This story was going to be the big one.
I got an email last Friday asking, "Sam, how would you like to go to The Mars Volta show and interview them after the show?" I got so excited my head started to spin. I thought I was in grade school again on my way to see Motley Crue.
When the slightly political art-punk and extremely influential band At the Drive In broke up a few years ago, I got depressed. I had a few Volta CDs and even saw the band play for about six people in Boise, Idaho.
Little did I know the band would split, with three members going on to form the catchy nu-metal group Sparta, and the other two members would form The Mars Volta. With its first album, De-loused at the Comatorium landing somewhere among the progressive concept-album rock of Radiohead, the art and political punk of The Minutemen and the non-typical metal of Tool, The Mars Volta quickly became my favorite band.
Sunday 6:30 p.m.: I enjoyed a Guinness at O'Neil's. I was religiously going over the questions I had come up with to ask Omar and Cedric, the main band members. I spent hours researching The Mars Volta, analyzing song lyrics, reading countless interviews. I had intelligent questions that everybody - at least me anyway - really wanted answers for.
7:10: With a little bounce in my dorky step, I strutted up to the will-call window at the convention center and proclaimed, "Press passes for Sam Beresky, please." The funny looking fellow behind the dirty glass responded immediately, "I have them here, but you have to talk to that lady first," and pointed at a mean looking woman in a striped shirt sitting across the lobby.
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A photo pass was retrieved, and she explained that the photographer was to be escorted to the sound board and was only allowed to take pictures for three songs and, more importantly, "I don't know anything about an interview. This is all you get." I then calmly explained to her that I needed to get into the concert to, at least, write a review to accompany the three songs worth of pictures. "Don't get testy, just calm down, work with me here," was the response I got.
7:20: Five conversations with my editor and various concert security personnel later, I watched as my photographer was escorted into the arena - without me.
7:30: I could almost see through an open door. The lights went out, and the crowd cheered. Hundreds of happy ticket holders filed past me. The Mars Volta launched into "Inertiatic ESP," at least I think it was that song. I was standing in the lobby. I couldn't tell.
7:34: I decided to run outside and see if I could score a cheap ticket. I began talking to a fascinating looking kid wearing a jogging suit and gold chains when an exceptionally large bald man yelled at us to move on: "We need to keep the sidewalk clear." So the four people standing around ignored him. The kid wanted $40, but I only had $20. The large bald man yelled again. He sounded serious.
7:40: I gave up and sat down in the corner of the lobby. In front of me a lady in a brown leisure suit was talking to a couple of middle-aged guys in business suits. She was complaining about the volume. We were in the lobby. I could hear what she was saying from 20 feet away. I couldn't hear my favorite band playing, and she thought it was too loud.
7:55: As my photographer was telling me how amazing The Mars Volta was, for three songs anyway, I could make out some interesting bongo drums and the silhouette of a young couple making out in the doorway. We decided to go to the backdoor.
8:05: While pretending I was important, I headed for the short and innocent man guarding the tour busses behind the center. "Is that the only pass you have?" he asked. I explained we were supposed to interview The Mars Volta in the band's bus in about 10 minutes, as soon as they finished playing. "They sent us back here," I explained with confidence. He got on his walkie-talkie and told us to talk to the man at the front door saying, "He would know where to send you." I painfully blurted, "is that the big bald guy?" I knew we were screwed.
8:20: I ordered a shot of tequila and a beer at the Atomic Cantina. The tequila burned but made me feel all warm and fuzzy.
10:00: Four beers later, I discovered that both At The Drive In and Sparta were on the jukebox at the bar - but no Mars Volta.
10:45: Stumbling drunk and pissed off, I needed to get home. On the way to my photographer's car, we ran into some people coming from the concert.
"It was good. Too short, though. Too bad you missed it, that interview would have been great," was all they said. I mumbled some Mars Volta lyric under my breath and called it a night.
