from Paste in our upcoming July issue, in which we ask: “Can Rock Save the World?”

One of the articles in this issue will look back at John Lennon & Yoko Ono‘s ”Bed-Ins." I blame this on my latest bizarre dream.

My dream takes me to 1972.  I am in New York City, where John Lennon is the musical guest on Saturday Night Live.  I am charged with writing an article about the event.

I arrive at 30 Rockefeller Center on Saturday afternoon, before the evening dress rehersal. There I pick up my media credentials and head over to my hotel to check-in.  I am shocked to find out that I will be sharing a room with John & Yoko, and their publicist.  It seems John & Yoko have brought their “Bed-In” to Manhattan, but that John will get out of bed in order to play SNL.  His publicist is there to make sure of it.  But no one is in the room when I open the door.  There are posters for the “Bed-In” but nothing else.  I shrug and return to SNL studios.

The SNL cast is there, ready to practice.  (Since SNL did not air until 1975, I made up my own cast).  John Belushi, Dan Akroyd and Amy Poehler pass by me.  The producer looks frantic because John Lennon is nowhere to be found.

“I think he is at dinner,” I tell the producer.  “His publicist mentioned something about it.” So I offer to locate John ("investigatory journalism") for the SNL crew.  My first step is to call the hotel and see if the concierge knows where John & Yoko went.  He tells me they are at a restaurant on the West End, near Central Park.  I call the restaurant and ask to speak to John Lennon.  I suddenly get nervous, wondering what I should call him—“John”? “Mr. Lennon”? 

John answers the phone and seems peeved that I am interupting his meal.

“Excuse me Mr. Lennon, I’m the reporter sharing your hotel room.  Saturday Night Live is looking for you.”

John tells me that he is at dinner with some old friends who have just moved to New York from San Francisco.  His friends are very sad and disheartened in New York.  “It doesn’t have the same energy, you know?” Seems his friends wanted to start a big peace movement in New York, but have had little success.  John has offered to help them (thus explaining the “Bed In").

“You have to be at the studio, though.  Can’t they come with you?”

John is mad that I am trying to rush him, but the publicist agrees with me.  We decide to meet at the studio.

The show goes live at 11pm.  John Lennon performs “Give Peace a Chance.” He is scheduled to perform another song but leaves the studio before his curtain call.  The producer is freaking out again and decides to take the cameras outside.  They will tape the Metropolitan Opera performing outdoors since John has disappeared.  Opera singers and some ballerinas congregate in the plaza and perform “Beauty in the Beast”—the Disney version.

John Belushi is standing next to me.  “What the hell is this?” he asks.

“Beauty and the Beast!  But Disney doesn’t make it until the 1990s!”

“You’re from the future?!” he screams. 

With my cover blown, I make a dash for the hotel.  No one is in the hotel room when I get there.  I decide that I should watch the last bit of SNL on TV but can’t find the remote control.  I turn over all the pillows and sheets looking for it.  Unfortunately, there is no way to turn on the TV without this remote.

I call the West End restaurant again, in case John has gone back.  The hostess says he is having drinks with friends, and brings him the phone.

“What is it this time?” he asks me.

“Did you take the remote control for the TV?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Can I have it back?  I need to watch the rest of SNL so I can finish the story about you.”

“No, TV is bad for you.”

“But you were just on TV.”

“I know.” Click.  Our interview is clearly over.

--------

I’ve been waiting for The Arcade Fire dream for a long time.  Sometimes I listen to Neon Bible right before going to bed so my brain might just conjure up something.  But alas, The Arcade Fire dream has yet to occur.

The band did, however, make a cameo in my dream the other night.  It gives me hope of bigger, better, and more bizarre visions to come.

In the dream, I was in a conference room putting together a spreadsheet of The Arcade Fire’s tour dates and band members (as our web editor would say, “Uh, LAME-dot-com").  But there were so many tour dates and band members that my spreadsheet was out of whack.  It kept reformatting on its own and made me frustrated.

