The Night I Lost My Goldfrapp Cherry
Life, my friends, is a series of choices, fortunate and unfortunate. In hopes of making the fortunate kind, we forge our paths with too much caution. This, more than any other characteristic, defines us as human, as opposed to animal.
If we could embrace the evidence that now -- in an era so fucking modern we call it post-post modern -- we are still the earth's creatures, furry animals out in the weather; if we could embrace this, sistren and brethren, we would be Goldfrapp.
Monday night Matty and I saw his favorite band, Goldfrapp, at the Fillmore Auditorium. Alison Goldfrapp sang on a distant stage -- but never too distant! -- beneath the eight blue chandeliers that hang from
the ceiling. These chandeliers were made all the more sparkling that night by how magnificently the walls, which are draped in a two-story swath of wine-red velvet, set them off to full lustre.
After waiting in line for one hour, Matty and I had found a couple of seats on the second floor balcony, across from the booze. In terms of distance from the stage, our view was comparable to that from a third-story window of an old Victorian house, which, if we extend the image, the stage would have been on the centerline of the street fronting this house, where girls in small towns play jumprope.
We were right next to the cool-people entrance through which roadies and suspect-looking fellows in suits ran in and out, flashing their passes. Guarding this entrance was a bearded old hippy in a leather hat. He read a hardcover, sans jacket. I asked for the title. Sin Killer, by Larry McMurtry*.
While we waited for the show to start, Matty and I made two bets, based on the following questions:
I= Ing, and
A= the true and correct answer
1. Alison Goldfrapp is due to begin at 8:00 pm. How many minutes will we have to wait before she'll strut her fine self onto the stage?
SCORE: I 0 M 1
2. Who do we have to blow in order to get past the graybeard reading the Western?
M: [Identified three (3) hirsute and stocky roadies, a man in a jumpsuit adjusting the drum set, another man with a Petzl® flashlight strapped to his head (also wearing jumpsuit), several slobby-looking dudes wearing leather jackets, and the graybeard hippy.]
I: [Said, Eeeew!]
A: See M, ibid.
SCORE: I 0 M 1
The loser, should it be moi, was to run past the ticket counter and swipe the Goldfrapp poster. If, on the other hand, I should be the winner, then Matty --who was wearing silver sneakers -- would do the same with the Beck poster in the hallway.
FINAL SCORE: I 0 M 2
And at 9:15 pm, the show began.
I came close to being Goldfrapp'd when Alison Golfrapp, looking uncannily like a Xanadu-era Olivia Newton John, interrupted her skilled and poppy vocals to interject with these incredible Nina Hagen blasts (which she resorts to sparingly). But it wasn't until her dancers came out, wearing their tight bikinis and animal masks, that I was finally Goldfrapp'd.
That night, dear readers, I was Golfrapp'd for the first time. And then I was Goldfrapp's again, and again, and again. Indeed, in an hour and a half I was Goldfrapp'd six times in succession, the peak of it coming during the second-to-last Goldfrapping when Ms. G. sang I Want To Ride on a White Horse. Behind her the half-naked dancers pranced in high-heeled pumps. Their costumes featured large, glitter-mirrored horses' heads and long white horse tails. The details of how these tails were used during the dance are too intimate to share in polite company, but if you've seen Goldfrapp yourself, you know e-zackly what I'm saying.
At the end of the evening I realized that after such a Goldfrapping, I wouldn't be able to walk for days. Despite this, Matty promptly reminded me that if I truly loved him I'd now have to now sprint in order to steal that Goldfrapp poster, and besides, he'd won it "fair and square" in what he called "our bet". Little did he know that at the end of the show the poster would be handed out to everyone, for free. On the way out I snagged a couple, and later, on the road to Matty's house where I would drop him off for a good night's sleep, I did not, for once, get incredibly lost in this crazy west-coasty labyrinth of one-way streets. Was it the higher power of Goldfrapp, guiding us safely home? Yes, I do believe that it was.
*Larry McMurty! The guy who in his Oscar Acceptance Speech thanked the booksellers of this country for doing such a good job!