Satellite

The precise cultivation of an interest allows you to be part of something greater than yourself. Even really great people do this.  For example, I hone my interest in contemporary literature so I can feel like I’m part of a scene. When people riff on new novels, I can riff right back.  There’s a masturbatory quality to knowing who won the Pulitzer in 2002 and which bestseller is probably overrated. Everyone has a pet interest; everyone is a freaky fan of something.  In the eyes of others, your interest may label you a snob, but in your own eyes, it makes you special.  Maybe those are the eyes that matter most.  

In the Pacific Northwest and elsewhere, teenagers cultivate an interest—dare I say obsession—in The Dave Matthews Band.  They memorize song lyrics and read articles in hopes that Dave himself will recognize that their worship is more religious than anyone else’s.  My friends and I were no exception. We rode the cliché like we were the first group of upper middle class white kids to realize DMB paired well with a certain budding interest.  The most fanatical fans knew every band member’s life story (even the flute player with the gross beard) and fastidiously tracked tour dates.   

The Dave Matthews fan club was so intense with their love that it became equally cool to hate the Dave Matthews Band—a reverse pet interest for the less-mainstream among us.  DMB remains a polarizing issue with a love/hate dichotomy running strong.  Dave Matthews Band?  You mean that no-good, no-talent excuse for music? I can’t believe you like those guys, you uncultured swine of a person.

 

My uncultured Portland friends and I bought expensive tickets to see the Dave Matthews Caravan. Mostly, it was a throwback to adolescence when life’s work amounted to no more than a healthy obsession with the band.  The original tour on Governor’s Island was cancelled because of Irene. Annoying, but I can’t imagine anyone relished the thought of being stranded on Governor’s Island in a storm with thousands of washed-up Dave fans.  The rescheduled concert was on Randall’s Island, a sizeable chunk of land just east of Harlem that I had no idea existed until two weeks ago.  A coworker referred to it as New York’s creepiest island. Whatever that means. 

Although I have never actually seen Dave Matthews play The Gorge—a beautiful amphitheater overlooking the river that separates Oregon from Washington—I knew Randall’s Island to be a downgrade. The view of the 103^rd street housing projects didn’t measure up to sunset over the Columbia (cue snobbery). The venue was fine, though. French fries were inexplicably sold in plastic dog dishes and foam “moon mats” were available for rent because seating was concrete not grass.  As a general rule, if I’m lapping up fries like a puppy on a moon mat, I’m happy enough.  

The concert ran from three to eleven with three acts: DMB, Dispach and Brandi Carlile. Dispatch is more of an East Coast thing, I think. Our high school mascot was the General, so my friends and I knew that one song…The General. Other than that, we bopped along surprised by the fans who were there solely for Dispatch.  I’m sure being a member of the Dispatch cult is just as satisfying as being a member of the DMB cult, but I’d never known this one existed.   

My friend Claire was in a unique position.   It’s a possibility that Claire was the only person on Randall’s Island who was there to see Brandi Carlile—the opening, opening act.  Claire hadn’t originally bought a ticket to see DMB on Governor’s Island because she’s on neither side of the dichotomy. Like a normal person, she doesn’t care that much.  When she heard that Brandi was a part of the new Randall’s Island line-up, she started to care very much.  Apparently, Claire is totally obsessed with Brandi Carlile, a country-singing lesbian from Washington State whom she’d already seen multiple times in concert.  And will be seeing again next Friday in Manhattan.  But fans do that kind of thing. 

In the end, Dave put on a good show, but nothing compared to the spectacle that was Claire during Brandi.  Never had I seen my friend so excited.  I admired the individuality of her cultivated interest.  Brandi took the stage early in the afternoon. Very few people left their moon mats. Claire sprung up and started shouting, dancing around until the rest of us finally followed suit.  She told me to feel her hand; it was quite literally shaking.  Being a supportive friend, I pushed my way to the front with Claire where she gazed up into the eyes of her guitar-playing girl-crush.  

“Okay. Get ready. I’m gonna scream ‘I love you, Brandi.’ Really loud. She has to know.”

“Okay.” I took a step back. 

“I LOVE YOU, BRANDI!”

We danced to Brandi’s set, which was actually awesome.  Claire gripped my hand for most of the forty minutes, then turned to me:

“OH! I forgot you were there!”

Fandom blinds. 

By the end of the set, Brandi had the crowd convinced. People were clapping along to her breathy voice. Men were bemoaning her status as a lesbian.  I admired Claire for being a fan of the least popular act.  When Dave came on, I realized that my little cluster mouthing lyrics was a cluster among hundreds.  I also noticed that most of the clusters were made up of 16-year-old Jewish boys.  In questionable company.  

But still. An interest is a connection. Claire to Brandi and us to Dave and a summer camp full of undulating Jews.  Dave Matthews is old news, but the songs sound the same as they did when we were sixteen jamming out in assorted basements. There’s something powerfully comfortable about that. The music connects us back to our roots in a way that feels more authentic than sipping Stumptown Coffee.   Although jury’s still out as to whether that’s worth $115, it’s definitely worth something.