Please Happy

This last week has been a crazy relative reuniting, car driving, snow shoveling, feast eating, rain running, not sleeping, card playing time. We’ve spent a lot of time driving between Baltimore and Chadds Ford. Last night, we played Murder in the Dark with 88-year-old Hal and his cousins and friends and children and grandchildren. I was killed in Round One. We’ve done puzzles, played werewolf (another kill game) and watched the magic in eight-year-old Grace’s eyes when she saw for the first time her red reclining armchair from Santa. I love the food and the games and the mud and the hugs and the scheduling and the reminiscing and the getting into the hard stuff with family. I love feeling home with people I just met. And, of course, I love singing Christmas songs with all the people in the room. Dad’s midnight mass was magical. The choir – the same people I knew when I was a little kid, coloring homemade stories under the pews during mass – are still singing. Some are losing their houses, some losing their health insurance, some just struggling like we all do every day. And yet, that night, Christmas Eve into Christmas morning, they all wore their holiday sweaters and ties and all sang loud and beautiful, smiling at us smiling at them.

Today, we slept in. Today, we opened more presents. Today, we caught up on quiet stories and emails and bills. And enjoyed the tree and the fire and, for the first time on this trip, the silence.

We celebrated the end of a tough semester by dancing at a homecoming concert of a hippie rock band at The Mayan club in L.A.

First, the theater — fully décored in totems, wall candelabras and balcony tiers to simulate what I imagine a Mayan palace would look like. We went to the dance floor immediately – no alcohol there, so no sticky surfaces, no beer on my clothes.

For my first Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros concert, I had expectations of smiling and dancing and enjoying the crowd. But, I didn’t expect the full on love-fest, open-hearted wailing that made this show. We were a few rows back from the 12-piece folk-rock group. But, we could still see the pixy belter-outer Jade Castrinos. We could still see the gorgeous accordion player’s blond braid swaying to her tunes, and we could see the sweat and the smile on singer / songwriter / messiah / band family patriarch Alex Ebert.

Besides spinning and jumping and genuine rocking out (at one point, I looked up at Jade and thought of the scene in Wayne’s World when Wayne sees Casandra on stage and the music mutes and twinkly stars appear around her head), I had some other favorite moments. Of course, the group energy of belting out lyrics like “I Love You” and “Ah – It’s the magical mystery kind” and “Oooh” in unison over and over and over is a powerful thing. And, it’s hard not to get carried away listening to a band that plays guitar, bass, drums, piano, trumpet AND xylophone, tambourines and bongos. AND, one guy playing a toothy animal jawbone. At one point, Alex (first name basis!) told us to stop and touch the person next to us. Feel the love. It sounds corny, of course. But, my anger at the guy in the corduroy jacket who had been invading my personal space the whole concert disappeared when we all touched and smiled and danced.

But, the best part happened when Alex (who had taken his shirt off and was dancing and spinning and flailing in white yoga pants and a red scarf, his long hair piled on his head, and the microphone wire twisted around his body) asked us to do something I’d never before done at a concert, especially not one full of about 1,000 people.

He asked us to sit down.

And he was serious.

Little by little everyone got to their knees, then butts. And the entire floor, the entire balcony, the entire everywhere was sitting. And then he went to the edge of the stage and sat, too. And sang to us.

There was something so real and so present about that moment – the girl in front of me leaning on my knees, the people behind us supporting our backs. People connecting.

This was a wonderful moment for me in Los Angeles. Every day that I am stuck in traffic (that is, every day), I feel like we are all suffering together, but alone. And even at music concerts, we’re dancing together, but never really acknowledging the others.

This was different.

This was a collectiveness. A performance where audience stops being audience. And performers hold out their hands.

There is so much more to say about this concert – the duet “Home” that felt like a silly sexy version of Johnny Cash and June Carter’s Jackson – but the last image I have is after the show. The lights come on. The audience thins. And, barefooted Alex, hopes off the stage onto the floor. And poses. For about a million iPhone pics. And then a million more and some poster signings. And the DJ chick with the black bowler hat spins Michael Jackson and Aretha Franklin remixes. And those of us still hanging out start dancing. Loosey. Smiley. Silly. With space. Arms and Legs all over the place.

And we’re sweaty.

And Jake throws Alex – who is posing with the millionth group of giggly lovey fans – the peace sign.

And Alex gives it right back.

Celebration time.

We’re going to see these guys tonight. Jumper cable lips, sunset breath and all.

Thought this would be a light touch to begin what will be the last all-nighter of the semester.

Reminded me of my favorite mondegreens. A mondegreen is a mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase, such as There’s a Bathroom on the Right and Excuse Me While I Kiss this Guy. Tiny Dancer has a bunch in there, too. As a kid, I thought “Lay me down in sheets of linen” was actually, “Lady, Darling, she’s so blended,” whatever that means.

This little guy takes mondegreen to a whole new level. Thank you to David J. Swift for teaching me the word and to Dad for sending the vid.

When the water pours down, like it has been these past few days, I can’t help but hum the song from my hometown.

Today, we drove three hours for a total of 30 miles (people here drive in the rain as if they’re in a massive snow storm, but there’s no reward of powder skiing). Driving five miles per hour on the freeway, I was hoping Adam Duritz would pop up on the hood of the Corolla and start belting out a SoCal version – hands in pockets, swaying in the storm, shaking water out of his dreads.

Here are some iPhone pics from the passenger side.