This reveals three immediate things:

1) I work too much.
2) I don’t get enough sleep.
3) I saw The Arcade Fire in the “Business Meeting” on SNL.  Enjoy the clip below.

A few years ago I attended a conference in Atlanta and was introduced to a young songwriter out of Nashville named Matt Wertz.  He was fronting the house band for the conference.  Wertz had just completed his first full length record and played some of his songs later that evening for about 75 folks in the hotel conference room.  Over the next few years I saw him perform at a variety of small venues (often sold out) as his popularity grew.

Flash forward a few years to 2007 and I see Wertz’s name on the marquee of Variety Playhouse (capacity of appx 1,400).  I didn’t catch the show, but I thought it was nice to see he went from humble beginnings to larger venues. Good for you, Matt.

It must have been on my mind, because I had a dream about the show earlier this week.  Well, actually, it was a nightmare in which I started my musical “career” in the opposite manner. Bad idea.

In this nightmare, I am driving by Variety on my way to work, just like I do every waking day.  I look up at the marquee to see a shocking sight:

CAREN KELLEHER
w/MATT WERTZ, NATHAN ANGELO
THIS FRIDAY!

I immediately call Variety’s main office. A woman answers the phone and tells me that the show was booked by longtime Paste friend and fantastic independent promoter, Alex Weiss, of OK Productions.  I call Alex in a panic.

“Hey Caren, did you see the marquee?” he asks.  “Cool, huh?”

“I can’t play a show, Alex! I don’t even play an instrument!”

“I thought you owned a guitar?” (true story)

“Yeah, but I don’t play very well!”

“Well, this is a great way to make your debut,” he argues.

“You’re not listening, I can’t play --”

“Okay, see you Friday~” Click.

Thinking this to be a cruel joke, I forget about my phone call with Alex and the marquee board with my name on it.  Until Friday comes around and Alex calls again.  He asks me to show up at 5:00pm for soundcheck. 

I decide that there is no turning back.  The show must go on.  And I’ll need a backing band.

First I call Paste Music Editor, Jason Killingsworth, who has conquered Guitar Hero II on every level of difficulty and plays in a band, Music In the Glen.  I ask Jason to help me by playing guitar at my show—“just look up some tabs online.” But Jason tells me I’m too late; he’s got a gig with Music In the Glen.  I invite them to play, too, but Jason refuses.

Next I call Paste Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, also a solo artist and member of the much discussed Atlanta rock band, Attractive Eighties Women.  But Steve and the AEW also have a gig and can’t play with me.

My last call is to Paste Editor-in-Chief, Josh Jackson, who plays a mean mandolin.  Josh doesn’t pick up my phone call.

Panic sets in.  I have horrible stagefright when it comes to performing and/or singing, though I can rock a Microsoft Powerpoint presentation.  I arrive at soundcheck with my dusty Yamaha Pacifica in hand, and run into Matt Wertz.  I ask him if he will help me by playing back-up. 

“I’ll sing if you play guitar,” I offer.

“How come you are billed first if you can’t even play?” he asks.

“I don’t know, someone booked me?” Wertz walks off to tune his guitar without giving me his answer. 

Atlanta’s own Nathan Angelo takes the stage first to a packed (mostly female) crowd.  He plays some tunes on the keyboard and I think, Hmm, I can play the keyboard… maybe I should do that instead of guitar.....  Wertz goes on next and the crowd cheers.  I can hear their screams from downstairs in the Green Room, where I am now tuning my guitar.  In a last ditch effort to save myself humiliation, I look up a few guitar tabs online—Brandi Carlile, The Weepies, Dave Matthews…

When Wertz gets off stage he is clearly exhausted and he collapses on a couch, throwing a towel on his head.  I see that I will have to brave this one on my own. 

Alex comes to get me and says it is time to go on.  I take the stage and everyone looks confused and starts whispering and/or yelling.  “Who is that?” “Do you know her?” “Play a song already!”

