America's Got Talent

Warm-up guy: Affable Brit with a painfully lame sense of humor.

His worst joke: (To audience member) Oh, your mom’s visiting you here in New York? Yeah, I’m sure she came to visit you. For six days. I’m sure she didn’t come to New York for the…shopping!

Length of line to get in: two city blocks

In 2003, after George W. Bush fell off a Segway, Talent Judge Piers Morgan was quoted in the Daily Mail: “You’d have to be an idiot to fall off, wouldn’t you, Mr. President?”

In 2007: Piers Morgan fell off a Segway, breaking three ribs.

Piers Morgans's qualifications to be a talent judge: He's the former editor of several tabloids and he won Celebrity Apprentice.

I don't like: Judge Piers Morgan




Spirits were high as hundreds of people piled into the Hammerstein Ballroom. We filled the entire lower section, then the balconies, then much of the upper level.

After Awful British Warm-Up Guy (from here on out, A-Bwug) told some dumb jokes, he had us pretend to leave. Producers wanted a shot of the whole audience leaving. So A-Bwug counted to three and everyone got up and made for the exit. I didn’t really believe it, but everyone else got up and started to leave. A few seconds later, A-Bwug called us back. Then he had us do it again. And a third time.

Finally, the judges came out. The nice one, Sharon Osbourne. “The Simon Cowell of the group,” Piers Morgan. Yes, that’s how A-Bwug described him. (It means Morgan is British and an ass.) And finally, the populist, the pinnacle of cool for some reason, David Hasselhoff.

“Don’t hassle the Hoff!” yelled a guy sitting a few rows behind me. People laughed. So did I. Over the course of the evening, the same guy would shout the same phrase repeatedly over the course of the evening, undeterred by its rapidly diminishing funniness.

Time for the show. First was a step group. All were high schoolers of color from the Bronx. They seemed good to me, but I've only seen step a handful of times.

“You’re just not talented enough,” said Piers.

“I’m sorry, dears, but we see a lot of step people come through here, and you didn’t give us anything great,” said Sharon Osbourne.

This was the first time, but not the last, that I openly wondered why two British folks who seem to have done nothing worthwhile in their lives (plus the guy who, you know, starred in Knight Rider) are qualified to criticize stuff like a style of dance owned exclusively by black youths.

More acts came and went, and before long we realized we weren’t getting the cream of the crop here. A couple who claimed to have invented his very specific combination of polka, jazz, and swing dancing.

A guy who claimed to be one of the world’s best soap bubble-based entertainers. (He only blew a few normal bubbles, which was hardly impressive, but in his defense, he was buzzed off the stage within fifteen seconds, and he claimed his act only became challenging in the later stages.) It took a long, long time to set up and take down his act, and the audience grew restless.

A middle-aged woman came out in a skimpy nightie and talked about the greats she used to work with. Sinatra, John Wayne. Her act was that of a lounge singer, singing badly and rolling on the floor, faux-seductively. We loved her for her brashness and for not giving into the standards that say beauty requires youth. Then we hated her for the same reason and booed her off the stage.

Audience reaction was a great experience in groupthink. Nearly everyone was cheered at the beginning. We loved everybody, you see. But as soon as we got bored, fifteen to thirty seconds in, we grew restless, and soon we booed. Everyone in the crowd basically did what everyone else in the crowd did. It worked seamlessly, like a tower made of ants. All of us, hundreds of people, all switched from loving an act to hating it in a matter of seconds.

A woman brought out her pig, which can paint. Sometimes. Not this time. When the act was buzzed off, she couldn’t make the pig leave the stage. It was scared and unresponsive, and after five minutes of frustration, Sharon stormed off, followed by the other judges.

We waited and waited for the judges to return. Some people walked out of the theater. A-Bwug came back out. “Ladies an gentlemen, the judges are not on a break. They’re simply offstage, doing some work that can’t be done in front of a big audience, some filler shots. In the meantime, we have a big treat for you.”

“How about some talent?” yelled a guy in my section.

“We have for you tonight the seventh—or maybe eighth; I can’t remember—place finishers from last year’s contest, the Glamazons!”




