Hazy dreamlike sepia seeps into my sensations & surroundings
Moving as if flowing, effortlessly gliding, not quite sure of dimensions, times or realities
However, I’m safe in the knowledge that the place of this blurred action is backstage, for the silent energy of the stage itself vibrates through the surrounding warm wood
Being cool, calm and warm, with a tranquility that Penny Lane herself would admire, surrounded by indistinct yet neutrally friendly figures I feel like a sheltered gem, a wolf cub nursed back to health, a treasured keepsake asked to be kept in comfort
As we make our smooth way to the destination, allow me to double stress how warm and weightless it feels to be within this balmy realm
No expectations, no revolutions, no annoyances, no necessities, no tremors, angst, anxiety or worry
Ease.
As if floating through whipped clear honey
or a 60′s dream.
A warmer figure from the left gently, intimately intrudes my glowing space
Delicate, long, restless fingers extend
tenderly tucking a strand of free falling hair behind my ear
and delicately caressing my cheek
all in one smooth, soft motion
A hushed half-whisper, silken yet powerful, zephyr-like in its proximity and intention
“You’re with me, right?”
No hesitation, no need to mull it over, not a shade of doubt
Honestly, even Cassandra couldn’t have predicted this apt mess. The whole situation has minds dying…It’s safe to declare that many of us have been found lost - I beseech you, come and do a C-section on this feeling. It all just seems like a mindwalk, you know, we’re going where I forgot to smile.
No elevator
Will take you to the top of whatever
you think up and down is
I make a pact with myself.
“Even if none of them are actually staying at the hotel, I will still have a great time. I am creating a fairytale for myself - for myself for a change”.
Still, justifying a flagrant expense does not come particularly easy.
On the way to the hotel, I triple-check for any evidence of my transparent passion, but it seems like all signs of the concert have been carefully hidden - apart from the mad pumping of adrenaline that’s going through every tiny capillary.
Do I look respectable enough? My suitcase is orange and slightly battered, graced by a space panda sticker; the guitar case is elephantine in comparison to the travel guitar it holds, but my coat is flawless, and my shoes are cool - and those cheekbones tell a tale of elegance even in the weirdest of circumstances.
It’s after midnight, and it’s a quick ride; London gently gleams under a young crescent moon.
As we pull up in front of the gorgeously festive entrance, I notice a familiar figure standing outside - Samuel Bañuelos III, smoking. My heart simultaneously falls and soars. The tour manager is always a good sign.
Get out of the cab, as gracefully as you can
(note to self: keep trying)
Do I have everything: guitar on one shoulder, a bag on the other and the suitcase.
Make your way in
Smile calmly, as if it’s all part of a routine
Don’t let them know you’re an impostor
(note to self: what?!)
Elevator.
Historic elevator.
Quite an old elevator.
A pretty slow elevator.
A madame in pearls, waiting.
“Oh, coming in late, dear?”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Well you are sure to get some good rest here.”
I wonder if she can tell that I’m in the middle of an adventure of a lifetime.
Please keep being polite to me, it makes me feel like I can fake being natural superbly well.
Our chat is interrupted by the sound of voices approaching.
“Hey man, why are you coming in so late?”
Samuel Bañuelos III appears, followed by none other than the cause of this entire insane campaign, Mister Josh Adam Klinghoffer.
A cool jacket, one of many signature hats, a rectangular guitar case.
“…Because of all the fffffffucking people” he mutters, with a tired temper.
I allow myself a sly little half-smile in his direction.
Perhaps ‘mutters’ is not the right word here, for the madame immediately turns her head and splashes him with a look of sheer condemnation.
Well I feel like an antelope hiding in the bushes. If anyone looks me in the eye, I will be immediately, hopelessly found out.
However, I can’t help but notice (thank you, Nature, for the corners of our eyes) Josh instantly going slightly red (probably cursing himself in his mind). Despite being embarrassed, his eyes wander to my guitar case.
I guess curiosity is the best cure for embarrassment.
Finally, the marvelous elevator arrives.
Inside there is gorgeous gold, a velvet bench, endless mirrors and enough space for three.
Madame embarks.
“I’m afraid there isn’t enough space here for us all to be transported comfortably. Good night”.