I slowly work my way through a basic song.  My voice cracks when I try to sing.  The crowd turns on me.

Alex leaps on stage to prevent rioting.  “I’m sorry, everyone!  I’m so sorry! Please see me for a full refund at the front door if you would like one!” There is a mass exodus from the venue.  My career starts and ends in an instant.

----

Last night I went to 500 Songs for Kids, a charitable concert series where 500 artists perform Rolling Stone‘s 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.  Just seeing the stage gave me the chills and reminded me of my nightmare. I don’t know how you do it, Musicians of the World… I salute you for your bravery.  Keep up the good work.

For Paste,
CK

It seems that all this talk of dreams has inspired my colleagues to have rock (or in this case, hip hop) dreams of their own.  Today I happily turn Sleep to Dream over to guest blogger and Paste Associate Editor, Steve LaBate, who shares his very detailed visions of Outkast, ?uestlove, an 18-wheeler, and the YMCA. Commence dream sequence:

by Steve LaBate

I’ve just arrived at some swank studio in some unknown town to interview Outkast’s André 3000 and Big Boi, and I can’t help but notice the tasteful, deep-brown wood trim. “Hmmm… nice trim,” I think as I walk down the long hallway toward my interview subjects. For some reason, I haven’t prepared for this assignment, and also left my tape recorder a few blocks away in my car. When I meet up with the dynamic duo, we sit at a wooden table, and I sift through my backpack for the tape recorder (even though I know it’s in my car). Finally I settle on a pen and notepad, a method I haven’t used since my college-newspaper days, since it’s often hard to keep up, makes the conversation awkward and lends itself to inaccuracies. But, shit, I’m a pro. I can handle it. Off the cuff, I ask Andre 3000 this really smart, insightful question - something about how he feels about his creativity and refusal to conform often being dismissed as eccentricity. He launches into this witty, telling monologue (about what I can’t remember - but he manages to completely dodge my question while being poignant and funny and plenty insightful himself). I scribble his pearls as furiously as I can, but I’m still missing stuff. “Damn it!” I think. “How could I have forgotten my tape recorder!” After a minute, I give up on taking notes. When André finally finishes - I address him by his full first name, but he says, “Hey, Call me Dré or Andre 3000 - there’s too many Andres around here, and it’s easy to get mixed up.”

I’ve yet to improv my question for Big Boi (who I’ve actually interviewed in waking life before), so I tell him, “Look, I thought I’d be cool without it, but I really need to go grab my tape recorder.”

“Alright,” he says. “But hurry, we’ve got some things to take care of today.”

Shamed at my lack of professionalism, I turn to hurry back out into the hallway toward my car, when I run into ?uestlove and the rest of The Roots. (I’ve only met ?uestlove for a five-second handshake at one of our issue-launch parties in New York, where he was Dj-ing that night, but in my dream we are, apparently, good buddies.) We exchange a spirited, chummy greeting, like good buddies often do, and he tells me he’s going to be performing later, and asks if I could keep an eye on the band’s truck full of gear for him. I gladly oblige, forgetting about my interview (or perhaps chalking it up to complete failure and deciding to bail), and head over to the show, which happens to be at, of course, my gym. Well, it’s my gym, but it’s not my gym - in that peculiar dreamlike way. I mean, I know it’s my gym, but it actually looks like some dilapidated YMCA I’ve never been to. The Roots are set up on the concrete deck by the swimming pool, and as I watch them rock the party in front of bleachers full of unlikely fans, I think, “Wow, this is pretty cool. I’m usually lifting weights right over there...” (yeah, sure you are, Dream Steve - let’s not forget we haven’t actually been to the gym in two months… just ‘cause you pay the fee doesn’t mean you get to claim you actually excercise) ... and, lo and behold, where I’m usually pumping serious iron, ?uestlove is pounding the skins. “Far out!”

