On the evening of my birthday back in August, I went to see Tom Petty at the Greek Theater in Berkeley. I didn’t have a ticket. I could have bought one, on
Stubhub, for $70, but I don’t really like using that service and anyway, I
wasn’t sure I wanted to go until about two minutes before I left for the
concert. The gig had been rescheduled, which usually means lots of extra
tickets, but I was getting pretty close to the venue without being solicited so it didn’t seem like
that was going to be the case. Meanwhile, I walked past all the fraternities,
which seemed to be in mid-party mode, and as I walked, and the shouts of the
undergrads and the smell of beer and the familiarity of the sights around me mounted,
I began to feel a little weird.
On the one hand, I really love the
Greek Theater, it is a magical venue. But on the other, as I closed in on it, what I noted
wasn’t all good. For example, that new stadium. It wasn’t there when I was here,
and it is…big. There’s a parking lot next to it and it said on it, “Show
parking, $30.” THIRTY DOLLARS? That’s like…Levi Stadium bullshit. Also, on the corner
by the stadium, there’s this life sized statue of a bear that looks like it’s
going to eat you. I couldn’t decide if I loved or hated that piece of art. It made me laugh, but it was a bit like a commemoration of
something extinct, like calling The Pruneyard in Campbell after the orchard it
decimated, when the whole thing is one big cement jungle. No bears here now,
that’s for sure.
 |
| scary golden bear |
“Nah, I think I’ll go home,” I said to my Man.
He seemed genuinely upset for me. “But you came all the way here!” Then he said, “C’mon, I’ll give it to you for less – what do you want to pay?”
All of sudden I was overcome with weltschmertz, I think it’s
called, or some purely American variation thereof. "Weltschmertz" is defined a sadness
for the distance between an ideal world and the shitty reality of it, and what
I felt was like that only more tinged with nostalgia. That bed is just so very
real to me. I sat on it so many times (allegorically)… At Bill’s house, for
instance, down the street, and elsewhere in the vicinity. So I sat on the steps
of the stadium parking lot, and I thought about that for a long long time, as
the music of Tom Petty chimed out all around me; and then I got up and walked
back up Gayley to my car. The frat parties were still raging, as they do in late August, and it was time to say goodbye to all that.
He seemed genuinely upset for me. “But you came all the way here!” Then he said, “C’mon, I’ll give it to you for less – what do you want to pay?”
But I was done. Instead, I sat on the curb for a bit and
played on my phone, listening to Tom Petty from outside. He played “(I Dig)
Rockin’ Around With You,” “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” and "You Don't Know How It Feels" while I sat there,
and the scalper, still looking wistfully at me, let his ticket go for $60.
“There’s still Wednesday,” he said to me, and I just laughed. I have a lot of
other uses for $60 right now. Besides, Tom Petty’s music actually sounded good
out there, really good: the Rickenbacker chiming to the top of its bent. It was
thrilling, that sound – a real rock critic would call it Byrdsian, but to me it
sounds like REM and Robyn Hitchcock and all the other bands I heard just after
I abandoned Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen and the few other mainstream acts
whom I worshiped in my youth. It’s church-y, at least to me.
When I was a youngster and attended UC Berkeley, you could
go watch the shows from what’s now the lawn area for free. Now they sell those
seats for upwards of $50, b ut the memory reminded me that there is something acoustically special about
that particular block of Piedmont; and up I got and walked around. Across the
street the sound turned to mud, but I criss crossed a little and sure enough,
there was a spot on the steps of the stadium parking lot, 500 yards away, where
the sound quality of the show was absolutely pristine. You could hear as well
as if you were in the arena, no joke.
So I sat down and listened. Tom played a song called “Forgotten
Man,” from his latest album (whatever that was, I haven’t been paying attention
– I’m just quoting him); then, “I Won’t Back Down,” “Into the Great Wide Open,” and
“Free Falling.” In short the hits kept coming, and they were so mainstream that
you could have floated a boat down them, but at the same time, they kind of gave
‘mainstream’ a good name. I think it was that mainstream-y ness that made it so
I could listen quietly to them, not even being in the arena, and enjoy them:
there was nothing to see there, nothing Tom and his band and his many backup
singers (whom I just had to picture in my head) could do to make the experience
better; it was sonically just fine how it was.
“Don’t Come Around Here Any More.” “It’s Good To Be King.” “Crawling
Back to You.” “Learning To Fly.” Some other songs I don’t quite recognize. And
then I left, just before “Refugee” and “American Girl,” two of my favorites,
but I didn’t need to hear them; I was satiated. (Happily, I heard the Shins perform "American Girl" at the same venue a few weeks later; it was great.) Honestly, Petty's songs are just good, you know? The chords are so major; so major that even I can play them on guitar, and all of a sudden, that evening, I felt like I wanted to go home and play them. There’s one song in particular that he used to sing, live, that I learned when I was
young—it’s actually by the Everly Brothers, but I associate it with Tom Petty.
And oh, the stories we could tell
and if we all blow up and
go to hell
I can still see us sitting on the bed in some motel
singing all
the stories we could tell..
(Tom PeFollow @ginanarchytty passed away on Oct. 2nd, 2017. This article is adapted from the one I wrote in August.)
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