Concerted Efforts Part 6: Progressively Lonelier Heart Owners

Since this site has just exploded into the world, many people have approached me on the street, asking the truly important questions like “Would you like to sample some of this fried summer sausage?” and “Did you pay for your gas at the pump?”  Let’s not forget this penetrating query: “Wouldja buy some chocolate bars to help my kid’s pee wee football team, ya cheapskate?”  Clearly, I have made a deep impression that will not be easily filled in with concrete and then driven on anonymously.

Obviously, it has been hard to deal with this level of fame and notoriety.  I empathize with those who have trodden on the lonely path of famousity before me.  It has been difficult, but I made what I believe is the best choice in confronting the massive hordes of fandom.  I have had a series of custom shirts made that state: “No, I am not The Ben Wink of the World-Famous Full Rich Blather site, but thanks for asking!”  This allows me to not only blend in with the plebs and other common folk but also confuse huge sections of the unwashed public at the same time.

However, taking voluminous amounts of precious time to answer my several fan letters and various summonses has not been the slice of pie that I was led to believe it would be.  It has been rather daunting.  (In fact, I never realized how dauntless my prior life was, but now?  There are plenty of daunts to be found in my now daunted house.)  I even had to run out and buy another book of stamps like some commoner because I was almost out anyway.  

But I am just like you: I am a fan of things that I never made and of people that I am not.  Along the way, I brushed against the teeth of fame and even flossed afterwards.  Now allow me to state the obvious question that is currently about to cross your mind and beat your mouth to the punch in saying it: “Gosh, Ben, which famous people have you encountered in your long and excruciatingly awe-inspiring life?”  Funny you should ask in that predetermined-by-my-editing kind of way you did!

Obviously, there is not enough bandwidth to explore all the amazing stars in the fame heavens that have crossed my path in just one go.  I mean I must stretch this out as much as I can, just like the band in my post today.  With that mindset and without any more hesitation, here are some of the fortunate famous folks that have had the honor of meeting me personally in person.

On a dark night back in 1999, I was privileged to go see the progressive rock band Yes in concert in Minneapolis, MN.  Ah, if you have never experienced the prog rock band crowd, you haven’t lived.  But that’s okay as they haven’t either.  Unless living in your mom’s basement through the tender age of 40 and beyond is called living.  But I kid the proggers, as I like to call them.  (By the way, could you at least take out the garbage when you get home?  Thanks.)

Now I know what you’re saying.  You’re saying, “How the hell did the algorithm get me on this stupid site?”  And then you moved on, dearly missed by me.  I’ll never forget you.  But after a while, another random person would be saying, “Wait, didn’t he already see King Crimson?  You mean this guy voluntarily went to see even more progressive bands?!”  Well, to answer your questions, random person, yes, I did and yes, I did.  And I went with that same friend from college, Mark, as he continued my progressive rock education.

The show started.  A whirlwind of notes spun around, building up into sheer tornadoes of seemingly endless epics.  Yes had a new album out for this tour and while it wasn’t bad at all, most fans were there to hear the old classics.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have all week for Yes to play most of what they considered shorter pieces. 

Plus, this was November in Minneapolis, so we were all bitterly cold, burning whatever we could to survive within the theater.  We didn’t plan on having to stay that long in the first place and our supplies were running low.  Flour was depleting rapidly, we were running out of food for the mules, and we only had a half-filled jar of Oma’s gooseberry preserves left.  How could we be expected to sit and simply freeze to death while Yes went down their set list of 16-to-21-minute songs? 

Mark was in his element, thoroughly enjoying the endless songs from the Yes catalog.  After an hour in, I knew about three tunes so far.  However, experiences need to be experienced, so I listened intently and applauded politely.  I pondered the more important issues of the day, like would I ever wear the tour shirt I bought?  Could I be seen in public wearing it?  I didn’t live in Minnesota in the first place, so perhaps I could get away with it amongst these simple people.  But what would the sharper sarcastic folks say in my dairy-filled next-door homeland of Wisconsin? 