Midway through the show, ?uestlove gives me the signal that it’s time for me to pull the band’s truck around, so they can load out later. When I find the thing outside the venue, I see they’ve parked it on this utterly ridiculous incline. At first, I can’t quite fathom how in the hell it’s staying in place, but then then I notice it’s chained to the pavement. “I can’t back this thing out,” I think. “I’ve never driven anything close to this big, and it’s sitting at about a 70-degree angle!” Luckily, Paste publisher and - in this dream, at least - expert truck driver Tim “Bandit” Porter materializes out of nowhere to pull me out of a jam (though his partner “Snowman” and basset hound, Fred, were conspicuously absent). Throwing all caution to the wind, Tim hops behind the wheel of The Roots’ 18-wheeler, unlatches the e-brake and guns it. The tires spin on the sandy blacktop, then they catch and screech, smoldering rubber smoke filling the air.  I look over and… “Oh, shit! Wait! Stop! I forgot to unchain the truck!” I scream.  But it’s too late, Tim’s foot is heavy on the gas pedal, the engine is howling and the chain is as taught as Big Boi’s flow. Suddenly, the chain snaps, and at the same moment, so do the laws of physics. I watch as Tim and the truck shoot like a rocket up the hill, into the air and over the YMCA (which has since morphed into a picturesque little house on a hilltop). I hear the truck come crashing down on the other side of the house, but somehow when it hits, it bounces back over the house and lands in a twisted, shrieking scrap heap not far from where it was parked. Luckily, miraculously, a nonplussed Tim crawls from the wreckage unscathed, and dusts himself off.

By now, ?uestlove and company have finished their set, and come strolling out to discover this flaming scene of havoc and destruction.  My boy is pissed, and he lets me know about it - “You couldn’t keep an eye on it without shit exploding all over the place, could you?!?!” ?uestlove yells. “Not even for an hour?!?!”

Well, in just a few blundering seconds of R.E.M. sleep, I’ve miserably let down the hip-hop world not once but twice. Now, I will go face my failure… and, in monk-like atonement, beat my forehead repeatedly with a used copy of ATLiens while monotone chanting, “Throw your hands in the ayer, and wave ‘em like you just don’t cayer / and if ya like fish & grits & all dat pimp shit, then everybody say o’yayer.”

It’s been awhile since I had a rock-inspired dream.  I blame it on the pressures that comes with having this blog to maintain.  This dream dryspell has been troublesome for me, though, because I lead a simple life, and without these dreams I have no stories to tell.  With no stories to tell, my coworkers and friends have little interest in what I have to say… and no one visits my blog anymore.

But last night I had a baby rock dream that gives me renewed hope in the powers of my imagination!  This was the dream…

... just a concert poster.  I dreamt that I was walking into the local coffee shop and spotted this poster on the door.  I was suddenly overcome with joy. 

Why? you ask?

Because for some unknown (and unacceptable) reason, both Andrew Bird and The Shins have bypassed Atlanta on their tours.  Neither artist has played here in over a year… maybe longer. As you may recall, I’ve already dreamt about both of these artists.  Andrew Bird and I crashed a wedding together, while The Shins tried to show me that they could sing underwater with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.  How many more dreams must I have before these artists play for me?!?!

As for the inclusion of Man Man on the poster, the band came through town with Modest Mouse last Saturday, so that’s probably why I was thinking about it.

Well, here’s hoping for more dreams in the near future. (And I’m keeping May 25th open, just in case this dream comes true).

For Paste,
Caren

Though Decatur, GA, and big sister city, Atlanta, can’t compare to Manhattan, we have some pretty special concert venues within “The 404”—The EARL, Eddie’s Attic, Smith’s Olde Bar, CW Midtown Complex, The Drunken Unicorn, and Variety Playhouse (conveniently in walking distance from my apartment), just to name a few.

Yet when it comes to planning events here in Atlanta, I seem to strike out about 50% of the time with finding a venue to use.  Atlanta city ordinances make outdoor events difficult, too. 