There’s definitely place for me there.
She pushes the button to close the doors quicker, but hastily pushes the opposite button and spends another 10 painful seconds avoiding looking at us, her brutal offenders.
Finally, the legendary golden doors conceal the madame as she is solemnly taken up.
I look over my shoulder and cast a quick, warm, understanding smirk at my fellow travelers.
“I’m sorry,” says Samuel Bañuelos III.
“I’m not,” say I.
He laughs; Josh gently smiles, looking somewhat relieved. His eyes keep moving between two points in space: my guitar and my face.
I notice that Samuel Bañuelos III notices it.
Seems like he notices that I notice it, too.
Did I mention this luxurious elevator is…slow?
Back in its day, it must have been a technical marvel of immense speed, but in 2016 it reminds us of a more elegant era when the perception of time was drastically different.
As we continue our wait, the tour manager/genius 35mm photographer quietly reminds the guitar player of the details of the next day, which can be summed up thusly: just be at the venue by 5.
Josh lets out a series of short, somewhat absent-minded ‘mmmmhm’s and I can feel both of their eyes on me.
Our ornate mode of transportation comes back to the ground floor and opens its shining doors.
I take a step forward, but my suitcase does not follow my lead: one of the wheels decides to take the night off.
“Let me help you with that,” Josh says in a quiet, sweet baritone.
“Thank you so much.”
I flash him with one of my best smiles.
I enter the lavish little room of elevation, J follows.
Samuel Bańuelos III does not.
He’s standing there, failing to hide his smirk.
“Might as well take the stairs, much quicker. I’ll see you tomorrow, man! G’night, miss”.
“See you, good night!”
I smile.
The doors close.
The insane serendipity of the situation flabbergasts me to the point of numbness. The odds of this happening were less than minuscule - and yet here we are. I am in the same elevator as Josh Klinghoffer. It’s just the two of us. He doesn’t seem to mind.
I push 5. He asks for 6.
“Well, you are quite the suitcase tamer.”
“It’s -,“ he clears his throat, “- it’s one of the few talents that I have mastered over the years.”
Smiles are exchanged.
6 seconds of silence.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your guitar - do you play?”
I can almost see him mentally facepalming himself.
“A tiny bit. I’m actually learning how to play bass, and this is the closest thing I have here”.
“Oh, bass, cool! It’s not exactly the same, though…”
Beat.
“……What do you mean?”
It became a signature joke - pretending to be absolutely serious.
He falls for it for three seconds, confusion followed by laughter.
“I know it’s pretty ridiculous, but it’s still better than nothing.”
A pause, in which he looks at me with a spark in his eye.
“I guess so”, he says, smiling and nodding.
“I love bass…Are you in a band or - or just learning for yourself?”
His voice is melodious and soothing. I notice that I feel oddly comfortable being one-on-one with him.
“I am learning to join a band that consists entirely of wonderful friends.”
“Wow, sounds excellent!”
Floor 5.
“Thank you so much, it was lov-“
“Oh, I’ll help you with the bags.”
We both step out of the exuberant mechanical wonder.
I take a moment to fully look at him.
Here he is, right in front of me, guitar case in one hand, my slightly scruffy orange suitcase in the other.
“Thank you. It’s wonderful to know that chivalry isn’t dead.”
“Oh, my pleasure.”
We follow the arrows. Silently.
“What - khm - what is the name of the band?”
“We’re called The ************,” I say, unable to hide my gleaming pride.
I’m in a dream come true, talking about another dream coming true.
“The ************…cool name.”
“Thank you, we like it too.”
An exchange of smirks. His eyes are deep brown, with faint glimmers of deep gold.
The charm of his smile drastically exceeds my (already high) expectations.
‘What kind of music do you play?”
“Well, the official formula goes like this: progressive-aggressive punk post-pop cabaret!”
“…..Wow. Well, that definitely got my interest!”
I wonder if he sees how insanely happy I am right now.
I feel radiant.
All of a sudden we are standing outside of room 532.
“Five three two…that would be me,” I say softly, casting a gentle gaze upon him.
“Are y-you staying here for long? Sorry, that’s an inapp-“
“Two nights.”
He nods, looking at the floor.
