the back burner

moby and marjorie

Went to a fabulous concert tonight -- Moby at the Tabernacle, here in ATL -- completely enjoyable. I met Mike on the front steps and hour and a half before the opening act. We ate and caught up on our talking at the Landmark Diner and then strolled back down to claim our will-call tickets. Lots of scalpers... I must remember that, the next time.

The crowd was small for the first guy -- turned out he was more of a performance artist than strict musician. I liked him a lot, but you could tell he wasn't the main attraction. (He left to lots of applause, though.) Folks kept trickling in the doors during his act and during the INTERMINABLE wait that followed. I mean, we could easily have squeezed another opener in there. Easily.

Anyway, our waiting was richly rewarded. Moby's entourage of four swaggered confidently out before the man himself, primed to start jamming as soon as the man himself stepped foot upon the stage. And jam they did.

It was somewhere during the first set that I noticed a middle-aged, heavyset woman standing off to my left, looking over the crowd from our balcony perch to where the musicians stood. She was wearing a bright, floral mumu and big beads. Sparse, colored curls sprouted above her brows in a matronly fashion, making her look in my mind as if her name should be something a little old-fashioned, like Fanella or Marjorie. There she stood against the wall, seemingly unaware of the visual anachronism she provided.

What first caught my eye wasn't her out-of-place attire or demographic -- there were lots of ages and outfits sprinkled throughout the crowd. I first noticed her because she was genuinely excited about the music itself. She had a sort of sway going, shoulders leading with the rhythm, and her eyes were happy. It spoke of a different drummer. It stood out.

I checked up on her several times as the show went on, my admiration mounting with every glance. The exuberance of other audience members waxed and waned as they drank, got excited, and then got tired. Not Marjorie. She wore a look and swayed a quiet sway of consistent engagement, the kind of look a person gives to the bearer of good tidings. Attention for entertainment: a very satisfactory transaction. I don't know how much she paid for her ticket, but I know she was getting her money's worth.

Rock on, Marjorie. Rock on.

Posted by nickles at April 13, 2005 12:16 AM | TrackBack