From this point on there was a steady trickle of audience members headed toward the emergency exit.

"Don't hassle the Hoff!" yelled that guy for the upteenth time.

After about half an hour, the judges returned. They were preceded by A-Bwug coming out and saying “Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have finally returned from their break!”

It was an opera singer. He was good. Or, well, I liked him. Isn't a par-for-the-course opera singer a much better singer than an average pop singer? The judges thanked him profusely for saving what had so far been a dour and hopeless night. They told him he wasn’t that great for an opera singer, but he wasn’t bad, either, and he had a lot of passion. Well, they’re the experts. David Hasselhoff. The chick who married Ozzie Osborne.

Then there was another break. A-Bwug came back out. “I just talked to the producers. We’re gonna do another shot where everyone’s exiting. So leave your bags on the floor, but when I count to three, everyone get up and pretend you’re leaving. One, two, three.”

I got up and made for the doors. Somehow I couldn't turn return to my seat.

On my way out, I stopped the lady who worked the door. “All these people are leaving," I said. Is this normal?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Nobody ever stays for the whole thing."

Judge David Young

Host's most famous former boss: Janet Reno
Location of Studio: 106th St. and Park Ave. (Note that the show 106 and Park is filmed nowhere near here.)
Breakfast provided: Dunkin Donuts and orange juice.
Rather than orange juice, I wish they knew that donuts actually go with: coffee.
Number of security guards who stand around doing nothing save the one who scans audience members as they walk in: 6.
Oft-repeated but factually incorrect catchphrase on this show: "The Nile is not a river in Egypt!"
Seats: Benches, very much like church pews.
Recommendation given by the guy in the urinal next to me: "Yeah, he's a good one to see live. More entertaining than most of the judge shows."
The world has many David Youngs. One wrestles professionally, one brokered the end of the writers' strike. One played professional rugby for Wales. There are poets and musicians, as there are of every name. One was special ops for Nixon. I was there for the TV judge.

There aren't many people involved with this production, in terms of both staff and audience members, and that's relaxing. The Audience Coordinator was a chatty guy who was quick to point out to me that Young "was a real judge" back in Miami. That doesn't mean his televised trials are fiction, he insisted. But he's these days restricted to small claims.

Most people there are regulars, he said. They come as groups of five to eight or so because it's entertaining and you learn a little about the law as you go. Decisions made in Young's TV court are legally binding, though they can be appealed. People come to have their cases settled here mainly because it's a free trip to New York.



As luck would have it, I was there to see paternity tests, known in the vulgate as baby mama drama. The timing of cases was a stark contrast to how it's done at Maury's show. There, a new "you are not the father" bomb dropped every few minutes, continually. At Young's show, he asked probing questions of both the plaintiff and the defendant for about half an hour per case.

The result of this, of course, is that we become far more involved with the lives of the people up there. That the host has a law degree and the audience didn't come to hoot and holler only furthered my inability to distance myself from the very real problems these people had.

The first was a Tom denying paternity and a Natasha pressing claims to get child support. Nothing new here. Young almost immediately sided with Natasha, and when it was revealed that Tom never revealed to her before their affair that he was married, it was all over in Young's mind. He interviewed Natasha at length and hardly let Tom speak. When Natasha said Tom's mother had been present at the birth of the child in debate, and Young asked him why she would do that if he weren't the father, Tom stammered that his mother was crazy. Young launched into a tirade about the sanctity of mothers.

Time for the test results. Young talked to a doctor in Toledo via satellite hookup. "With a likelihood of 99.9998%, Tom is the father," he said. Maury never had a doctor tell him results. For all we know, he was making them up. At least Young's show has a screen with a guy with a lab coat on.

After that came the post-findings ruling. This is where Young, a bit of a prima donna, lectures both parties on responsibility. He asked Tom what his father was like growing up.

"He wasn't around."

"I see," Young said. "I assume he left you and your mom?"

"Yeah."

"This is why you have problems with relationships. Because you weren't raised right. If you had been--"

"Judge, I was raised ok."

