I had a series of nightmares last night starring the Dixie Chicks. Why? Well, for one, they came out in faux punker outfits, replete with bondage chains at knees and slicked-back tresses to resemble mohawks. e-fuckin-gads.
I forgot to point out to Boy Colleague Marky that when you looked up at the video monitors the lead singer with the faux mullet/mohawk looked like a strange tropical fish as her face was divided down the center by a black piece of metal, each side of her face projected onto two different monitors.
A most creepy effect.
Their soundboard wasn't half a mile away (calling to mind Rod Stewart, that saggy aging rock star) but was more like 80 feet so it wasn't as horrific as we imagined and the trio came together at the end of song three for us. It would have been a most picturesque photo op if not for the two hundred fans standing in front of us with fists waving in the breeze. Some of my Dixie Chicks together shots look they're getting puched in the chins by large black tentacles but I have gorgeous shots of the three separately - same for Joan Osbourne.
Saw Don Keller meandering through the security holding pen and asked whatinhell he was doing there. Retouching photos of Joan, he said. Met up with several members of Janet Reno Fan Club afterwards and Allison, who does film and video in SARS-ridden TO, said she shot a video of Joan O and her weight (and hiding same) was a huge issue. So I imagine Don was PhotoShopping pounds off.
Ended up at Americanarama at Mohawk Place, and dove into a long conversation about the Middling City's way-illustrious alternative musical past when The Pipe Dragon was operating full steam ahead on Ellicott Street. Impressed Mohawk by showing him my Pipe Dragon membership card (#0082) which I always carry. We wondered where David Baker is now - founder of the first incarnation of Mercury Rev and my former roomie and darkroom partner. The man, I divulged, was hopelessly addicted to Alf.
Rockstars, a mystery a minute.
Onwards.

I have spent way way too much time on the phone today with p.r. types, setting about getting my photo credentials squared away for the future to make all the photo magic happen. The behind-the-scenes crap that makes people's eyes glaze over quicker than you can say public relations nonsense.
But, at the risk of glaze, here's a super-primo example of the types of malarkey phonecalls I field from biased interested parties:
Ummm, hi, NAN-SEEEEEE, this is (X) I'm so excited (first tip-off that the b.s. will be flying shortly) about this opportunity and I KNOW (yikes, presumptions make my skin absolutely crawl) that you'll be excited about this opportunity.
(more details, more details)
Thee Jared, the guy who lost 245 pounds eating Subway sandwiches, is coming to town and... he's very structured... and I can get you an interview with him.
I had to get an okay with him first and then call you, so the time is 8:45AM on the 26th and you can have a few minutes with him and I know that you love people and what makes them tick and this is such a great human interest story... he's really such a motivated man.
(incredulity had, of course, set in a while back, but, summoning all of my diplomatic molecules forth I said)
Well, thanks for thinking of me and it is a great story but I'm not interested in it for my column.
(secret thought: Guess what Media Lady? Everybody in this fair land, even those that barely know what television is, knows the story of Jared, carbon dated now at about five years - call me when Johnny Depp rolls into town and I'll meet his jet/plane/bus/limo at any ol' hour, thanks and buh-bye!)
Love.

Off to the race! The big race when all sorts of corporate and office types gather under tents, do some stretches and then hit the roadways of the Middling City = Chase Corporate Challenge. Tent shots of university types then the quick trot to the viaduct for the overall of the throngs, running in thongs.
Then downtown to witness the Patio Lantern Magick of Kim Mitchell.
This morn I, and Marky Sparky of AV and Donny of Clear Channel (rulers! of the musical! world!) selected 30 Middling City bands to hit three stages, in stages, during the ARTVOICE Street Fest to happen on a Sunday in June. The ebbs, the flows, the avoidable genre conflicts - we discussed, we listened to cd's, we nearly threw cd's against the walls, we selected.
Now Marky S sends out letters of rejection and calls to say OUI OUI, we want you.
Running to shoot runners.
I dream of running often.

