I knew for a couple of weeks that The Mountain Goats were going to play on April 5 somewhere close enough that I could see them. Scott had introduced the band (the man) to me several weeks before that, when I mentioned a band called East River Pipe and said it was essentially just one guy, F.M. Cornog, recording a bunch of two-minute songs in his living room. He told me about another such band, also essentially just one man, John Darnielle, who recorded in the same way. It didn't sound like anything special, and he didn't have any with him, so I kind of forgot about it. He kept mentioning the band, though, and in late February I finally heard some when he bought All Hail West Texas at Sound Garden. I was immediately impressed. "Best Ever Death Metal Band out of Denton" is the greatest introduction I've ever gotten to a band. A stream of words with an almost hexametrical beat, a mixture of bitterness and earnestness, humor and sadness, nasally and excited vocals, guitar accompaniment that somehow sounded complex and simple at the same time. It wasn't the contradictions that sold it, though; it was the overall awesomeness of the songwriting.

I do what I always do in these situations: went home, downloaded everything I could find by the artist, and neglected it. Then I started listening to it as April 5th approached, and each new superb song, one after the other, took over my mind. They had beautiful imagery and metaphors, passion, exquisite non-sequiturs, good rhymes, and an expansive range (even if it focused on strained relationships). I knew April 5th would be something special.

Cultural events have a very organic existence in people's minds. When a person first hears about something, it will probably have little significance unless it is obviously related to him. If he hears about it frequently, he will begin to pay attention to it; if he identifies with the source of information on the subject (such as friends or trusted critics), it will rise in signifigance. If the subject comes up frequently in conversation, in many different settings, is seen on television or heard about on the radio, etc., it will take on special significance, perhaps becoming part of the person's self-image. This holds true whether the person considers the subject worthless or worthy. He can identify himself as one who either hates or loves the subject, but if it has significance for him, he won't be neutral on it. It becomes almost personified, an entity. When the subject is an object of the media, a book or author, band, movie, or the like, anything with a personality behind it, there is a necessary dichotomy between the image in the person's head and the actual personality which created this image.

The Mountain Goats was, at this point, many things to me. I had seen John Darnielle's website, Going to Jakarta. I knew he had a love for death metal bands and yet sang something closer to folk music. I knew that he was intellectually inclined, and very opinionated. I had read criticisms of his albums at pitchforkmedia and All Music Guide. He was a topic of conversation between me and Scott, a placeholder for a certain type of band. We called him "awesome," imbued him with a sort of supernatural, transcendent status. The Mountain Goats was also, of course, a series of songs I had heard, disembodied sound, words.

Anyway, we were going to see this man and hear him play these songs. I was both excited and scared.

Scott, I thought, was going to pick me up after work on Saturday. I worked from 12 to 8:30 and the cafe was just slammed with customres. Someday I'm going to have to analyze our culture to see why so many people would go, at the very same time, to a bookstore cafe, most likely with vague intentions, where they end up buying overpriced drinks which are mostly concept (I'm buying a caramel macchiatto! I'm sophisticated and savvy to cultural trends, vaguely Italian, indelibly hipster! I drink espresso, which is like coffee, but cooler!). I manuevered my way to the back kitchen to work on my project for the day, cleaning the refrigerator. We have a list of activities which someone has to do every week, and the supervisors dole them out to the workers somewhat randomly. I was determined to make the most of what fate had handed me, and so spent as much time as possible actually cleaning it rather than standing up front dealing with the ghoulish onrush of Starbucks zombies. As an added bonus, the workday always seems shorter when my activities are broken up; even if I'm working the whole time, it's like a extra break to split my time up front with an hour in the back room. So I cleaned the five years' worth of dust on top of the refrigerator, swept and mopped under the refrigerator, removed shelves in order to properly clean iside the refrigerator, all the time dodging my coworkers who came back every so often to actually get food from the refrigerator, which is, after all, its primary purpose, its being at work staying itself, if you will. People were giving me looks and asking, "Greg, are you okay?"

At four p.m., during my lunch, I went over to Safeway to prepare for the concert. I took out $60 from the ATM and bought a pack of Camel lights. The night before I had an altogether pleasing experience when I went to the Mobil across the street to buy a lighter. The man behind the counter showed me a bin full of Bics, and when I took one out, he said, "Come on, don't get a white lighter, you really want this one," he said, pointing to a cream-colored lighter. He was putting the bin back as he said this, apparently not aware of who he was dealing with.

"You know, you're right," I said. "I do want that one."

"Going to smoke a little of the reef, eh?" he asked. I was altoghether amazed that he would say this in front of the other customers . . . let alone me. My only response was to pull out my pack of Dunhills. I wish I had thought of something witty. Since I didn't have the change, he gave it to me for four pennies less, and I walked out of the store with a lighter which would later be used by none other than John Darnielle.

Back to Barnes and Noble, where I was getting more and more apprehensive as I got closer to 8:30. I spent my last break just pacing and smoking. The customers still hadn't let up. I always feel kind of guilty, kind of cocky, when I stand outside the store and smoke. Mothers walk by with their baby carriages, young children run after each other, winded old couples help each other into the store, and all have to walk through my smoke. They just wanted to look at the books. And yet, there is an ashtray there, and tobacco is legal and permitted in this setting, and if I want to smoke, I'm going to smoke. I'm so confused.

There was one incident around 8:00 when, while I was taking an order, one of my coworkers crept up next to me and lent her head on my shoulder. A mildly pretty high school senior, bright and bubbly in fine Jeff Mangum style. And I didn't really know how to feel about this. The options were: embarrassed, mildly violated, or pleased, with various levels of pleased. I choose mildly pleased.