That might explain why I recently had a dream concerning this predicament.  Commence Dream Sequence…

Paste was thowing a benefit concert in Decatur for some unknown cause.  We all agreed that we would figure out the charity after the fact. 

Music Sales Director, Nate Douglas, and Music Editor, Jason Killingsworth, were helping me with day-of preparations, including a VIP house party before the concert.  Jason had booked one of his favorite bands (and Paste 4 To Watch artist), Modern Skirts, for the gig.  We couldn’t find a bar to host the VIP party, though, so we took over our editor Josh Jackson’s house.  His wife was less than pleased.

Nate was responsible for keeping us to our schedule while I set-up the stage in Josh’s backyard.  I was assembling a microphone stand when Nate came running outside, yelling for me.

“Caren! Where is the band?  They haven’t checked in yet!”

“Man… they were supposed to be here at 5pm!” I sighed.

“I know. I can’t get a hold of them.  Are you sure they are coming?”

Yes, I was sure they were coming.  What band would turn down a charitable backyard gig for a TBD cause????

Nate and I ran into the VIP house party and tried to call JoJo, one of the band members.  No answer on the phone.  And Jason was nowhere to be found either.

“You look for the band, I’ll look for Jason,” I told Nate.  We split ways.  Just then I was stopped by a member of the Decatur City Council.

“Are you the party organizer?” she asked.  I nodded my head.  “Well you cannot have this concert.  You are too close to an elementary school—the noise ordinance says you can’t have a concert here.”

“But we attended the City Council meeting—everyone said it was okay!”

“They were wrong.” And with that, our concert plan was ruined.  I ran upstairs to the second floor of Josh’s house feeling very down.  Until I saw…

“Jason! Modern Skirts! What are you doing up here?”

The men were all huddled around a television set holding Nintendo controllers.

“Just playing some Zelda before the gig,” said the Skirts’ lead singer, Jay. 

“Well there isn’t going to be a gig… the city shut down our stage.”

“That’s ok,” said Jay.  “We can play in the neighbhorhood pool.  It’s drained for winter.”

“Yeah, and the sound will contain itself then,” added Jason.  “Good idea.”

Without any discussion, the band stood up and grabbed their gear.  They headed towards the neighborhood pool.  I chased after them and the crowd of VIPs followed me.

“No, turn around! It’s not time yet!” But the VIPs really wanted to see Modern Skirts.

We got to the pool and found it filled with skateboarding teenagers who were using the pool as a halfpipe.  But when Modern Skirts climbed down the pool ladder and got into the empty pool, the skateboarders stopped what they were doing and sat down for the concert.  All the VIPs jumped down into the pool, too.  Nate brought all of the sound equipment over from the house and Modern Skirts had their concert afterall.  They opened with “New York Song” and said, “We might not be in New York, but it’s Greater in Decatur!” The crowd errupted into cheers, especially the City Council member… Modern Skirts had won over the opposition.

------

Maybe I should think about hosting an event in a cement parking garage, too… I had never considered cement spaces before this dream… and I wonder what a concert in a pool would really look like… probably a lot like the end (starting at 2:19) of this All-American Rejects video…

Marketing gal that I am, my job is to both protect and promote the Paste brand.  But even after the 9 to 5, I love studying marketing… I find it all fascinating, especially with our ever-changing business and cultural landscapes. My most recent rock dream proves what a marketing geek I really am.  And I’m not ashammed to admit it.

The dream—inspired by the Albert Hammond Jr. show at the Blender Bar for SXSW—goes like this…

I’m in a warehouse space, where lots of folding chairs are set-up.  It feels like a Town Hall meeting.  There is a podium and stage at the front of the room, too.  Slowly people start filing in.

Our advertising sales director, Julian, walks up to me with our publisher, Tim, by his side.

“We’ve got some seats reserved over here,” Julian says, pointing to an empty row.

“For what?” I ask.

“For the auction.  It’s about to start.  Come on!”

We take our seats on the left side of the room.  “What is the auction for?” I whisper to Tim.