"Do not interrupt me when I'm speaking. You weren't raised right, and look where you are now. You cannot do this to your son."

A little awkward, if you ask me.

The second case, though, was the most dramatic. A woman named Taeshawn, married at sixteen, separated at eighteen, divorced at 22, "married, I think, for eight years," got involved with Jamal, who is ten years her senior. Jamal didn't talk much and didn't like to talk. The first two evenings Taeshawn recounted were hazy, she said, because she was pretty drunk.

"So does your alcoholism keep you from being a good mother?" asked the Judge.

We never established whether Taeshawn actually is or isn't an alcoholic, but Young is both very quick to judge and often right.

"Jamal don't even help with the baby," Taeshawn said.

Young turned to Jamal. "Did you ever change this child's diaper?"

"Yes."

"Did you feed him?"

"Yes."

"Did you buy him toys, or play with him?"

"Yes." Young turned to Taeshawn.

"It seems like he's a pretty good father."

"Yeah, I guess he is," she said.

It didn't seem they had a real court case at all. They were there for the paternity test. Not only was Jamal not there to deny fatherhood, it became apparent he was resigned to loving Taeshawn from afar and was hoping against hope he was the father.

"Do you love the boy?" asked Young.

"Yes."

"Would you be his dad even if it turns out you're not the biological father?"

A pause. "No."

"Because it would be too hard?"

Another pause. "Yes."

Again we went to the doctor in Toledo. This time he gave no likelihood of accuracy. There was just a simple "Jamal is not this child's father."

Young turned to Jamal. "Do you have other children?"

"Yes."

"Well, they are lucky. Lucky, lucky children. Because they have a fabulous dad. Case dismissed." He banged his gavel and walked out.

The custom on this show holds that no one may leave until dismissed by his bailiff. Young leaves, then we wait about sixty seconds, then the plaintiff leaves, then we wait another minute, and finally the defendant is dismissed. Jamal stood there, silent, his back turned to us, while we all waited.

Taeshawn was dismissed.

We all heard Young from behind the set. "Man! I really wanted that guy to be the father! He seemed like such a good guy. Pete, who do we have next?"

Finally, Jamal was dismissed.

Maury Povich

The first thing you notice about going the Maury Povich show is how very little goes into the set.

It's located in an old hotel on 33rd Street, where the bathroom is public and frequented by the homeless. The set is absolute crap: cardboard walls, cheap chairs, and a box of Kleenex on a table. A trashy electronic remix of Rhianna's "Umbrella" played on a loop. We sat in folding chairs arranged haphazardly around the set.

Maury came out to adoring fanfare. Unlike most TV hosts, he is completely in touch with why his audience loves him. They want hugs. He gives hugs. They want to tell their most hilariously trashy secrets to a 69 year old guy in a black turtleneck. He wants to hear them. He loves that they love him and loves that they love him in the way that they do. He spits out aphorisms like "When times are good, I'll have a Forty Ounce."

My show's theme was a common one: Baby Mama Drama, aka "You are NOT the father!"

At first the show was off-putting. I mean, we're talking lowest common denominator of American pop culture. Real people come to this show, all of them poor rural whites or poor urban blacks, to have their problems quickly addressed and dismissed by a rich, skinny, old white guy who married Connie Chung and whose dad wrote for the Washington Post for seven decades and who may or may not have access to real DNA testing equipment.

They're sobbing, these real people, and surely they aren't completely faking their sorrow. Surely a woman who doesn't know the biological father of her son is upset about that. They're airing their dirty laundry on television, and though they undoubtedly wouldn't have signed up for this show if they were camera shy, when they're proven wrong it can't be a good experience.

There's a pattern on the show, weird in its regularity. When Maury delivers his dramatic catchphrase, when he triumphantly shouts "You are NOT the father!", the most offended party always runs from the room. The person is usually a woman who mistakenly thought she'd finally pinned down the right man. She collapses somewhere in the hallway. As she sprints, a cameraman follows, and we see the action on TV. Maury jogs over and tries to console her, but he has to keep the show moving. This is what always happens. They always run from the stage, though they always break down before they leave the cameras' range.

