now,” Cotton said.
It did not occur to me to question why Cotton had entrusted this medical task to me, rather than (say) his manager, or a person in some way affiliated with his tour. I was really a very sheltered human being.Nonetheless, I fetched Holden and Cotton stood up and placed himself in our custody.
“You all got a liquor store around here?” he said.
“I guess,” Holden said. “We can find one.”
The situation now dawned on me: my dying bluesman was in fact an alcoholic, dying, perhaps, of alcoholism. This put a certain spin on the current scenario, made it seem potentially less heartwarming and more sort of criminally negligent. At the same time, I felt I’d committed myself to the cause of James Cotton. He was the star and therefore in charge of the unfolding events and I was, in this respect, merely following orders.
And so we three proceeded toward a rear exit door, Cotton tottering along happily, until we heard someone address him from the other side of the stage. A brief low-speed chase ensued. The manager—not wanting to attract undue attention—walked briskly after us. Cotton reached for the door. “Hurry now,” he muttered gamely. His manager drew closer, softly calling, “James? James? Where do you think you’re
going
, James?”
I was not granted further interview time.
3. Regaling Dan Bern During His Pre-show Bowel Movement Let me start by noting that my admiration for Bern dated back to an advance copy of his 1996 EP,
Dog Boy Van
, and quickly blossomed into full-scale dementia. Bern is best known these days as the guy who wrote the songs for the faux biopic
Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
. But back in the late nineties, there was a small but stubborn contingent of us who considered him the heir apparent to Dylan: an adenoidal midwestern Jew who wrote brilliant rambling folk songs. “The day that Elvis died it was like a mercy killing,” he sang, and my chest went pitter-patter.
I’d been waiting years to see Bern in concert when he finally played a show in Cambridge. I showed up hours early and milled aroundthe merch table. I bought his mimeographed book of poetry. I waited. He eventually appeared and was set upon by a pack of smitten college kids.
“What is there to do around here?” Bern said. Someone mentioned candlepin bowling. He looked at the prettiest of the girls—she had short black hair and a generous bosom—and said, “What are
you
going to do?” The girl blushed. They agreed to meet up later. I was mildly disgusted and deeply impressed. Then Bern excused himself and went into the bathroom.
Why did I follow him into that bathroom? I suppose because I do not have a generous bosom and therefore assumed my only possible audience with Bern would be an at-sink rendezvous during which I could ask him to sign his book. This would segue to a broader discussion of literature and art, one so enthralling that Bern would insist we hang after the show, to hell with getting blown by the black-haired chick on lane twelve!
He was in the stall. I had a brief Larry Craigish notion: I could sit down in the stall next to him. But it was one of those giant handicapped jobbers and I couldn’t quite get myself there. I considered exiting the bathroom, but that struck me as a form of surrender. I was a fan, after all. I had pimped the man’s work far and wide. Without dudes like me, there were no easy blowjobs. If you really thought about it (and I was really thinking about it, there in the bathroom, as only a DF can), the guy owed me. Bern had been in the stall for a minute or two by now. So I said, in a loud nervous voice, the kind of voice you might use upon greeting someone at a crowded party, “Hey, Dan Bern!”
There was a long silence.
I guess it sort of goes without saying that I was not seeing things from Bern’s point of view.
“Yeah?” he said finally.
“I just wanted to say, you know, I love your music!”
More silence.
“I’m a big fan,” I
It did not occur to me to question why Cotton had entrusted this medical task to me, rather than (say) his manager, or a person in some way affiliated with his tour. I was really a very sheltered human being.Nonetheless, I fetched Holden and Cotton stood up and placed himself in our custody.
“You all got a liquor store around here?” he said.
“I guess,” Holden said. “We can find one.”
The situation now dawned on me: my dying bluesman was in fact an alcoholic, dying, perhaps, of alcoholism. This put a certain spin on the current scenario, made it seem potentially less heartwarming and more sort of criminally negligent. At the same time, I felt I’d committed myself to the cause of James Cotton. He was the star and therefore in charge of the unfolding events and I was, in this respect, merely following orders.
And so we three proceeded toward a rear exit door, Cotton tottering along happily, until we heard someone address him from the other side of the stage. A brief low-speed chase ensued. The manager—not wanting to attract undue attention—walked briskly after us. Cotton reached for the door. “Hurry now,” he muttered gamely. His manager drew closer, softly calling, “James? James? Where do you think you’re
going
, James?”
I was not granted further interview time.
3. Regaling Dan Bern During His Pre-show Bowel Movement Let me start by noting that my admiration for Bern dated back to an advance copy of his 1996 EP,
Dog Boy Van
, and quickly blossomed into full-scale dementia. Bern is best known these days as the guy who wrote the songs for the faux biopic
Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
. But back in the late nineties, there was a small but stubborn contingent of us who considered him the heir apparent to Dylan: an adenoidal midwestern Jew who wrote brilliant rambling folk songs. “The day that Elvis died it was like a mercy killing,” he sang, and my chest went pitter-patter.
I’d been waiting years to see Bern in concert when he finally played a show in Cambridge. I showed up hours early and milled aroundthe merch table. I bought his mimeographed book of poetry. I waited. He eventually appeared and was set upon by a pack of smitten college kids.
“What is there to do around here?” Bern said. Someone mentioned candlepin bowling. He looked at the prettiest of the girls—she had short black hair and a generous bosom—and said, “What are
you
going to do?” The girl blushed. They agreed to meet up later. I was mildly disgusted and deeply impressed. Then Bern excused himself and went into the bathroom.
Why did I follow him into that bathroom? I suppose because I do not have a generous bosom and therefore assumed my only possible audience with Bern would be an at-sink rendezvous during which I could ask him to sign his book. This would segue to a broader discussion of literature and art, one so enthralling that Bern would insist we hang after the show, to hell with getting blown by the black-haired chick on lane twelve!
He was in the stall. I had a brief Larry Craigish notion: I could sit down in the stall next to him. But it was one of those giant handicapped jobbers and I couldn’t quite get myself there. I considered exiting the bathroom, but that struck me as a form of surrender. I was a fan, after all. I had pimped the man’s work far and wide. Without dudes like me, there were no easy blowjobs. If you really thought about it (and I was really thinking about it, there in the bathroom, as only a DF can), the guy owed me. Bern had been in the stall for a minute or two by now. So I said, in a loud nervous voice, the kind of voice you might use upon greeting someone at a crowded party, “Hey, Dan Bern!”
There was a long silence.
I guess it sort of goes without saying that I was not seeing things from Bern’s point of view.
“Yeah?” he said finally.
“I just wanted to say, you know, I love your music!”
More silence.
“I’m a big fan,” I
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