The Pedestrian Adventures of a Slavish Fan
My Trip to Robyn Hitchcock Heaven (Chicago)

Review of this Review: “Too clever by half.”

Early afternoon. A bright fall day. I leave the quaint little town of Bryan behind to seek far more stimulating surroundings—I’m off to a club known as the Double Door, to see the legendary psychedelic-pop-never-fit-in-with-new-wave-or-punk-for-that-matter band, The Soft Boys. They have reunited, more than twenty years on, to tour supporting their new album, Nextdoorland.

The Indiana Toll Road will be my main thoroughfare. But before I can get there, about five miles from home I remember that I don’t have my ticket. Sheepishly, I return to my humble abode and my glowing wife hands them to me and gives me yet another warm goodbye kiss. And yet, inexplicably, when finally on my way I soon stop for necessities—coffee and gas.

Indiana is a quick state to cross. Perhaps in excitement, perhaps due to my excessive velocity, I soon find myself in Gary, Indiana (sing: “Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana, Gary, Indiana…”)

Chicago looms in the distance, beckoning me to come and hear its urban, urbane music. I proceed straight in, find the right exit and street, and park at St Elizabeth’s hospital. (It looked much closer on the map, but hey, it was free.)

Finding the venue proves easy enough, even though it has been changed at the last minute from the larger Metro. When I peak through the glass I see Kimberly Rew doing a soundcheck with his white Fender Stratocaster guitar. Then I catch a glimpse of Morris Windsor checking out his drum kit. Matthew Seligman makes sure his bass can boom and then they disappear into the darkness. Soon thereafter I get some nasty looks from the staff.

I have plenty of to kill, so I go to a swanky coffee place across the street and relax for a few moments. But they are short-lived, since my anticipation prevents me from sitting still longer than about ten minutes. Then I prowl in search of the pizza place, Pieces, where people were supposed to meet. I never did find that one, but there was a pizza place that didn’t seem to have any fegmania listmembers in it. Then I remember that I have never actually seen anyone, so, maybe there was. I don’t want to buy any pizza, so I don’t go in. I keep an eye out for the gracious Michael W, the Chicagoland feg who has corresponded with me and made various trades with me, as well. He told me he is 6’3”, 220, with a shaved head. I don’t see him or anyone. While I skulk around trying to decide how I am going to safely trek back to the hospital parking lot I realize that I have left my driver’s license in the car. This little problem becomes the opportunity to trace a possible route and time it. A little empiricism to chase away big-city jitters. (I realize I have not spent significant time in an urban setting since I was in college in Cleveland. I bemoan this inwardly and regret my hitherto-unknown provincialism.) When my little errand is over I realize that my feet hurt, it’s getting cold, and that I am no longer the only slavish fan waiting at the door to see a band very few other people in the world care about. But I still don’t seem to know anyone. All I see near the club entrance is a heavyset guy with a sort of crew cut, another squat possibly muscular guy with a sort of crew cut reading the Wall Street Journal and two guys from the pizza place. We chat nervously together briefly but soon the two pizza shop guys return to their semi-private chat about growing up as a personal friend of Anton LeVay.

At last the doors open and we (our little line grows quickly) go from the dark street to the even darker club. I take a wicked piss then purchase the fan-club only release, Side Three. I do not check my coat, in order to facilitate a timely departure, since I have a three and a half hour drive ahead of me. As much as I would like to stay and meet Robyn and the Boys, I just can’t. All the tables are taken quickly, so I settle in at the bar for my sixth or seventh large dose of caffeine. That, plus the two doses of Sudaphed, has me pretty (legally) high. Then, fortune smiles upon me and I see what can only be the imposing (in a good way) personage of Michael. Glory, it is him! We exchange pleasantries, rave about VeggieTales and wait for more feg friends of his. They soon arrive and I am issued a red balloon on which to write a request. I am instructed that when the proper time arrives we are to send our balloons stageward. It’s not too far a trip, since we are right up against the boards. Michael even leans on the monitors (that is, when he is not setting up his top-secret taping equipment).

A few minutes off schedule the opening act (note the singular) begins. It is none other than the (mad) Lonesome Organist. He plays drums, xylophone, keyboard, guitar, vibraphone and possible other things all at approximately the same time. He’s prone to yelling “Whoo!” into his echoey microphone. At times he seems to be playing an actual piece of music, the rest of the time it seems a little less organized. It’s great fun, though, kind of like a drunken They Might Be Giants, or Giant, as the case may be. Near the end of this spectacle we notice that standing in back of us is ROBYN HIMSELF. We turn to talk or touch him, but he excuses himself, saying, “I’m sorry, I have to go and submerge myself.” He skitters downstairs wearing his black reading glasses and open blue shirt.