“I’m so sorry, taking up your time, it’s late, and you must be tired - not that you look tired - I mean, it’s almost 2 AM, and -“
“Please don’t worry! Thank you so much for helping me, I really appreciate it.”
My cheeks begin to hurt from all the smiling.
“Besides, it’s you who is truly tired.”
Uh-oh.
He looks at me intently.
“I was”
Pause.
Just as I inhale to continue this dreamlike conversation, Josh mutters good night and leaves pretty abruptly.
I find myself standing in the middle of an empty corridor of a legendary London hotel.
Fuck knows what just happened.
I open the door, drag the suitcase into the room, let the guitar slide to the floor, drop the bag and simply freeze, leaning against the door.
Fuck knows what just happened.
I just had a fantastic encounter with Josh Klinghoffer… which ended with him running away.
Was it because he realized that I follow him? Maybe he got scared of my incredible charm? Perhaps he had to take care of some dark necessities?
Fuck knows.
Fuck knows.
……fuck knows.
It’s still astonishing, though.
It is still mind-blowingly incredible, though.
It’s still absolutely bloody crazy fucking fantastic, though.
I put on some music, shuffle at first, but “Eye Opener” comes first and I have no desire to die by melting into this deep blue carpet.
I put on “Love of Your Life,” followed by “Never is a Long Time”. Soothing songs that accumulate that warm feeling of sheer magic.
Unpack!
Shower!
Jump on the bed, celebrating your insane luck!
Glee at the marvels of a five-star hotel!
Go to bed in your beautiful silk nightgown to feel like a lady!
Attempt to sleep and fail miserably!!
I sit up in bed, coming to terms with the fact that sleep seems like the least exciting thing to do right now.
I get up, throw on a black, sheer, floor-length, long-sleeved polka dot dressing gown (thank you, Dita Von Teese), slip into my elegant little slippers, grab a pen, a piece of paper, the door key and head out to wander the exquisite dimly lit corridors.
After all, life is too short to waste it on mediocrity. I dream of living in a Wes Anderson film, and so I create this opportunity for myself!
I slowly make my way through floor five, admiring the early 20th century sketches and caricatures on the walls, occasionally stopping to write down a thought, a line, a poem, a feeling, a spark. My path is deserted, with the exception of a gentleman eating chicken outside of room 502. The attention he gives me is minimal.
My ghost-like promenade takes me to the staircase, and I hesitate, deciding whether to go up or make my descent.
As I listen closely to my gut, I hear the peaceful wind behind the windows, the light rustling of branches, the mild ticking of a clock standing on a randomly beautiful table by the elevator, the soft humming of the lamps, quiet footsteps…footsteps? Chicken guy coming for seconds?
I notice a figure lurking upstairs. A tall, somewhat lanky figure. The pattern of the figure’s movement is hesitant, but after a few pauses, I can hear it advancing towards my location.
As the silhouette draws nearer, the floppy hair becomes painfully obvious.
He notices me and freezes.
Here I am, a sleepless vision, looking at Josh Klinghoffer…yet again.
There he is, in a black long-sleeved top that looks incredibly cozy and pajama pants that can be called ‘slim’ in comparison to his usual stage choices, looking at me.
A few moments pass, and he still hasn’t run away.
Either his eyesight is not so good, or he’s not terrified.
He moves one step down.
“Hi…”
His voice lingers in the air.
I take one step up.
“…Hi”
The night makes my voice deeper.
The silence rings in my ears.
Or is it the excitement?
The adrenaline, perhaps? Does adrenaline ring?
Dear brain,
Please shut up.
“Can’t sleep?”
He hesitates.
“Yeah…still not sure which time zone I’m in”
Pause.
“….and you?”
Now it’s my turn to take a dramatic pause.
“…The night seemed to poetic to let it pass me by.”
He takes two more steps and murmurs something undecipherable.
“Sorry?”
“That is beautiful,” he says, stepping onto the landing between floors.
I smile with a slight exhale and stand by a window on the same level as him.
I wonder how transparent this dressing gown really is.
“I’m surprised you didn’t run away just now.”
His face changes immediately, a grimace of deep discontent followed by an expression of pure downheartedness.
He stares at the floor.
