It was almost 12 a.m. on a Wednesday night and the first thing I noticed were the eyes. They were empty and wanting, like tiny drawers that had been robbed of their contents and left open. And there were hundreds of them, set inside faces both young and old, coming through the dark from every direction to fall dutifully into an elongated mob stretching sloppily down the street and around the corner and out of sight. If this had been Myanmar, there would’ve been the expectation of rice and gasoline at the head of the line; if it was Sichuan, China, or Tornado Alley, water and sleeping bags and D batteries. But this was Hollywood, California, and the relief that everyone was clamoring for was a fluorescent drinking wristband and a tiny yellow cardboard ticket guaranteeing entry into the El Rey theater for a free midnight concert featuring Elvis Costello and the Imposters (and Friends).
The specifics of the secret show had been leaked to me nearly a week prior to the event by a longtime friend who was a LA record producer and engineer who, for the last five years, had worked with Costello’s drummer and original Attraction, Pete Thomas, on a number of projects and fairly regularly. According to Thomas, following Elvis’s appearance at the Hollywood Bowl, where he would be opening for the Police, he was to travel across town to the El Rey and perform a free midnight show for those, like my friend, who had been tipped off to the happening. Having heard of McCartney’s similarly unannounced and magnanimous appearances at small venues around the world during his concert tours, there was a real sense of near-Beatle magic about such artistic generosity and, if not for the fragility of the required secrecy, I found it nearly impossible to keep my mouth shut.
“What do you mean it’s on the marquee?” asked my engineer friend turning away from me on the night of the show and leaning hard into his cell phone at the recording studio in Silver Lake where he works, only 90-minutes away from when I expected to be doing the excruciatingly tight ass version of the James Brown shuffle with a beer in each hand. “It says Elvis Costello? I thought it was a secret!” Hanging up and turning back towards me with a face like that of a woman who had just learned that she was not the most beautiful girl in the world, I learned that, according to a fellow concert goer who had arrived at the theater early, Costello had invited the entire Hollywood Bowl audience over to the El Rey at the close of his set.
Almost immediately upon arriving at the concert scene we were told by a member of the El Rey staff to get lost. “You’re wasting your time, people, go home,” said a short, stocky woman outfitted with a headset and walkie talkie and a limp that suggested she meant business. “There are no more tickets left – you’re not getting in!” She was like Saint Peter with faded Polaroids of everybody in line when they were six-years-old, wiping their asses on the shower curtain.
Nearby, a foursome of women in their 50s discussed how awesome it was to have all their kids grown up and moved out of the house and how wonderful being middle aged and getting to “party” again like teenagers was. Turning to ask my friend what the fuck we were supposed to do now, I missed the segue in the women’s conversation that had one of them ask another, “Have you ever cleaned a washrag with vinegar?” It was the sort of question that, had they really been teenagers, I might’ve ignored, assuming that I’d either misheard it or that the speaker was employing some new Generation-why? euphemism that I was unfamiliar with. But, no, this was indeed a real question, spoken succinctly by a woman whose furrowed eyebrows suggested a real investment in the answer.
“Come on!” said Pete Thomas to my friend, his voice a shouted whisper for the purpose of camouflaging his identity to those surrounding us. “Huh?” said my friend, turning to see Thomas not 15 feet away, a bit wild-eyed and still sweaty from the Hollywood Bowl. “Follow me – COME ON!”
Being pulled through the front entrance of the theater, past fans alternately thrilled to recognize the drummer leading the way and heartbroken not to be included in his favoritism, I felt vaguely disappointed that I’d never find out if a complete stranger had ever cleaned a washrag with vinegar. After all, when compared with the predictability of hearing (What’s so funny ’bout) Peace, Love & Understanding for the millionth time, it was almost certain that I’d be leaving Hollywood that night feeling as if I’d missed something – something unpredictable, a real one-night-only! performance, that good luck and privilege had prevented me from seeing.