While this thought was being mulled over under and through, I noticed that there were ladies present, which is odd for a progressive rock show.  Not many women to be sure, but this show’s increased female ratio made it like a Bon Jovi concert in comparison to a XY chromosome laden fest I was attending. 

Bedraggled wives and girlfriends were in attendance to condescendingly humor their significant others, patting their heads while their fellows enthused over the live rendition of “Ritual (Nous sommes du soleil)”.  I’m sure these ladies were bored out of their gourds, wishing for the unlikely day where they would be able to mindlessly scroll through screens of ads and cat videos on a futuristic cellular device. 

However, those lasses represented when Yes played their biggest hit: “Owner of a Lonely Heart”.  The ladies with one voice said, “Hey!  I know this one!” with a glee that was palpable.  They popped up out of every corner, their rising applause and increased cheering conveying a mix of recognition and relief.  This was truly amazing!  

Even more impressive, and I cannot stress this enough, these were actual women at a flipping progressive concert?!  And as far as I could tell, this wasn’t just Peter Gabriel wearing a dress, these were real women!  Despite being a stunning sight during this song, Mark absolutely abhorred it.  After all, he was a prog purist.  He sat down, arms crossed, waiting for Yes to play the next non-4-minute non-hit. (Oh, did I mention that ladies were present? Just checking. Hey, it’s almost 30 years later and I still cannot believe it!) 

But to make a long story short, which is hard for Yes to do in any case, lead singer Jon Anderson was having throat issues all night.  He thought he could muscle through it but, when your songs are longer than the average monthly Stephen King novel, he got rather strained.  Finally, after giving it a good fight, Anderson walked off stage.  The band remained to apologize to the audience for having to cut the show short.  Immediately, there was a herd of desperate women dashing for the restroom or the exit or both. 

Given the abrupt circumstances, we got up to leave.  Besides, we were out of sugar, and we burned the last bit of Opa’s rocking chair to combat the cold.  We were just outside of the theater, bracing for the frostbite, when we noticed a flurry of activity in the alley behind the building.  Steve Howe, the guitarist for Yes, was standing by the rear theater entrance talking to fans.  Right by him were bassist Chris Squire and drummer Alan White, signing autographs!

I know what you’re going to ask: Who in the hell would recognize these men looking from the street down a dim alley?!  Well, Mark would of course!  He had actually brought some LP sleeves in the then slim hope of getting autographs from these guys.  (Yes, dear reader, he was prepared with empty LP sleeves.  Thankfully the theater was dark so no one could see me sitting next to him during the show.  But I shouldn’t talk because after all, neither of us at the time were exactly skippers on the cruise liners of cool.) 

Anyway, Mark saw that these guys were signing autographs and chatting with the fans, so he sidled over to meet his prog heroes.  Since I had nothing on me to sign, I simply shook hands with them.  Then I trotted swiftly away from the ever-increasing throng of middle-aged men clad in various prog band tour shirts from 1975.  I would like to state that these poor shirts never planned on being worn that thin over the intervening decades.  They were hoping for death or a tear that would take them out of the tour attendance wardrobe rotation.  Please pray for these shirts; they never knew what life, if you could even call it that, had in store for them.

We left the teeming Minnesotan prog-lovers with not only Mark’s items signed but also with joy in our collective hearts.  Truth be told, it was a rather neat thing the band did for the fans, since they understood what a downer it was that they had to stop the show early.  Then again, this kind of impromptu meet-and-greet wouldn’t have happened to me if I had seen The Bangles with Susanna Hoffs in person back in the day.  No, of course not.  Thanks to my non-existent luck, it had to happen when I saw aging British prog rock stars whose last hit was back in 1983.  (I was going to throw in “male” as a band description as well, but as there are no other kinds of British prog rock stars it was therefore redundant.) 

Of course, I had other dalliances with either progressive rock or at least the fringes of it.  It is something that never really leaves you, like Lyme disease or a timeshare.  Still, as these proggers age or reach a certain age only to age no more, those of us left behind must bear witness.  At one time, there were actual musicians trying to see how far they could push the boundaries, taking us on aural journeys that still live on today.  In truth, their songs never stopped because they’re just too damn long!