As this same story repeated itself in rapid succession, always the same except the characters, my arms slowly uncrossed. Maybe it was the frequency of insane revelation that sobered me to the ludicrousness of what was before me. You see, in the course of about forty-five minutes we saw probably a dozen paternity cases. Each time, we heard those same five words.


(Note I didn't add the music here. I just needed the clip.)

In between guests, audience members rushed on stage to dance with Maury, to hug him, to get a friend to take a picture of them on the set.

This is what warmed me to the show:

A woman struts onto the stage, dressed to impress. Her name is Fo'eva. (Maury: "Or, as I call her, 'Forever'. But she says it's Fo'eva.")

Fo'eva has two kids, Eternity and Christopher. Her newest is a boy named Sincere. This is her seventh time on the show. Each appearance was to prove paternity. Two of those prior times were to test the that of a man named Terrance. Both were negative. He's on the show today to test his DNA against Sincere.

Terrance is announced and comes out with his arms spread wide. The crowd loves him and he loves the way the crowd loves him. He and Fo'eva spar the way you'd expect:

T: Fo'eva, get it through your head that there's no way I'm any of these babies' father! I'm never gonna get with your skanky ass!
F: As soon as we left last show, you were all up in this coochie! You're messed up.
T: Your shoes are messed up!

According to Terrance's timeline, he and Fo'eva didn't have sex anywhere near the time to get her pregnant, so she wasn't on the show for truth and child support, but to smear him. She didn't deny that.

When the time came, and Maury told Terrance he still was no father, Terrance got up, gleeful and proud. He ran up and down the aisles, high fiving people who had been, I guess, rooting against his fatherhood. Everyone but Fo'eva was cheering and laughing. The audience, Maury, and even I was overwhelmed by the situation. Terrance had won. For the third time, Terrance had won. And somehow, so had we all.



I still don't really understand what's going on with people in these shows. Is everyone on it so desperate for a paternity test that the only reason they come on the show because they can't afford one at home? I sincerely doubt that. Are people there actors, either duping Maury's staff or in their employ, and relishing their few minutes on national television but free from any actual baby mama drama? I sincerely doubt that, too. They cry too well and they never break the fourth wall with a snicker.

When women ran down the hallway, sobbing at news that they still can't tell their kids who their real father is, their mics usually stayed clipped to their shirts and their weeping and moaning carried through the loudspeakers for a disconcertingly long time. There's some complex emotion going on with these guests. It's related to the utter trashiness of some of our pop culture, but it would be wrong to chalk it up as just garbage and dismiss it wholesale. I honestly don't get what's going on there, and if I did, I think I'd understand America better.

Anyway. On to the end.

After the first segment of the show, Maury addressed us. "We've got a whole 'nother show of Baby Mama Drama coming up next. But in the meantime, we're going to take you outside, feed you, and bring you back in!" We cheered. God, did we love Maury. The most entertaining show I'd seen, a cultural riddle, free lunch, and more!

Staff members escorted us outside. Why did we need to leave the building? we wondered. There was a line stretching out the door, where people were waiting to see the show we'd just left. Did we have to get back in line? "Yeah, you've got to get in the back; these people have been waiting. We can't promise seats."

No seats? Then where's that free pizza?

"Pizza? What are you talking about?" said the guard. He closed the door in my face.

Maury, you slick bastard.

Oh no, music! An extremely close evening with John Vanderslice

I realize I'm somewhat betraying my goals of this project when I write about music. First among many differences between posting about Bjork or John Vanderslice instead of Martha or Maury is that I truly do love the work of the former two, while my emotional attachment to television personalities isn't exactly as strong. Also, music is not free with the price of cable. Also, you can't see the musicians I talk about by turning on your TV. Also, the work of these musicians is familiar to far less Americans. Thus my new pledge: I will only blog about music as a supplement to my every-Thursday postings, never as a replacement. And I still only write about experiences relevant to TV or the experience of being an audience member.

