An anti-climactic rock ’n’ roll adventure.
By: Betty Blue
Tags: San Francisco, Music Memoir, Memoir, Coming Of Age

Now Playing: “Have You Forgotten?” by Red House Painters

In the summer of 1997, I was 17 years old, coming off a tumultuous Junior year of high school. I’d always been strange, with a dark side, but I plummeted that year for a hundred reasons. I can’t say it was any one single thing that derailed me, just a series of unfortunate events. Kind of like the Titanic. Ok, that’s an exaggeration. But my spirit had sunk.

Music always comforted me, and I was listening to a lot of it. Because of the new friend I’d made the summer before — The Internet — I’d been exposed to a ton of stuff that year and my (musical) horizons had expanded wildly. One of the bands I learned about through a mix-tape acquired via The Internet was Red House Painters. “Medicine Bottle” was the first song of theirs I’d known, but the first album I acquired for myself was Songs for a Blue Guitar. I loved several of those blue songs, and the gentle nostalgia of “Have You Forgotten?” haunts me to this day.

That July, I visited San Francisco on a “family” trip, i.e. me, my mom and one of her best friends. We stayed at the Grovesnor House in Nob Hill, just across from the Fairmont and close to Grace Cathedral. We did all of the tourist stuff — Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39 and Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley.

It was Thursday, July 10, that we were in Berkeley. I already had an extensive music collection — cassettes, CD’s and records — and couldn’t wait to unearth more elusive gems at Amoeba Music. I’m pretty sure my mom and her friend left me there while they walked around and did other things on Telegraph. I couldn’t tell you what records I purchased that day, but one thing I did notice on the way out was a flyer for a Red House Painters show happening the very next night in the city. Oh my gosh. This was perfect! What better way to remember a trip to such an artistically and culturally exciting place like SF than going to a live show and getting to see a favorite band that would never play in my hometown?! All I had to do was convince my mom to let me go. In that strange city. By myself. At the tender age of 17.

It was happening at The (world famous) Fillmore on Friday, July 11. I had heard about The Fillmore. A lot of the stand up comedy specials I watched at the time on HBO were filmed there. The Sunshine Club and Tarnation were opening. It didn’t take too much persuasion to talk my mom into it — she agreed to drop me off right in front at the curb and pick me up in the same spot at 12:30am sharp. That sounded reasonable. It said on the flyer that the show started at 9pm. Even with two opening acts, by my calculation they would probably be on by 11pm. (I didn’t understand how shows in San Francisco actually worked, especially on Friday nights.)

When the night came, I was thrilled and terrified. At 17, I definitely felt ready to be out in the world. In fact, the thought of being completely on my own in an unfamiliar city, anonymous in the middle of a crowd was everything to me. A dream. I could be whoever I wanted for a night. I donned my favorite grey, second-hand blazer, which always felt so sophisticated. To me a blazer said, “I’m not your average teenager. I think about things. I’m an old soul.”

I got there at 9pm, just as the flyer said. Upon entering The Fillmore and ascending the stairs, a charming female usher asked if I would be consuming any alcoholic beverages, that she would need to see my ID. Wow. I know she was just doing her job, but that made me feel pretty fucking cool. Instead of revealing that I was only 17, I just said, “Not tonight, thank you!”

I don’t think I’d ever even been to a show by myself at home. Walking into the main floor of The Fillmore alone was surreal. It seemed pitch black when I stepped in but my eyes quickly adjusted. I noticed that it was set up more like a lounge, with tables and chairs around the perimeter. Apparently I was early. Now I know better. At the time, I took everything at face value and assumed that 9pm is exactly when everything would start. But there really wasn’t anyone there yet, and I easily found a seat at a table.

That is where I remained, planted like a lump of concrete for the next three and a half hours. I was scared stiff as the place started to fill up, self-conscious because it was all so strange and just awkward. I had become quite the loner already at 17, but once the main floor swelled with chatty friend-groups, smoking cigarettes and laughing, I felt out of place all by myself. But I was there for the music, so I stayed the course, trying to look deep and mysterious as I people watched and sipped Shirley Temples (there was a two-drink minimum at the tables).

10pm: The first band finally takes the stage. The Sunshine Club. Eh.

11pm: The second band takes the stage. Tarnation. I remember them (and Paula Frazer) distinctly.

It was getting close to midnight, and the main act hadn’t come on yet. I was anxious, to say the least. My mom would be out on the curb at exactly 12:30am, and we didn’t have cell phones yet. Even if we had, there was no way she was going to wait up for me and let me be out until 2am under these circumstances. I knew I was absolutely going to have to leave, and I was going to miss my band.

About 15 minutes after midnight Mark Kozelek appeared on stage. According to a setlist archive, the first song was “Uncle Joe”. I didn’t know that one. By the second song, that was it. I had to go. I descended the stairs with my head down, trying to hold back the tears. I was so disappointed but could do nothing about it. At least I’d tried and caught a glimpse. I’d always have the souvenir ticket stub. My mom felt bad, of course, but definitely was not going to let me stay. We were on vacation and still had plans the next day.

They didn’t play “Have You Forgotten?” that night according to the setlist, but I did miss two of my other favorites — “Song for a Blue Guitar” and “Medicine Bottle”.

I can’t deny that, as frustrated as I was, there was a great sense of relief as I got back inside the familiar car and saw my mom. I couldn’t help but be grateful that she had let me loose at all in a strange city, all by myself at only 17.

Within ten years, I would be living in the Bay, deeply immersed in the music scene. I’ve since been to several shows at The Fillmore, both by myself and with companions. Friends of mine have played there, in fact, and I’ve met and interviewed some of my favorite artists backstage (including Dean Wareham).

Every time I walk in, I remember the first time.