My roommate was supposed to go with me, but there was a mix-up, and I ended up bringing my friedn Andy, who is not usually a rock show person. We snarked the openers, and had a lot of fun there, but once Andrew came on stage, Andy got to deal with my unironic, seventeen-year-old girl-style enthusiastic. I'm a fan of a lot of things, but I am not your classic fangirl about many of them. Andrew's music and his story--he had leukemia at twenty-two--mean so much to me. I hate the word "inspiring," but his ability to fight sickness and pain to come out at the end still passionate about making art helps me feel less hopeful and less alone.
I had that weird disconnect at the show where you realize that all these people love the music you love, and they all have their personal reasons, and sometimes their love is bigger than yours. And yet, you're all drawn there by the same thing, affected by the same thing. It's a magical, almost religious experience.
I wrote him a letter and waited outside inspite of my leg doing its pain spazzing thing. He tucked it into his back pocket, hugged me, and we took a picture. He may not remember me, but he will have my words. And that's enough. I believe in telling peole when their art has affected me. One day, I hope to affect other people with my art. Actually, I think that's basically my thesis statement, replacing the one I came up with at the Amanda Palmer show on Friday night, which was "I want to meet Amanda. I do not want to get trampled." Last night I got to meet Andrew, and I was not trampled. I was lifted up. I know that sounds chiche and ridiculous, but music does that to me.
This is my favorite Andrew song, from the second Jack's Mannequin album. I listen to it all the time. I'm sure I'll wear it out one day, but that is not today.