It's the experience of being a spectator bit that brings me to the keyboard now. The other night I saw John Vanderslice for the third time since becoming infatuated with 2001's Time Travel Is Lonely, and for the second time saw one of the most amazing shows of my life. I have a complex relationship with Vanderslice:

• I have sang with him on stage: in the spring of 2007 I read that he sometimes allows fans to come up and sing his songs during shows. I emailed him my three favorite songs, and come May went up on stage and sang "Radiant With Terror". I didn't forget a single word.
  

• I recently interviewed him about his recording process for EQ Magazine (sorry, the link's only to the Mag's site and not to the actual interview).
  

• I'm pretty sure that despite the first two things I've done with him, he has no idea who I am.

• Fourth, and perhaps most importantly, his music is deeply personal and his lyrics are decidedly not. His lyrics are almost exclusively about fictional characters, and I can't think of any contemporary singer-songwriter who's so deeply in touch with himself as an artist who doesn't ever bother to write about himself. That he's so careful with his material, yet so egoless, so concerned with form and the form of his content, is what draws me so closely to his work.

Everyone who's a devoted fan of pretty much anything--music, fashion, good food, sports, etc.--creates a personal relationship with the material that enthralls them. A real fan will learn where those works come from and develop something of a made-up relationship with a real person responsible for those works. Steelers fans talk about Ben Roethlisberger like a busy and successful older brother, congratulating him when he's on and adopting indignation when he forgets his bike helmet. Wilco fans repeatedly criticise or praise Jeff Tweedy to their friends, though Tweedy will never hear the opinions of 99% of them. And I have a complex, meaningful, but one-sided relationship with John Vanderslice, even though he doesn't know my name, and Bjork, and Jeff Magnum, despite his being a recluse, and Freddie Mercury, even though he's dead.

Vanderslice played four shows in four consecutive nights in New York. But I caught a tip from a friend that he was doing a fifth, smaller show the middle of this frenzy, scurrying from a big show at the Bowery Ballroom to nearby Pianos for an after-show show. There was no band, just Vanderslice and a violinist, going through every song from his previous two albums besides the ones he played two hours earlier. Then he moved to the floor, inviting the small crowd to circle around him. In the crowd was members of his band: his drummer had a single tom, his keyboardist a xylophone and accordion. Annie Clark, also called St. Vincent, another singer with whom I have a one-sided but meaningful relationship, was there to sing backup. There was no amplification, so everyone just shut up and listened to the actual instruments and people singing. I was a few feet away from two people who, as cheesy as it sounds, have brought significant richness into my life. It was as intimate a show as I could imagine, and it was downright magical.

"Thank you so much for coming," Vanderslice said. "Now it's time for a dance party!"

This is another thing he likes to do at shows, or at least I've heard: have dance parties. From interviews I gather he's really into both hip-hop and electronica, and he immediately started dancing. He was unselfconsciously there to have a good time, but the same couldn't be said for his fans, or even his bandmates. My roommate Eric, who's been in awe of Vanderslice's latest for the past month, went to talk to him and came back 30 seconds later. "I didn't know what to say."

I, meanwhile, was scoping out St. Vincent. I caught her momentarily alone and sheepishly asked if I could take a picture with her (for this blog, of course, though she didn't know that). I told her my girlfriend and I bonded over her music (not true) so she wouldn't think I was trying to mack her like the guy who talked her ear off before I could get to her. She seemed slightly uncomfortable but agreed to the photo, and when the picture turned out too dark, I couldn't bear asking for a re-shoot.

Our fellow audience members got drinks and stood by the walls, huddled with their friends and glancing at the musicians, or filing out. No one danced. It was like a middle school dance. I'd forgotten what real awkwardness was like. It was like this.

That's why I'm writing this. We can form incredibly intense relationships with even the mildest of celebrities. We don't have to read tabloids to know intimate details about them. We can know some of their deepest thoughts, or their life history, or what their love life is like at the moment. They're both real people and important people figures in our lives. They can share with us incredibly moving and intimate experiences, and they become our experiences and they're no less meaningful for that. But when they break that fourth wall and go where we can briefly interact back with them... it's just kind of awkward, you know? And a little weird.

