Richard Thompson flashed his impish Scottish smile and
leaned across the buffet to hand me an icy bottled water. There was no air
movement in the tiny green room of the Kent Stage Theater but the atmosphere
was electric. Through no rhyme or reason I was aware of, my date and I were selected
to “meet and greet” Richard after the concert.
The concert started half an hour behind schedule due to an
issue printing tickets at the front desk. The man I just met and was on a first
date with, Vern, had purchased our seats far ahead of time and we were
mysteriously upgraded to the second row, center, on the aisle. Our chairs were
less than eight feet from the stage’s edge. We chattered about how great the
seats were, how great Richard Thompson was, and how much fun the evening was
turning out to be.
The heat was stifling. It eventually approached the upper
nineties. The air was dead motionless. If I closed my eyes, I imagined being
smothered in an oven. I stopped closing my eyes. Sipping from a cup of ice water
I got from the refreshment counter provided a semblance of relief.
There was no warm-up band. Stage Manager Bobby Eichorn came out, plugged a cord into Richard’s red Stratocaster which rested upright on a stand mid-stage, and he walked off stage right. A tall hairless black man clad in a
white shirt and black tie and slacks, wearing nice shoes, strode briskly onto
stage from stage left, and climbed onto the drum stand.
At the same time, a lanky what I think of as a “tall drink
of water” cowboy-built fellow with glasses and riotously curly hair, wearing a
white shirt and black slacks -- and I don’t know, he may have been wearing
boots – took what seemed to be two long strides, and picked up his bass.
Before I realized it, Richard floated onto stage. He
literally did not seem to make contact with the boards.
The crowd applauded. He looked up and smiled. “What an
endearing man,” I thought. He was as genuine and unaffected onstage as he was
in the interviews I’ve watched. I was so happy to be there in his presence, to
have the opportunity to witness such a consummate performer, a genius masterful
guitarist and songwriter, not a dozen feet away. I leaned over and bumped
against Vern. This was exciting stuff, and I was so happy he’d invited me
along.
The band launched into “Stuck on the Treadmill” and I was
blown away. The drummer Michael Jerome was forceful and adept, instilled seemingly effortless energy into the skins. I
spied a tiny piece of drumstick fly off into space with his second stroke. I
felt as though he caught my eye dozens of times, then reminded myself it is
nearly impossible to see people from the stage. Still, I felt a real connection
with Michael.
Bassist Taras Prodabiuk was quirky and slinky and moved without regard to human body
limitations. Where he wanted his limbs to go, they went. He dipped, he swung,
his head nodded, his arms rolled, his fingers strummed without apparent effort
as if they were separate distinct beings merely riding the ends of his hands. It
was hard to take my eyes off the bass, but I had to.
Richard’s fingers were a blur. Sound reverberated in my
chest. The energy level in the room picked up immediately. I was able to focus;
even the heat didn’t feel as oppressive. I began to clearly see each individual
digit on Thompson’s hand work the strings. I was mesmerized. He has a
confident, comfortable presence. Despite the approximate eight-pound
Stratocaster, he stood ramrod straight without a hint of stiffness. RT is a man
very much at ease with his own physicality.
He made small talk and entertained between each song. He
referred to opening for Bob Dylan, and being honored at the Americana Awards. This
year, Richard is nominated for both Artist of the Year as well as Song of the
Year. Last year, he won the 2012 Americana Music Association Achievement for
Songwriting. He joked that he wasn't even American.
At one point, Richard asked for requests. I know he has
recorded for four decades, and the odds of my favorite “Beeswing” being sung
were slim to none. Still, I called out in my “Mommy” voice, projecting as if I
needed those babies home, and needed them home right now. RT looked directly
where I sat as I called it out. I knew he’d heard me.
The interplay between performers was wonderful. I loved
watching them grin and mug with one another. Men who respect and enjoy each
others’ company tend to slip into a loose dance at certain times. Some call it
flow. It is a special creative atmosphere. Those of us present Sunday night in
Kent were witness to such a dance.
It is impossible to capture, either with a camera or a pen.
You just know it when you see it. It is sexy, and ornery, unaffected and
magical. Taras advanced, Michael juked, neither missing a beat. Richard
observed, amused, and wove his own playfulness in. The interaction, totally
unchoreographed, was loose and so natural as to suggest that, for a little over
two hours, a veil was withdrawn and the audience permitted to observe gods frolicking
in their heavens.
Stage manager Bobby Eichorn slipped onto stage a couple of
times and plugged or adjusted a cord on Richard’s Stratocaster. At one point,
RT made a comment asking audience members to please refrain from coming onstage
and touching his guitar. His humor connected well; every sentence he uttered
elicited titters and appreciative murmurs.
Ironically, I needed Vern to help me out to the lobby as “Never
Give It Up” played. By this point, I was so overcome by the heat that I
struggled to maintain consciousness. Drawing breath into my lungs felt
impossible; I was smothered and nauseous and dizzy. I couldn’t even hold my
head up to watch the show, much less nod or tap my feet or participate in any
way other than the pray to God I didn’t faint and cause a commotion.
In the lobby, I drank more ice water. The management was
great. A very kind volunteer whose name I lacked the presence of mind to learn
kept me supplied with refills and brought napkins as well as a lid for my cup
in case I wanted to take it back inside.
I confess I did grouse at a manager a bit after he offered as explanation for the extreme heat: “This happens when a lot of people come in; their body heat raises the room temperature.” I pointed out that that is a theater, people are going to come in and their body heat is going to raise the temperature; that this was not news.
I confess I did grouse at a manager a bit after he offered as explanation for the extreme heat: “This happens when a lot of people come in; their body heat raises the room temperature.” I pointed out that that is a theater, people are going to come in and their body heat is going to raise the temperature; that this was not news.
But you will forgive me my moment of ungraciousness; I had rented
a vehicle and driven 270 miles to see this concert, and I had been exiled to the
lobby rather than getting to enjoy my wonderful seating and sit with my date because
of the horrific heat.
The band finished their set and I resigned myself to having
experienced what I was going to experience. Then applause filled the theater as
Richard and the guys returned for the first of two encores.
Immediately, he
launched into “Beeswing.”
I decided even if I keeled over on the way down the aisle, I
was going to do my dead level best to get back to my seat. I made it before the
second verse. Refreshed if not totally revived, I was able to nod and smile and
appreciate my favorite song being performed right before me, almost as a
special request, by the man who wrote and sang and played it.
It was wonderful.
Richard played “Snow Goose” (If I recall correctly) after
that, then came back and did a few more songs before wrapping up. Thompson and
his crew pulled off the most rollicking version of “White Room” I’ve ever
heard. Truly, Cream could only hope to nod in appreciation. It was fantastic.
The concert was over, but the fun had just begun. I still
hadn’t met Richard yet.
