My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 9
I went to see a Cannons show with Dee. I had a friend in town for a conference, who we met up with along the way to the venue. We had time, so we popped into a bar in a hotel called Charmaine’s, which has a nice rooftop patio and a witty doorman.
I ordered a cocktail to split with Dorie. Dee looked at the menu and told me that she wanted a Pinot Gamay. She noted the price and changed her order to a Pinot Noir despite objections. The drinks went down quickly and we found ourselves back on Market Street headed toward The Warfield.
We approached the venue and scanned our three tickets, acquiring wristbands. We had missed the opener and everyone was crowded in the halls trying to get a drink for the main event, which was to start at 9:15. The old building had embellished walls and a small stage. The place was packed enough—we tried to get a spot that wasn’t in the walkway but no one would budge. I tried to corral the girls in to a spot, but a man stood there with his arms crossed and stood firm. He didn’t even look at me, as to suggest, sorry man, this spot is taken. It reminded me of something an old friend of mine would do to avoid confrontation, knowing deep down that it was a bit aggressive. He didn’t even look at me.
We pressed on to another section around the left side and yet again we were met by the blockade. We thought we could enter a decently-sized space but a man with a gray tee and equally gray beard stopped us.
“Hey, actually yeah my wife is getting drinks and she’ll be right back,” he said.
“Oh, can we just get in the space behind you?” I asked.
“No,” he said, gesturing to the lines on the ground, “there are the waylines; there’s no room.”
We all looked around and then at each other, uncertain of what to do next. We stood in the walkway for a minute but security was sort of shooing us around, but moments later, the crowd from behind us filled in to surround us. We were still on the border of the area but we were no longer the only people standing in the alley—a trio crowded in right and front of us and more to the sides.
The first thing I noticed about Cannons was their logo on the kick drum. As I learned from Dee much later, the drummer was new. He was dressed in a sparkling silver sequin jacket and had long hair but a trimmed beard. Somewhat Jared Leto. The lead singer appeared as well, initially blocked by the man in a crisp white oxford in front of me, but I could see her clearly now. She was a thin, seemingly tall blonde girl with matching silver fingerless gloves that went up to her elbows. Her straightened bob cut framed her face, tapering from front to back, touching her shoulders. She had the same get-up as everyone else, but styled differently: silver top to cover the essentials, glossy bell-bottom pants, so tight as to illustrate her kneecaps, which had a prominent zipper down the front.
The guitarist was to match—his mercury shirt and his brown hair glistened in the red and purple lights and I thought about how it had a nice pearlescent effect and how fun it would be to be in a band and dress however crazy you wanted. The bassist was not nearly as flashy, but he still did adhere to the silvery theme. I noticed that he had his blue and white bass guitar along with a Novation machine of some sort, so I wondered what the machine was for some time but Cannons was talking now, and they had already played their first two songs which I did not quite know.
The lead singer took the mic and told us how she adored San Francisco and how the city has supported her all the while so it was very special for her. She gave a round of applause for the opener, Pink Skies, she said—and then also introduced the bandmates, who I did not catch outside of “Ryan on guitar.” She then kicked it off again into their music, lively and upbeat again, sometimes mixed with raspy, airy vocals.