I don't think any of Vanderslice's videos do justice to his music, so I've included a clip of someone who shares my thoughts on the man's work.

106 and Park

Bewilderment. That was the dominating feeling I had during my time at 106 & Park. In the most basic sense, it's Black Entertainment Television's version of TRL.

Like TRL, another show designed for young people and with mostly high schoolers in the audience, 106 & Park doesn't care to warm up its audience before releasing it before the cameras, apparently assuming its audience will already be energetic enough. Thus while the warmup for shows for adults is a comedian or at least someone who's trying to get people excited, the pre-show for youth shows is a downer. Like, "Listen up! There will be no gang signs. There will be no calling attention to yourself. You will dance when we say to and stop when we say stop. You will cheer when we tell you to cheer and be quiet at all other times!" That sort of thing.

I attended this show with my friend Anthony, known to Royals fans as the driving force behind the world's number-three Kansas City Royals blog. He took this amazing picture of the waiting room. No one knew what 106 & Park referred to, though in general kids were friendlier than those at TRL and more ironic about going to a taping.

A few kids regarded us curiously, asking us if we we knew what this show was, why we were there, etc. We asked what the show was about, and we were met with a bit of "dancing...music...it's more for African-Americans." I am so not here to write an essay about race and hip-hop culture--to ape an ex's favorite phrase, that's way too "complex, problematic, and multifaceted". I'd also like to steer clear of the "I was a white guy at a rap show, and it was confusing to me!" shtick. Alas, avoiding that will be more difficult.

We were ushered onto metal bleachers in the back and rearranged several times to make us less and less visible. I felt like I'd wandered onto the set of a Bollywood film. At times, everyone broke into a chorus, and everybody knew that song but me. At every commercial break, people would break into dance, and everyone knew when to do that but I could find no clues. Each time, a few would scramble to a spot in the middle of the enormous set and dance for three and half minutes. It all seemed intuitive and mystifying.

Whereas TRL downright peddled sex to adolescents, here a girl was admonished for dancing provocatively in that dance spot in a too-revealing dress (it was very revealing): "if you're wearing something you'd be embarrassed for your mom to see you in, don't even think about coming down here."

Apparently videos were playing throughout the show; again, I could rarely tell what was going on. Suddenly there was an amateur R&B competition on a stage ahead of me, and everyone was beckoned to leave the stands to crowd the stage. Three young guys were to each take a turn singing a single song, with their own backup dancers if they brought them:

1. A normal, competent guy from Charlotte
2. A flashy guy from Charlotte who kept lifting up his shirt
3. An off-key singer from Brooklyn

I adopted the pose I always do at shows where I don't know the music: standing, arms crossed, staring hard at the performer, judging. This wasn't quite what they wanted in their shots of the crowd, so I was moved to the back.

Then Djimon Hounsou came out. He was remarkably well-dressed, soft-spoken and not-interested at all in 106 & Park. He's in a lot of good movies but most recently did this:





After an eternity of confusion I was sent home, but not without a new Rick Ross cd. Next Thursday: Maury. It's a good one.

Oh no, music! A Secret Show with John Vanderslice and St. Vincent

I realize I'm somewhat betraying my goals of this project when I write about music. First among many differences between posting about Bjork or John Vanderslice instead of Martha or Maurey is that I truly do love the work of the former two, while my emotional attachment to television personalities isn't quite as strong. Also, music is not free with the price of cable. Also, you can't see the musicians I talk about by turning on your TV. Also, the work of these musicians is familiar to far less Americans. Thus my new pledge: I will only blog about music as a supplement to my every-Thursday postings, never as a replacement. And I still only write about experiences relevant to TV or the experience of being an audience member.

It's the experience of being a spectator bit that brings me to the keyboard now. The other night I saw John Vanderslice for the third time since becoming infatuated with 2001's Time Travel Is Lonely, and for the second time saw one of the most amazing shows of my life. I have a complex relationship with Vanderslice:

• I have sang with him on stage: in the spring of 2007 I read that he sometimes allows fans to come up and sing his songs during shows, emailed him my three favorite songs, and come May went up on stage and sang "Radient With Terror". I didn't forget a single word.
  

