You can also view this here: http://web.archive.org/web/20070630031816/www.agouti.com/feature.aspx?id=65 and you used to be able to view it here: http://www.agouti.com/feature.aspx?id=65.
Hello, boys and girls. This month we are going to learn how to adore rock ‘n’ rollers without scaring the shit out of them. Specifically, this column is going to teach fanboys how not to scare their favorite female singer/songwriters.
Stalker fans are nothing new. The first cavewoman singer had a group of cavemen, clubs in hand, staring with their jaws dropped and imagining how this original VH-1 Diva was going to make their life complete.
Fast forward to 2004. The almighty Mary Lou Lord (no pun intended) was playing at 12 Galaxies in San Francisco. Wow! I thought I had blown off any chances of seeing her ever. And at a venue that small, I’d be sure to get a nice view of the action, as well as maybe get a CD signed after the show. Hot diggety.
Only about 30 people actually cared about the show, which was a gross injustice to her, but this is beside the point. About three guys spent the entire show staring at her. They didn’t even clap between songs. It was freaky.
But not unexpected. This sort of thing happens when attractive female singer/songwriters play in front of lonely, sex-starved men. There are many observations I have made about these poor guys.
First and foremost, they had a traumatic childhood. They never got the female interaction they needed to learn the basic social skills that allow them to have a conversation with a member of the opposite sex. I mean, sure, every guy stares at a woman’s tits when they are talking, but it is a conscious decision. These guys, however, stare at them because they haven’t seen real ones since they were breastfeeding.
Another thing about these guys is that they follow the performer after the show ends. She walks off stage, and like Mega Man’s dog, the fanboys are right behind, hoping she gets cornered. Better video game analogy: Pac-Man. These guys are the ghosts, and the performer has no energizers to swallow so she can turn the tables.
So let’s use this specific example. After Lord’s set, I thought I would be able to tell her my all-time-favorite Mary Lou Lord story. I could buy a shirt and tell her the story, and life would be grand.
You can tell when a performer has been on a major label because she knows how to hide. I swear — it is something they teach at Sony. After the set was over, she went right up the stairs and into the bathroom. I went upstairs because they have video games there (no, really), and I noticed these two guys (the third must have been casing the joint downstairs) trying to casually hang out around the women’s restroom.
So she finally emerges, makes a beeline for some private-entrance area near the upstairs bar and is gone. For the entire trip from the bathroom to the secret hiding area, she had these two shadows, acting as if they were tabloid reporters, asking all these questions and whatnot. For me, it ruined what could have been one of the best shows I had ever been to. Damn you fanboys.
So what is the right way? Allow me. The equally almighty Marianne Pillsbury was at The Red Devil Lounge in San Francisco recently. She also played to about 30 people. But when the show ended, she was able to comfortably and confidently mingle with the crowd. I even have pictures of us, which, believe me, are always going to be a part of me. So what’s the difference between Lord and Pillsbury? Is it the major label thing?
Perhaps. Even though Lord is no longer on Sony, she has a lot of fans from that era. And obsessive fans don’t disappear. Juliana Hatfield has the same problem. She’ll try to speak with fans, but if you freak her out, then she’ll find a way out. But I digress.
Pillsbury is not yet on a major (and she will be). Someday she, too, will be lucky enough to have guys with Battlestar Galactica T-shirts crowded around the stage, staring at her gazongas and making weird gestures. Oh I bet she cannot wait. I bet that when she plays back home in New England it already happens. At least she knows she has one fan (me) that only secretly lusts after her. Some secret.
For the common good of the indie music fan, please behave yourselves, fanboys! You’re jerking off to the golden goose, and it will never lay more eggs. And if you’re just a naturally creepy guy, sit at the bar and ogle the bartender instead.
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