“To buy Albert Hammond Jr.”

Completely befuddled by this, I ask Tim to explain what he means by “buy.”

“New Line Records is selling him as a mascot to the highest bidder—brilliant marketing idea.”

“You can’t sell a person,” I counter. “That’s slavery!”

“It’s no different than a date auction, if you think about it,” explains Julian.  “Except we would own the rights to him.”

A auctioneer takes the stage, looking straight out of a county fair.  Then AHJ steps up, looking straight out of bed.  The bidding begins.

Julian and Tim and I pow-wow about what to do.

“It would be good for the Paste brand if we own a band,” says Julian.

“But this isn’t a band,” I argue, “it’s Albert Hammond Jr.”

“He’s part of The Strokes,” Tim reminds me.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t he be worth more with The Strokes?”

“But The Strokes aren’t for sale,” argues Julian.

Meanwhile the bids are getting larger and larger.  Other magazines—Filter, Harp, Rolling Stone—are duking it out in the bidding war.

“We should hold out and see if The Strokes go up for sale,” I conclude.  “It’d be better for us to own all five of The Strokes than just Albert Hammond Jr.  And it’s very church-and-state between editorial and marketing… we couldn’t guarentee him coverage.”

Tim and Julian are reluctant… but I stand firm in my conviction.  The bidding is about to close and we scramble to make a decision.  But before we can come to that decision we hear --

“Sold! To Relix Magazine!”

Wes Orshoski, managing editor at Relix and contributing writer to Paste, goes up on stage and shakes hands with AHJ.  The rocker doesn’t seem to care that his record label just sold him.  Orshoski poses for a photo with the auctioneer and AHJ.

The Paste team exits the warehouse feeling a bit down.  Maybe we should have bid... I think to myself.  Too late now...

“And come back tomorrow for Regina Spektor!” the auctioneer yells after us.

“Well,” says Tim, “there’s always next time.”

Just returned from Austin, where the annual South By Southwest conferences and music festival are held.  Hard to believe that a year has passed since I was last in Austin.  Last year was my first SXSW experience and I was lucky to catch some great shows, including the 2006 Paste SXSW Party where Josh Ritter, Alejandro Escovedo, Manchester Orchestra, Over the Rhine, Jamie Cullum, Modern Skirts and Midlake graced us with wonderful performances.

Reminiscing about this on the plane ride back to Atlanta made me recall the first indie-inspired dream I ever had.  It’s too good not to document, so let me share it with you:

Josh Ritter was getting ready to play a big show at Town Lake for SXSW 2006.  The Paste team was on-hand to see and sponsor the show.  In this dream, I was backstage with Paste’s associate editor, Steve LaBate, and editor-in-chief, Josh Jackson.

Ritter took the stage wearing his velvet vest, white button-down shirt, and fantastic belt buckle.  He smiled and started to play “Me & Jiggs” when the high string on his guitar snapped.  He kept on playing anyway, but when the song was over he quickly tossed the guitar to a security guard who looked straight out of the WWE.  The guard ran over to me and said, “Get him another guitar.”

“I don’t see another guitar....”

“Then fix it!”

“I’m just the sponsor,” I said. “I don’t know how to restring a guitar.”

“Then figure it out!”

Luckily I remembered that Steve was backstage, too.  As a musican himself, Steve surely knew how to restring a guitar.  I handed him the guitar and he got working on it. 

But the crowd was starting to turn on Ritter.  “Come on, man! Play another!” they yelled.  Our own Josh Jackson was quick to react, and rolled a catering cart out onto the stage.  On the cart was a cake with sparklers stuck in it, as well as a chilled bottle of champagne.  Jackson took to the microphone…

“I’m Josh Jackson from Paste Magazine, and we’d like to congratulate Josh Ritter on a great new album.  Cheers to Animal Years!” Ritter and Jackson clinked glasses and guzzled down the bubbly. Then some stagehands started distributing cake to the audience.

