DMB

My first discovery of Dave Matthews started on my first visit to New York City in 2005 when EH, JK, and I took cat naps listening to "Satellite" between city exploring adventures. My love for the band grew with my proximity to a certain DMB enthusiast and the frequent burned CD's that he sent me one summer. Last month when I saw that their Caravan tour was coming to New York, it was decided and EH and I scooped up tickets (and one more for EH's DMB lovin' mama) for day 2 of the tour. I. was. pumped.

And then there was news of a stupid little tropical storm called Irene that messed everything up! Saturday and Sunday shows were cancelled (even Bloomberg broke the news), and EH, TH, and I were heartbroken. But then we re-read our bad news bearing emails and realized that we could still attend Friday's show. Though we would be late, we could still go. So we went.

We took the A, then the R, then a mile walk, then a ferry, then another mile walk. We zig-zagged from one end of Governor's Island to the next like mice in a psychology experiment. The experiment objective: what will people endure for a night of outdoor music. Ferries? Hurricanes? Miles and miles of unnecessary and round-a-bout walking? Yes, yes, and yes. Finally, we were in the crowd on the eve of a hurricane, and we were ready. We grabbed beers, weaseled our way closer to the stage, and got our jam on.

The massive light system on the stage consisted of three rings, each one smaller inside the other. It swirled, and in the middle, in the eye, was Dave. Behind, the sky was pinkish, brownish, grayish, and the air was sticky but calm. I found myself behind a guy wearing a fishing shirt raising his beer to the tunes, and I smiled and raised my beer too.

And the music was... unreal. The experience was heightened by my memories of past and my uncertainties about the future. I looked around at DMB die-hearts and of course, I thought of him, and I thought of "Angel". Then I looked at EH and realized that in one week, she will be back in Chicago, and I'll be here alone without her. And then they played "Spaceman" and that it made it all seem ok. Sadness and fear became nostalgia and excitement. I love when music does that.

They played and played and played, and I realized that I didn't know any of the songs, but then I also realized that that is the beauty of jam bands. It's not about a linear pattern with an expected beginning, middle, and end, but instead it comes in waves, goes up and down, speeds up and slows down. Anyway, I liked it. Then it was over. I was extremely disappointed in the crowd's apathy, but whether the crowd deserved it or not, Dave came back on with guitar in hand and Neil on the mind. He sang "Like a Hurricane" in his own Dave-y way, and I soaked it up.

Then a few more songs, more hollering, and more dancing, and the show was really over, but our journey home had just begun. We began the exodus back to the ferry to take us inland and realized that the number of concert goers and the number of ferry's were disproportionate in the Titanic kind of way. Too many people, not enough boats. So we waited in lines like cattle, met some weirdos, shared our funnel cake, took a very wrong turn and an hour later, were on the "unsteady vessel" that I like to refer to as the bro-boat. (So many boys!!)

We had some minor subway difficulties and opted for a cab and a trip down the West side hightway (before it was all underwater). We sat silently in the backseat of the cab with the windows rolled down, exhilarated yet exhausted. And overall so, so happy.