“I am so sorry. I can’t believe you’re even talking to me right now. I - I hate the way I am sometimes.I felt as if I overstepped a line and didn’t think of anything better than to flee. Regretted it instantly. Punched a wall. Regretted that instantly. Felt idiotic since then”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that a conversation that I found so pleasant was a source of such agony to you…”
He looks up, comes to the window…stands opposite me. The pale light encompasses us both.
We are looking at each other.
How is this not awkward?
Magic.
“I never asked you your name.”
“You have a chance now.”
He smirks and softly shakes his head.
“I’m ***. *********.”
“Hi, ***”
“Hi,” I say, with a secret smile in the corners of my mouth.
“And you are?…”
We both laugh. He seems wildly relieved.
“Josh.”
“Well, lovely to meet you, Josh.”
I extend my hand.
He shakes it with an air of mock-importance.
His hands are big, with long, graceful, restless fingers and obvious veins. His handshake is careful yet firm.
My handshake is strong and enthusiastic.
I celebrate our first physical contact by zapping him with a shot of static electricity.
He looks mildly impressed.
“Are you from the States?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well…your accent sounds American.”
“Yeah…I’m actually *******.”
“*******?!”
“**!” (yes)
“Haha…Your English is superb!”
“Thank you! All thanks to my brilliant parents.”
“Are they American?”
“Nope, my whole family is completely *******, aside from a couple of Jews.”
“Ah, haha! So you live in…******?”
“I do.”
“It’s a beautiful place.”
“Thank you! It is as strange as it is beautiful.”
“That’s a good way of putting it…”
“Coming from you that’s a big compliment.”
His eyes become more serious.
I hesitate…and dive right in.
“I think that you write some of the most beautiful music in the world.”
He begins to examine his shoelaces.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But it is true…at least to me.”
He finally looks up, his gaze fixated through the window.
“Someday I will learn to take compliments calmly…possibly”
“That might come in handy one day…”
He looks at me and smiles, tucking his hair behind his ears.
“***? Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t see why not”
“It might be a bit of an odd question.”
“Those are my absolute favourites.”
He pauses for a few moments.
“What kind of guitar did you bring here?”
I laugh, looking at the ceiling.
“It’s a travel guitar. Smaller, lighter, waterproof. Perfect for a campfire evening…but I’m not a big fan of camps.”
“Neither am I…but I’d love to take a look at it, haven’t seen one of those in a long, long time…if you wouldn’t mind?”
I smile softly. I feel as if a little boy asked me to show him a wonderful toy.
“Sure.”
“So…you’re here for two nights, right?”
“Exactically so…sorry, that’s a quote from Alice in Wonderland.”
“Oh, you don’t have to apologize for quoting a great book…I’m sorry for not recognizing it!”
I grin, he grins, we both look out of the window. Venus is shining bright, like a lighthouse for dreamers.
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”
I hesitate, not believing my ears. THINK OF SOMETHING COOL.
“Beginning a wondrous day” Jesus Christ on a motorbike that sounds pretentious as fuck.
“Would joining me for breakfast spoil the wondrous day?”
“On the contrary, it would make a wondrous day exceptionally fantastic.”
He looks mildly shocked and stays silent for a pretty damn long time, paying much attention to his hair.
Classic ***: scaring people away with wild enthusiasm since 1991 (c)
Well, no point in backing off now!
“…Shall we meet…downstairs?”
He clears his throat yet again, fiddling the bleached strands of his infamous hairdo.
“Actually I was wondering if I could pick you up at, let’s say”, - he checks his simple, elegant, clearly trusted and well-worn black-strapped watch, - “10 o’clock?”
“Sounds perfect…I am flattered!”
He smiles with a slight air of inhibition.
“Believe me,” he says. “I’m the one who is flattered.”
We look at each other, unashamedly smiling. I’m the one who breaks the spell.
“See you in six and a half hours, then.”
His smile becomes wider.
To say that he is charming is to say absolutely nothing at all.
“Sweet dreams.”
“You too…good night.”
We hesitate, look at each other and laugh.
“Bye!”
I start descending. At the bottom of the stairs, I turn around and see him still standing there, watching me.
“See you soon…”
You can't concede that you have no control
But if your eyes are open,
your heart is open,
your life is open wide