The Lonesome Organist is off and The Soft Boys roadie/guitar/bass/drum tech is checking things and taping other things. The anticipation reaches fever pitch as we wait! And, lo, our longings are not in vain! They appear and begin to play, no introduction, no further ado. Robyn has traded the blue pre-show shirt for the famous polka-dot one. They launch right into I Love Lucy, from the new album. It’s exactly what one would expect them to sound like twenty-two years later. Next up is Pulse Of My Heart, which they debuted during last year’s penultimate reunion tour. Kingdom Of Love, classic that it is, thrills us greatly. It’s clear that Robyn in into this show. Kimberly is bopping and jittery. (I keep expecting him to riff into Walking On Sunshine.) Queen Of Eyes comes out next. And he clearly says “Mucky the Pig,” I believe—it is an undeniable Article of Faith. Mr Kennedy follows, to be followed himself by Unprotected Love. Matthew seems to have no vocal duties. He just plucks and picks the bass. Morris happily beats out time in the back, adding harmonies with Kimberly. Hear My Brane, a treat for longtime fans is trotted out next. Then, icing on the cake, Syd (Roger, now) Barrett’s psychedelic anthem Vegetable Man. Things go folky for a moment with The Bells Of Rhymney. The mellow mood is continued in Airscape. The sweetly soft La Cherite follows. A comic turn, now, as Strings come out of the amps. And as long as we’re jubilant, we can pogo to (I Wanna Be An) Anglepoise Lamp. To complete the main set, we are treated to Un derwater Moonlight, complete with a tragic tale of Captain Barofsky going down with the ship in the middle.

Robyn then leads the band off stage and downstairs. But we aren’t fooled. We know that he has been performing two encores on this tour. So we clap and cheer and holler and, predictably, the Boys return. Robyn is now sporting the lizardy shirt from the movie. The shirt-watchers howl in displeasure. Narcissus, from the Side Three disc, is a pleasure. Rock and Roll Toilet is, as always, some kick-ass rawk. I Wanna Destroy You is dedicated to George W, Dick Cheney, Condaleeza Rice, and Donald Rumsfeld, as it should be. Insanely Jealous rips us up next. And, though I wasn’t overly thrilled with the album track, the live version of Lions And Tigers seems to fit right in. I throw my request toward Robyn. And, behold, it is honored—Where Are The Prawns? The band goes off to find them.

When they finally return Robyn has not changed shirts. But we are sent away with The Man With The Lightbulb Head.

Unless I am mistaken, Robyn seems to have been truly enjoying himself, though his throat was somewhat raspy, which gave the serious songs a little more gravitas and the rawky songs the right edge. (Of course, the man can do no wrong. If he sang in falsetto or Swahili we’d have enjoyed that, too.) The fegs around me were very pleased with the rarities of the set and the high energy of the band. I have nothing to compare it to, so I can safely rank it as the best Robyn Hitchcock show EVER.

I say quick goodbyes to Michael, then trot back to the hospital parking lot. The quicker I walk, the more my feet scream. It’s not an unsafe trip, but not as unimposing as a walk in Bryan, Ohio, at midnight. My car is still there. I quickly drive off. Very quickly. I give my lovely and talented wife Lauran the one ring to signal my safe departure and head down the road. She suggested I stop at a motel and sleep until morning, but I plan to go straight home. Then I realize that I don’t have any house keys. I could knock on the door or open the garage, but those options would verily scare the shit out of her, so I think I may go to my office and crash on the couch there. But, alas, before long all my options come to naught—I pull in at a rest stop on the Toll Road and sleep for a while. When I wake up I’m freezing. And after I get out to get gas I am bone-chilled. I drive down the highway with the heat on full blast and the iPod cranking out the tunes, to which I sing along, adding even more hot air. After about an hour I tire again and pull in for the next nap. Then it gets a little fuzzy. I may have driven again and then stopped at the next rest stop to get some McDonald’s for breakfast. Or the Big M might have been at the site of the second nap. I can’t remember. In total I might have gotten about three hours of sleep.

There isn’t much to the rest of the trip. I roar back into Bryan, stopping at John’s Donuts for the boys and Lauran. It is 6:30am the next day. One of the greatest days of my life is over—the fulfillment of half a lifetime’s dream (I am 34, do the math). I am tired, but the blisters will drain, and sleep will eventually be caught, and I will soon detox from the cold medicine aisle amphetamines, and I will walk away with a precious memory. Sniff! It’s touching, really.