Spandex, spandex, spandex as far as the eye can see - that's what I expect at tomorrow's Kim Mitchell concert at Thursday at the Square. Lots of that miracle fibre as well as motorcycles... and mullets.
Got the final big okay to shoot Dixie Chicks from Lanie, their p.r. person - one song, song #3 only, from the soundboard as rumor had it. The opener is Joan Osborne, the woman who big fame has eluded.
Ron emailed me this morning to comment upon my Metallica purchase yesterday, he was incredulous that my metallic side wanted THAT and not Bucket Head. Perhaps I shouldn't mention right here that I'm right now listening to White Zombie, to avoid another torrent of musical opining from down south, where Ron lives.
Ron, btw, wrote to me recently that he may have an op to run a grappa farm. To my thinking that'd be like someone coming up to me and stating Nance, we'd like you to run the Oban plant.
At that time I wrote to Ron and shared one of my fav grappa tales, about having some of that and much later in the evening being awakened by a security man whilst I snoozed, all dressed up in finery, on a bench in Toronto, unable to awaken my pal/grappa sharer.
The end.
For now.

Suddenly the grande black coffee togo cup is empty and life doesn't seem quite so Perfect any longer.
Well, the knowledge that I now own not only the supersonic new iPod (external harddrive! music storage! car-adaptable portable songs!) as well as the new Radiohead makes everything sweetened with a golden glow of consumer happiness, audiophile bliss.
Missed the midnight Radiohead sale at New World Record where they gave out 7-inchers until they ran out. Was there this AM and bought a limited edition version with lyrics and the nice boy gave me the cover art, vinyl sized placard.
But, strangely, when I arrived at the counter I first said this:
The new Metallica, pul-leez. (as I had glanced down and seen the new Metallica)
Oh, the boy said, it's right here, moving one from my left shoulder to the cash register.
See, I was working on auto-pilot. My inner Metallica fan (and if you are a true epinw sport you know I'm one) and thrashing self was bursting onto the scene.
You own enough smarty-pants rock, it whined, you need some head-bangerific music, too.
Complied.
Rock steady.

Pertinent shoe information, lite enough for a Monday:
Despite the swearing that I'd never own a pair of trashy Candie's after the rather unfortunate ownership of a certain pair of 80s-era Candie's (tan "suede" mules with the plastic or whatever the fuck that material was) worn on the nightmarish date with John Meegan, bro of Amy Meegan, a high school pal, to the now defunct Aud Club of Memorial Auditorium. Somewhere in the family archives is horrid, hard photographic evidence:
Me: taller than John Meegan, winged hair, some sort of polyester separates including a-line skirt, Candie's.
Him: tan (not khaki, khaki was not invented yet) suit, no tie, openwide collar and brown clogs on his feet.
Background: a trellis festooned with fake flowers.
So, minding my own business, I'm shoe shopping accidentally when I spot some four inchers of wood, top stitched black leather and so I gave them the clomp test, clomping about the store in them before shouting out to nobody especially YES.
Candie's. Slutty Candie's. Candie's that have you strutting Candie's. Candie's reclaiming your unfortunate shoe past back in the dark ages of high school Candie's.
Shoe love. Ah yes, shoe love.

Pertinent shoe information, lite enough for a Monday:
Despite the swearing that I'd never own a pair of trashy Candie's after the rather unfortunate ownership of a certain pair of 80s-era Candie's (tan "suede" mules with the plastic or whatever the fuck that material was) worn on the nightmarish date with John Meegan, bro of Amy Meegan, a high school pal, to the now defunct Aud Club of Memorial Auditorium. Somewhere in the family archives is horrid, hard photographic evidence:
Me: taller than John Meegan, winged hair, some sort of polyester separates including a-line skirt, Candie's.
Him: tan (not khaki, khaki was not invented yet) suit, no tie, openwide collar and brown clogs on his feet.
Background: a trellis festooned with fake flowers.
So, minding my own business, I'm shoe shopping accidentally when I spot some four inchers of wood, top stitched black leather and so I gave them the clomp test, clomping about the store in them before shouting out to nobody especially YES.
Candie's. Slutty Candie's. Candie's that have you strutting Candie's. Candie's reclaiming your unfortunate shoe past back in the dark ages of high school Candie's.
Shoe love. Ah yes, shoe love.