It's Friday, a few hours shy of noon, I'm at my desk at work, listening to KEXP as usual and because the volume is turned down, I don't get the whole story. But I hear John Richards say, "Long Winters", which is what gets my attention, followed by "caller #10". Naturally, without a pause, I'm on the speed dial. Whatever it is, I want to be there.
I just went to see the Long Winters on New Year's, and I was pretty sure they weren't playing any other Seattle shows in the next month, so I couldn't imagine what tickets they were giving away.
The line is ringing at the station, but it always rings before telling you to call later, so I just let it go. Meanwhile, John is on the air providing further details, which are still hazy, such as Pioneer Square and noon. Today. When the radio station diva answers my call to tell me I'm caller ten, I'm squinting disbelievingly at the address she's dictated, and her directions to be there by 12:30, and John Roderick, head honcho of the Long Winters, is playing at the Gibson Showroom. Thirty seconds later my head is still spinning as I conjure up a sudden illness and sneak out of the office.
I honestly don't think they could have sent a better person to this thing. You have no idea. And seriously, after this event, I would have happily surrendered my employment to do it all over again. In fact, I may have to.
We get to the Gibson Showroom, which is tucked away in an unassuming office building in the corner of the mossy Pioneer Square. I have no idea what to expect. There's a sign on the entrance that says, "Do Not Enter: Video Shoot in progress." Video shoot. Yeah. My dear John Richards, what have you gotten me into?
A member of the Barsuk mafia sees my sheepish face and comes to let us in. He is the Nicest Label Guy Ever. The first in a line of about a dozen people to wholeheartedly and earnestly thank me for skipping out of work to come see one of my favorite musicians play. He opens the door with a big smile and I say, "Um, KEXP sent us. That's all I know." And suddenly we're royalty, and he leads us in and shows us the place and pulls up seats for us, introduces us to a handful of people, and vanishes around a corner.
The walls are covered with vintage, autographed Gibsons, drop-dead gorgeous guitars, so many of them that it's pornographic. I mean, just, gratuitous. I'm wiping the drool from my chin as I stumble into the studio, where the music video is being shot, and nearly faint at the foot of this glossy, fire-engine red grand piano. There are several Important People running around with very large cameras, and a big boom on a trolley, and Gibson people everywhere. I'm wide eyed and shell-shocked.
I look around the room. As John was saying on the radio, there's room for about 12 people. In the end, there was 13 and if there had been another person, it would have gotten uncomfortable. We're talking intimate. I try and sit as close to the wall as possible so I don't get in the way of all the activity and expensive electronics. I'm afraid I'm going to get found out as a fraud and kicked out any second. I have no credentials. I have a purple post-it note with the address scrawled on it that I was given over the phone. There must be some mistake.
In walks John Roderick. He is the same cordial, silly indie rock prince he is when on stage. Giving everyone a hard time, making jokes about his Art, fixing his new hair in the ruby gleam of the grand piano.
The head Gibson guy says hi to the eight of us seated along the outskirts of the room. From what I gather, there is one other kexp guy -- caller #9 -- and John Roderick's mom. Who has funkier glasses than he does. The rest of the people are from Barsuk or Gibson. Or the media company that is shooting the video. I still have no idea what the video is. But the pizza is damn good and John has seated himself a few feet from us tuning one of the breathlessly gorgeous guitars.
Our Gibson Guy goes on to shed some light on the event. He thanks us for coming (hey -- sure, no problem. anytime.), and tells us that John will be playing a dozen or so songs, which they will be recording for Gibson use. Feel free to make ourselves comfortable.
Okay.
John starts with "Cinnamon" on an acoustic guitar. The amps are low, so it's just his voice and the guitar and I'm sitting on this stool listening, golden tones bouncing off the shining hardwood floors, smiling and playing, "I drew them a heart…" and I'm instantly riding the #43 bus through Capitol Hill last summer, listening to When I Pretend to Fall, drawing a heart on the steamy window. I simply don't know what to do with myself.
The afternoon lulls on, like a movie I'm watching of someone else's life. And the music is just fucking brilliant. I can't get enough of it. John asks if us kexp kids have any requests. He plays "Unsalted Butter" begrudgingly, and then when I ask for "New Girl", he groans and grumbles and breaks some strings while tuning. Guess I picked the wrong request. But I don't care cause it's my theme song and if I don't hear it, the perfect day would not be complete.
Our private concert tumbles through the afternoon, John playing "Blue Diamonds" on that flawless piano, and then a slew of other songs. He wraps around and ends with "Cinnamon", this time electric, so they can record it again.
The best part of the whole afternoon is watching his antics -- his silly storytelling and goofing around. Like hanging out in his living room. The Barsuk kids make sure we get some new label releases before we leave. Gibson Guy thanks us again. And John thanks us on our way out. "You should drop John Richards a line and tell him thanks," he says. I've already promised him my first-born.
These shots are blurry but it's the best I could do with no flash. Please forgive me.
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