I was probably working on some now long-forgotten statistical analysis in the computer lab at the University of Maine on September 18th when I tried my luck on Ticketmaster and pulled a front row seat to Fleetwood Mac in Bridgeport, CT on September 27th, 2003. I pounced on that ticket—the drive would be only six hours. Thus it was that I stood front and center for the entire show, soaking in the atmosphere of unconditional positive regard of the audience members for each other, the band for the audience, and, possibly, the band members for each other. Not every concert creates a unitedly caring and engaged audience, but those people were golden. These are the best experiences, the sense that we’re all in this together.
A woman to my right had thoughtfully penned and displayed a series of handwritten signs for Lindsey Buckingham to read. The signs listed the number of shows she and her friends had already attended, which shows they were, and which shows were upcoming in their itinerary. The woman displayed her signs at times when reading wasn’t obtrusive to the performance, so Lindsey would read a card and nod that he had finished that card, and the woman would switch to the next card. I liked this. It was a small story inside the larger story. After the concert, someone remarked on the woman’s zeal for Fleetwood Mac concerts. She let him know that she did not attend sporting events, but instead toured with Fleetwood Mac, as though they were her team. I like that, too.
In between songs, I daresay in between “Landslide” and “Say Goodbye,” (for the possible reader that might be familiar with both titles), a little girl gave Stevie a teddy bear, which Stevie then had to hold behind her back when she and Lindsey immediately started the next song. “Say Goodbye” was such an intensely personal and quiet song—really not much levity—that the sight of Stevie trying to conceal a stuffed animal behind her back to preserve the mood of the song had the effect of lightening the mood of the song. I suppose the performance would have been wrecked had she held the bear outstretched in front of her as they sang of the past and lost love. I remember lamenting at the time that I hadn’t thought to bring a gift, not necessarily an animal, but a little something thoughtful. I recalled that I had a travel alarm clock in my purse that I could spare, but then reasoned that neither Stevie nor anyone else needed to be handed a travel alarm clock. Later, after Australia, I continued my friend Vicki’s custom of writing cards, which is probably more reasonable than even the thought of rummaging through my purse for a memento.
This was my fifth Fleetwood Mac concert. At the start of the show, I though about how familiar they (the band) seemed to me; much more familiar than, say, my elusive academic advisor at that time. Part of the sense of familiarity at the start was thinking, “I’ve seen this before.” I would be driving to a wedding in Richmond the following weekend, and I had the inkling of an idea to swing by the concert in Washington, DC on my way. At the beginning of this Bridgeport show, I mused that I might have had my fill. By the end of the concert, the familiarity transformed into such feelings of joy and wonder that my thought became, “I must see this again as soon as possible!”
The music and live performance is always primary, but they are interesting people to observe, too. I wonder not how they travel and perform together night after night, but how they go back to leading normal lives after a long time on the road. Three years earlier, I had developed a time-limited fascination with watching episodes of “MASH.” After viewing the final episode of the series, I became overly concerned for a distressingly long time with the idea that this group of people had lived together in such an extreme circumstance for so many years (fewer in the actual war than in the tv series), yet in one two-hour finale, all but one of them returned to the regular lives they had been leading before their time in Korea. Wouldn’t they always question which was the real life, the day-to-day life to which they had returned, or the briefer, more intense life they had together in the war?
Clearly, the split between lives isn’t as great for traveling musicians as for wartime comrades, but isn’t the nature of life somewhat different for people whose passion and livelihood requires that they travel from city to city than for those that work and live in one place and step out for an evening to see the traveling shows? The Fleetwood Mac people have been doing this for quite a number of years, too. At what point does a certain way of being become the nature of your life, and am I perhaps thinking about this a little more than is reasonable? For whatever reason, the Bridgeport show really brought these questions to my mind. I have since met people that have gone to see Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks since the dawn of time, or at least since the late seventies and early eighties, respectively. Obviously, I can’t compare experiences across as great an expanse of concert time, but I like seeing them now as older people; I see more of life in them, more story.
For whatever reason (I wasn’t consciously generating these thoughts during the concert), I came out of this show with a sense of peace about unsolved problems and good fortune about life in general. I thought about moving through time and understanding my own temperament and life, my own way of being in the world. I had a sweeping feeling about how to accept irreconcilable sadness within the context of happiness, even joy. I have *no* idea what it was in particular about this concert that allowed me to receive these ideas, but whatever it is has never left me. I think a lot of what C.S. Lewis said about living in the Shadowlands, that we see a real world only briefly and veiled. Something about these shows and their aftermaths reveals something genuine that is usually concealed in the rest of life.
My feeling of fortune to be in the world expanded, and it made several days of neck pain due to craning my head at odd angles to look up at Stevie and Lindsey a mere triviality. Spanning both sides of the chasm bridging triviality and meaning was my post-concert destination. The morning after the concert, I decided to continue with “The Greatest Show on Earth” theme by visiting the P.T. Barnum museum, a legacy of P.T. Barnum’s Renaissance-esque showmanship, citizenship, and entrepreneurialism. It was a magnificent spectacle, showing a world of intrigue and excitement that had streaks of both sideshow bizarreness and genuine life. I could not have been more pleased with a roadside attraction to close my Bridgeport Fleetwood Mac weekend.
The P.T. Barnum Museum, Chang and Eng exhibit
Chang and Eng