We kept getting pushed further back by the trio in front of us. There was a man in black with a hat up front, followed by a girl with blonde hair and small golden hoops in a black top who struck me as rich. Perhaps her mother was rich. Occasionally on her arm was a thick-necked man in front of me who gave me odd vibes, standing and dancing in his crisp white oxford with his vodka soda in hand and slight, shifting movements of his head as to look around to the side. He and the girl were frequently leaning into one another’s ear and his hand was low on her back and I kept thinking how they were thoroughly blocking the view but it could not be helped. He and his crew were in the same spot where we had been shooed by the man waiting for his wife, but they had received no protest. It was past that point now in the show and the first man’s wife was dancing now and quite getting into it, sequined jacket to match, and I looked around and felt out of place. Dee and Dorie were having fun like everybody else; I looked up to a booth, private and high, which allowed a group of six to enjoy themselves outside of the fray of general admission. One man up in the booth was really grooving with his arms out and the girl behind him had her phone out, static and motionless, camera facing Cannons. I gazed around to the right and thought about the people dancing near me—why do I feel lacking in depth of passion to enjoy myself as they do? I do not feel compelled to dance or sing or show such emotion. I thought about the man in front of me in the white shirt and how he looked like he was built from either playing football or boxing and it made me think that I would like to take up boxing someday. There are a lot of things that I would like to do, one day and eventually, but for now I am living my simple life the way that it rolls. I am not sure why such thoughts came to me suddenly and why my mind wandered in a moment like this, ripe for the picking as a moment best kept for the present.
Dorie tapped me on the shoulder and I saw her excited face then I looked down and she had taken a video of someone taking a video. That sort of thing was always hilarious to the two of us, and she was always keen on catching people off-guard or in unsuspecting ways. I was often the recipient of such videos and I had started out with a mild disdain for taking secretive videos of others when they make strange faces or are doing something awkward. However, I had come to realize that it was likely a form of memory for her and it brought an innocent joy, so I shared her pleasure in this video and it made me think still of the oddity of being at a concert and spending so much time trying to capture the moment. I then suddenly felt the usual collective shame of living in phone-world but it distracted me from my other ruminations.
“This is the only one I know,” I said to Dorie as Cannons began Purple Sun.
“I like this one,” she said in response.
Dee and I looked at each other because it was our song and I held her. I didn’t realize at first but an usher started to pester Dee about being back in the walkway, then he peeled off into the crowd.
“That guy’s an idiot,” said a guy behind us.
I tried to exit the conversation quickly.
He continued, “How can he single one person out if the whole crowd is doing it? We’re all getting pushed back. It’s just crazy, doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense.”
I said it was crazy. I turned back around and so continued Purple Sun. The singer was prancing around and I thought more about the Novation synth and I felt glad to be there, even if I wasn’t dancing.
Cannons had a short set that only lasted until about 10:45. They said that they had one more, which was maybe a lie, although we were not fully certain at the time and began to creep slowly to the exit. Dee and Dorie and I looked at each other, shrugging, asking if it was time to go. Within a minute of the band’s exit, they were back on stage. They played one more.
We made our way beyond the long merch line and back into the cool San Francisco air.
Dorie and I said our goodbyes and how we were glad to have caught each other during her visit for the Salesforce conference. She turned to walk northeast on Market and Dee and I turned towards Sutro Tower and began to walk.
“Do you want to get a ride or do you want to walk?” I asked.
“I’m good with either,” Delaney said.
“Alternatively we could get bikes,” I added.
“I think we should walk.”
We started off and hugged each other at the crosswalk while waiting for the little man to appear in the street light. We crossed and found a good pace while walking and came across the rooftop bar where we had started the night. She then must have seen the lights on the dome of City Hall and she asked what the building was. She had answered her own question, half-joking that it was City Hall, to which I replied that it was, in fact, City Hall.
We passed through some characters on the street near the area by the support center by Civic Center. She was caught off-guard by someone shooting up late at night and it disturbed her. She was more disturbed at the time that she had seen a dog passed out on the street with no owner in sight. I felt for her; the city sneaks up on you, so beautiful and wealthy, then disparaging and saddening. I was angry at myself for how quickly one becomes jaded to the sights of the street.
“Don’t stare,” I told her.
“I’ve just never seen it,” she replied.
This was fair. I never really looked right at people as they were doing drugs on the streets of San Francisco out of instinct, but perhaps there are other ways about it. It should be inherently shocking but I’ve somehow assimilated the general attitudes of those who live here, despite never taking a good first look for myself. I didn’t even look at them.