“Hurry, Steve!” I whispered backstage.  “They can’t last much longer.” Steve worked furiously and finally had the guitar restrung.  He handed it to the security guard, who handed it to Ritter.

Ritter slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and smiled (like always).  He broke into the second song and the crowd cheered.  But something didn’t sound right.  The chords sounded too low.  Which is when I realized…

“Steve! I forgot to tell you! Josh Ritter is left-handed! That means...”

“You gave me a low E string instead of a high E string!” snapped Ritter. 

“But… I’ve seen him write before,” said a befuddled Steve. “He’s right-handed.”

“Only when he writes,” grunted the security guard.

Ritter walked off stage.  The crowd began to boo.  Then Norah Jones appeared, fresh off a show with The Little Willies.  She handed Ritter a new acoustic guitar.  He played a few notes to make sure it was strung properly, then took the stage again.  But the crowd kept booing.

After the show, I felt that I needed to apologize.  It was the only way to salvage our relationship with Ritter.

“Josh! I’m so sorry! He didn’t know you were left-handed!” Ritter walked away with Norah.  “We were just the sponsors! Why didn’t you have a production team?” Ritter kept walking.  In a last ditch effort to save face, I yelled “Okay, well… we still love Animal Years!!”

END SCENE.

Ever since then, I’ve had a plethora of indie-inspired dreams (see previous posts) and/or dreams where Steve messes things up (sorry, Steve… it’s nothing personal).  As for Josh Ritter being left-handed—I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.  But I’ll still raise a glass to Animal Years, another great SXSW, and working with a staff that I like enough to dream about.

Rhea Douglas, Josh Ritter, Nate Douglas, and Caren at SXSW 2006

As you might have read here on PasteMagazine.com, we are hosting a secret show in NYC on 2/22/07 as part of our ongoing “Paste Presents” concert series.  The first of these shows at the Knitting Factory featured surprise performances from Beck, HEM, Hymns, and ?uestlove (who served as house DJ).  Jay Sweet and I have been planning the upcoming show and were interested to read a thread about the show over at BrooklynVegan.com (recently named “Blog of the Year” at the PLUG Awards).  Within the thread, BrooklynVegan and its readers were trying to guess the show’s line-up.  I read it before going to bed last night and ended up having a dream about it.  Goes something like this…

I was in NYC for business calls and getting ready for the party.  For some reason, I took a bus over to a pier on the West Side.  When I got off the bus my cellphone rang so I took the call. It said “PRIVATE/UNKNOWN” on the caller ID. Shady… I answered anyway and was greeted by a woman claiming to be a reporter for BrooklynVegan.

“You’re a reporter for a blog?” I asked.  “I didn’t know they had those. What’s your name then?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, “but I can tell you that I’ve figured out who is playing your party.”

“Really? Who do you think it is?” I asked.

“We know you’re having a solo show from one of the Cold War Kids.  And everyone in Brooklyn has seen them before… so we’re not coming.”

This made no sense to me.  “Why would we have only one Cold War Kid?  And we already told you that two of the artists performing at the show made Paste‘s 100 Greatest Living Songwriters list.”

The reporter was sneaky and wanted answers so she used a tactic that was sure to work—silence. 

“Hello? Are you still there??” I asked.  The reporter let me know she was still on the phone, but said nothing else.  Like a bumbling idiot, I started talking to fill the silence…

“Look, it’s not a Cold War Kid.  And you should plan on coming because it’s going to be a great show.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you the line-up, but it will be an awesome night—you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Silence.

Then I cracked.  “Fine… if I tell you the truth, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Alright...” she said.  I could tell that she was smiling on the other end of the phone.  Oh no!, I thought, I’ve fallen into her trap!

That’s when I woke up.  Seems that subconciously I feel guilty about keeping secrets.  But you gotta do what you gotta do. 

The party is invite-only, but our readers can enter for a chance to win a pair of tickets to the real show.  Just don’t expect me to tell you who is playing… fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me…