Then I was off work and I went outside excited and expecting Blue Thunder to pull up at any moment. I took out a cigarette and smoked, leaning back against the huge front windows. Minutes went by. I began to pace, examining cars as they made the turn into the shopping center for signs of boxy light-blue Honda Civics. Preferably with Scott White at the wheel. I lit another cigarette and started looking around the other parking lots, thinking that maybe he was somehow inside already. I considered whether I should call him; I expected him to at least be on his way, and thought that at most I would get his mother saying, "Scott left half an hour ago to pick Anne up." I decided that I might as well, and to my surprise, Scott came on the line. He knew it was me. He always knows it's me. "Hello, Greg," he said in a slightly jubilant, slightly tired voice.

"Scott? Why are you still there?"

"Don't worry, the concert doesn't start until 10:30."

"But I'm off work now!"

"Sit tight, Greg. I'll be there soon."

"But Scott! What, like, forty minutes?"

"Just sit tight, Greg."

We hung up. I found out later that Scott didn't know I was calling from work. I thought he knew I'd be there but must not have said so, since he went to my house first. "Does Scott always wear a bow tie?" my mother asked me at dinner today.

Anyway, I sat and read, expecting Scott to come up behind me at any moment. When it became 10 o'clock, I got nervous again and went outisde for another cigarette. A few minutes later, I heard Scott shout something like, "We're coming, Greg!" followed by Anne's voice, which was even louder, but I don't remember what she said. I ran toward the Thunder and off we went.

You can see Anne's blog for an account of this section. My blog now turns to perception.

As Anne says in her blog, the Talking Head is small. So small that Scott immediately noticed Nelly from St. John's sitting in a corner, and then saw Kant girl in the middle of the crowd. Even at a venue as small as the Black Cat, we probably wouldn't have known they were there.

So small that after the band who opened for the opening band left, the small number of people who went to the bar actually freed up enough space at the front for us to get right up to the stage. Right up to the stage. We could kneel over and be on it.

And then The Translucents appeared in their gawky, mildly well-dressed, singer with hair like Dave Grohl, second guitarist with beard like Dan Keys, hot foreign-looking bassist, keyboard-toting glory. We were close enough that when I asked Scott if we should ask that they tune up to "What Goes On," and Scott mock called it out, the guitarist heard us. And did it. I check this off of my list of life goals.

After they were done tuning, the singer said, "Thank you for sitting through that long-winded instrumental. This one's called" whatever. And they proceeded to play a cool mixture of the Velvets, The Strokes, early R.E.M., etc. And it kicked ass. Only . . . I was so close that I could see every twirl of the singer's hair, the placement of each finger on the fret. So close that those iconic movements, the kicks and thrusts and facial contortions of passion, looked like a band jamming rather than a band on stage. The music was great, and I would have ordinarily been overjoyed, but I was so close to the people making the music that, in this setting, it was actually hard to get into. I became self-conscious and analytical. (What is it about this music that I appreciate? Why does it give me joy to see these two guitarists playing interlocking rhythem parts? What's so cool about an organ?)

My subconscious idea of the rock star, the icon and hero, in some way better than me, unquestionable, perhaps greater than human, battled against this group of four people very much like me, who happened to know how to play instruments and had written some songs together.

I later bought a Translucents t-shirt. The band had only brought three CDs, and Scott got the last one, so the singer held up two shirts. "Your choices are . . . collander or tea ball."

"Definitely collander. How much are they?"

"I don't know. How much do you think?"

"You can't ask me that . . . I don't know . . ."

"Okay. I'll start the bidding at eight dollars."

Anyway, back to the concert. By the time John Darnielle came on, Anne and I were actually sitting on the stage, Scott kneeling right behind us. The chair Anne mentions was right in front of me. I sat right at John's feet, looking up at him as he played. He partially escaped this humanizing effect that had rendered The Translucents into just four people who happened to be on a stage. Mainly because he was just so damn cool, thumping his foot along with an imaginary bass drum, contorting his face on certain lines, shaking his whole body on others. At the same time, I didn't find myself worshipping him, as I would have expected. I didn't feel self-conscious, but he still seemed more real and fallible than most people I've seen on stage. It was less of a spectacle than most shows, and more like a friend playing songs for me.

After the last song, he went and sat in the corner with the bassist. I commented to Anne that the rest of the crowd had no idea that John was sitting just a few feet away while they waited for him to come back and play an encore. I had been waiting for him to finish to smoke since, during the set, I was unable to bring myself to ask him if he would mind my smoking.

When he did come back, he sat down, looked at me, and mouthed, "Can I have a cigarette?" I thought he was asking me to put mine out, and motioned as if I were doing so. *Is this what you want, John?* He positioned his fingers as if he were smoking and then waved his hand toward him. I held out a cigarette and he asked, "Can you light it for me?"

He set up his guitar again and I considered whether to actually light it or whether to give him my lighter. I decided on the latter, although I did hold the cigarette in my mouth while I got the lighter out of my pocket. That was an odd choice, I suppose. He lit it and handed the lighter back to me. Someone called out, "Stop smoking, you're the greatest songwriter ever!"

He giggled a bit and said, "Thank you!" which he had been doing all night whenever the crowd cheered and applauded, as if he weren't expecting people to like him. He took a few puffs and handed the cigarette back, saying, "Can you hold this for the next minute and forty-five seconds, roughly?" I took it and he played a song I had never heard, an incredibly joyful drinking sort of song, "When the Cubs beat every team in the league, then I will love you again like I used to." I couldn't help but try to sing along without even knowing the lyrics. Anne seemed to know every word, but said later, "I don't know how I knew that song, really." It was just that sort of song.

I gave him back the cigarette and he took a few more puffs, then crushed it.