• I recently interviewed him about his recording process for EQ Magazine (sorry, the link's only to the Mag's site and not to the actual interview).
  

• I'm pretty sure that despite the first two things I've done with him, he has no idea who I am.

• Fourth, and perhaps most importantly, his music is deeply personal and his lyrics are decidedly not. His lyrics are almost exlcusively about fictional characters, and I can't think of any contemporary singer-songwriter who's so deeply in touch with himself as an artist who doesn't ever bother to write about himself. That he's so careful with his material, yet so egoless, so concerned with form and the form of his content, is what draws me so closely to his work.

Everyone who's a devoted fan of pretty much anything--music, fashion, good food, sports, etc.--creates a personal relationship with the material that enthralls them. A real fan will learn where those works come from and develop something of a made-up relationship with a real person responsible for those works. Steelers fans talk about Ben Rothlisberger like a busy and successful older brother, congradulating him when he's on and adopting indignation when he forgets his bike helmet. Wilco fans repeatedly criticisze or praise Jeff Tweedy to their friends, though Tweedy will never hear the opinions of 99% of them. And I have a complex, meaningful, but one-sided relationship with John Vanderslice, even though he doesn't know my name, and Bjork, and Jeff Magnum, despite his being a recluse, and Freddie Mercury, even though he's dead.

Vanderslice played four shows in four consecutive nights in New York. But I caught a tip from a friend that he was doing a fifth, smaller show the middle of this frenzy, scurrying from a big show at the Bowery Ballroom to nearby Pianos for an after-show show. There was no band, just Vanderslice and a violinist, going through every song from his previous two albums besides the ones he played two hours earlier. Then he moved to the floor, inviting the small crowd to circle around him. In the crowd was members of his band: his drummer had a single tom, his keyboardist a xylophone and accordian. Annie Clark, also called St. Vincent, another singer with whom I have a one-sided but meaningful relationship, was there to sing backup. There was no amplification, so everyone just shut up and listened to the actual instruments and people singing. I was a few feet away from two people who, as cheesy as it sounds, have brought significant richness into my life. It was as intimate a show as I could imagine, and it was downright magical.

"Thank you so much for coming," Vanderslice said. "Now it's time for a dance party!"

This is another thing he likes to do at shows, or at least I've heard: have dance parties. From interviews I gather he's really into both hip-hop and electronica, and he immediately started dancing. He was unselfconscoiusly there to have a good time, but the same couldn't be said for his fans, or even his bandmates. My roommate Eric, who's been in awe of Vanderslice's latest for the past month, went to talk to him and came back 30 seconds later. "I didn't know what to say."

I, meanwhile, was scoping out St. Vincent. I caught her momentarily alone and sheepishly asked if I could take a picture with her (for this blog, of course, though she didn't know that). I told her my girlfriend and I bonded over her music (not true) so she wouldn't think I was trying to mack her like the guy who talked her ear off before I could get to her. She seemed slightly uncomfortable but agreed to the photo, and when the picture turned out kind of dark, I couldn't bear asking for a re-shoot.

Our fellow audience members got drinks and stood by the walls, huddled with their friends and glancing at the musicians, or filing out. No one danced. It was like a middle school dance. I'd forgotten what real awkwardness was like. It was like this.

That's why I'm writing this. We can form what incredibly intense relationships with even the mildest of celebrities. We don't have to read tabloids to know intimate details about them. We can know some of their deepest thoughts, or their life history, or what their love life is like at the moment. They're both real people and important people figures in our lives. They can share with us incredibly moving and intimate experiences, and they become our experiences and they're no less meaningful for that. But when they break that fourth wall and go where we can briefly interact back with them... it's just kind of awkward, you know? And a little weird.

I don't feel any of Vanderslice's videos do justice to his music, so I've included a clip of someone who shares my thoughts on the man's work.

My Cash Cab on YouTube

I don't know how long this will last, as YouTube threatens to take down videos of TV shows that don't have explicit permission from the creators. Until then, for your viewing pleasure. I'm the one in the back seat.