I Am So Popular: I Am A Strong Black Woman!

A good night’s sleep with the Boston Terriers allowed me to talk myself in off the ledge, though, and I woke up determined to follow through on some plans I’d made before the fiasco that was yesterday brought me down. As I detailed here last year during this time, I am a radio junkie, beyond grateful that this town offers near constant over-the-airwaves chances to bring the festival into the comfort and privacy of the bedrooms of borderline agoraphobes like me. Even better, I am more fortunate still in that the good folks over at KGSR and KUT let me come in and catch in-studio performances.

So this morning, I popped by Studio 1A on campus to listen to Asa (pronounced Asha), who is in town visiting from Nigeria and Paris (she alternates between the two). KUT had been playing Asa’s song Jailer the past couple of weeks, and it is really something else. John Aielli (who, as usual, appeared to have no idea who I was, despite the fact that I Am So Popular and that I’ve sat in with him sixteen thousand times in the past ten years) about flipped when he heard the singer and her French guitarist and her Nigerian back-up vocalist. Now, I don’t always concur with John, but this time, he was spot on. And even if you don’t have a wristband, you can hear Asa for yourself on Friday at the French Legation day show. You really should do that.

Then it was over to KGSR to catch three performances—Gary and Mark from the Jayhawks, Gomez, and Ruthie Foster. I like the Jayhawks pretty good and those boys from that band certainly can harmonize. Warren actually fell asleep during their gig which isn’t a bad thing—it’s sort of like how burping is acceptable in some cultures. If Warren starts snoring, it probably means he’s pretty content.

Then again, if he stays awake, now that’s something. And Gomez was an eye opener, a bit oxymoronic, their onstage presence borderline stoic as they delivered some very peppy tunes.

But it was Ruthie Foster who helped me turn the SXSW corner and actually reach that place I so crave but rarely get to during this insane week. And that is the place where, rather than feeling like I am about to lose my shit in a long line, or get stampeded at a packed show, I witness a performance where I am fully immersed—not drowning but enveloped in a transcendent moment, part of the music itself.

There are no accurate words to put toward describing what music, at its best, does for me. I am an absolute fanatic, with 5,000 tunes on my iPod (small potatoes compared to some of you, but over all, not bad). Since I was a very little child, something about music—in particular pop—has been the one thing that can always cut straight through everything for me. No matter how big a heap of shit my life happens to be—or, to be fair, how happy it is—at any given moment, there is never not some song or record that speaks to just what I’m going through. Music has always been a big way for me to see the world a certain, delicious way.

So up pops Ruthie on the KGSR stage and her sound check—her sound check!—is brilliant and funny and full and ripe and gorgeous. Before hearing that, I’d only heard her on the radio, always good, but this was something entirely different. To say we, the audience, recognized we were in the presence of greatness would be a paltry understatement. My only regret was that home listeners could not see what we in the studio could see—Ruthie’s brilliant, real smile, her band (how often do you get to see a trio of black women playing on an Austin stage—or anywhere for that matter), and the standing ovation she received.

But the part that really did it for me, that grabbed me and shook me and, yes, made me weep, was when she sang Patty Griffin’s When It Don’t Come Easy. This caused a frenzy to tear through me like some tremendous auditory multiple orgasm and for those brief moments I couldn’t tell sky from earth, mountain from ocean, head from ass. Do you know what I’m talking about—when you are sitting in a room with a band and everything they are doing they are doing just right? And you’re thinking you want to just load the car and follow the band on the road for a few dozen years? That’s how I felt.

I was loving Ruthie—her voice, her guitar, her spirit, her smile, her band mates—and I was floating around in Patty Griffin land, too. Time for a PG aside. Yesterday, at my kid’s show, Patty happened to be in the audience. Now, Henry is an awesome guitarist, but I’m thinking maybe it was just a coincidence Miss Griffin was in attendance, since it was a big, multi-band outdoor stage. This was not the first time I’d found myself in close proximity to PG and, as I had the last time this occurred, I was seized with an urge to rush her, throw myself at her feet, try to explain to her that her entire body of work resonates for me.

I knew better than to do this. I learned the lesson, a long time ago at an Elvis Costello show at the Backyard that it is Very Important not to cross the line between worshipful fantasy and foolish reality. Some woman jumped up onstage, threw herself at Elvis (as I had, for years, imagined myself doing) and what happened? It interrupted the show, she got carted off by security, and so the rest of the audience got annoyed and the chick missed the rest of the show. Moral: You just should not hurl yourself at idols, no matter how tempting.

Which is why, when I spotted PG at the airport in Denver last summer, I worked to keep my cool. I wasn’t terribly successful as I sat there, Googling her image on my iPhone, disbelieving that was really her across from me, wanting photographic proof. Then, knowing she is a knitter, I got out my knitting, hoping to convey to her we share a passion. Warren, seated next to me, encouraged me to “accidentally” kick my ball of yarn over to where PG was sitting as an excuse to chat her up. I resisted.

Back at the airport, as I waited for Warren to get the car, Patty came out with her luggage. I sidled up to her. “Hey,” I said, “I didn’t want to make a big stink in Denver and bug you, but I wanted to tell you I just love your work.”

She was gracious, thanking me and adding, “I love your sweater. I’m a knitter, too.”

At this, I wanted to say, I KNOW, I KNOW! And I wanted to tell her we used to be neighbors and I know what color her house is and what her dog’s name is and the car she drives. The Baby Jesus must’ve been with me though, and He slapped an invisible silencing hand over my mouth and I retreated quietly.

Fortunately, this was true yesterday, too, and I just sat knitting, wanting her to see me, wanting her to be my best friend, wanting to ask her to tell me all about her lyrics, knowing better than to ask. Just being close enough to shoot out gratitude vibes was enough.

So thank you Ruthie, for helping Spike get her SXSW groove back. And thank you Patty, for all the songs. And thank you both for being strong women writers, and for living in Austin, and for opening it up wide and sharing it with us all.

I think that’s what I love most about SXSW, once I remember to exhale and take the advice of my friend Marty. Once, going into a huge party, I panicked. Marty sensed my problem—I was freaked out there would be so many people to talk to. Just pick one person, he said, and enjoy that conversation. It worked.

I just have to remember during this insane week—just pick one show at a time, no way you can see them all. Be glad if you catch someone from far away, but be more thankful still that we live in a town overflowing with astonishing talent.

Okay, okay, Spike Gillespie confesses: she is not really a strong black woman. She hopes you’ll join her Friday at the awesome, FREE, all-ages day party at Big Red Sun, and catch her son’s gig Saturday at 4:30 at Emerald City Press. She blogs over at www.spikeg.com and is head mistress for the Dick Monologues. Next show April 15th. Email spike@spikeg.com for reservations.