She Believes

Woke up at a decent hour today, but realize too late that I made a mistake by staying out late last night since my cold is actually somewhat worse in some ways (I feel good when I’m not coughing, but – then again - I can’t seem to stop coughing). I’m also starting to get surprisingly sick of our little pad -  the Honey Nut Cheerios we can’t seem to stop eating and, impossible as it may seem, the Deerhunter, Sufjan Stevens, Beach House soundtrack that’s been on constant repeat for weeks (months?) now.

It’s a Monday, raining outside,  and a holiday in Buenos Aires with almost everything closed. I can’t really seem to figure out what to eat or what to do besides very, very slowly trying to get myself together, nap from this exertion, and then read and write. At one point during the day, I can hear the comforting sounds of someone practicing a clarinet coming from one of the apartments below, and later it sounds like someone – the same someone? – is playing a very sad and sweet number on a cello. Too perfect of a backdrop for my day and very soothing as I’m all jittery and hopped-up on black tea and weird “galletas saladas” crackers.

I contemplate what would happen if I didn’t go to Scott’s show. Here I am all the way in Buenos Aires, but I’m not here to see Pavement. I’m actually here for vacaciones - I booked my flight in March before Pavement even had a plan to play here and it’s really just an odd coincidence that they’re playing and not like anything is expected of me or anything.

I actually had a funny conversation with my mom a few months ago about Pavement. I have two old framed Pavement posters in my kitchen that I’d gotten in the divorce. They’re from an artist from the Netherlands and signed; one shows a funky, almost outsider art-like image of someone literally “eating their fingers like they’re just another meal” a la “Summer Babe” and another has an image of a girl with braids getting their haircut, a la “Cut Your Hair.” My mom noted that she liked how I’d set them up on the shelf, with a little plant and a few trinkets, and I said, “Funny. I was thinking it was time to get rid of those. Somehow I think I don’t need them around anymore.” Surprised for a minute, my mom suddenly said, “Yeah. You’re right. Get rid of them!” We laughed.

And this is how I’ve been thinking about this entire year of Pavement touring: they’re back, but I'm not sure I need them anymore. Backstage at one of the New York shows, Scott introduced me to a guy who’d written one of those 33-1/3 books on Pavement’s Wowee Zowee record. As always, Scott was very sweet, telling the author that I too was a writer and trying to make me sound good. Scott said, “No one deserves to be here more than her” (um, he also asked that when I write my memoirs, I only say good things about him. Wink-wink. But this is neither here nor there, as they say). Scott has always been good that way – making me feel like I belong even though no doubt it’s got to be annoying for his new wife (hell, I wouldn’t want me around!). And it's been fortunate for me - I couldn't ask for a better situation. But I’ve been feeling increasingly like Pavement is one of those CDs I’ve had on the five-disc CD player for far too long and, as much as I love them, I’ve been needing some new tunes; this disc needs to be put to rest.

I decide to go to see Pavement, no matter how bad I feel, and I head out for a pre-show dinner. And if Klover has been the professional napper on this vacacione, I’ve been the professional tourista, and again tonight I choose a winner for a meal. We’re a little tired of the parillas in Buenos Aires  - the Argentine steakhouses – so instead I book dinner at a nearby Italian eatery called “Bella Italia.” We walk through the small side-streets of Palermo and it feels so good to finally be outside and, though the rain has stopped, it smells incredibly fresh and the temperature is perfect. 

At Bella Italia, we receive a wacky bread bouquet and we order ensaladas and entrees. I was really wanting some sort of minestrone soup, but we learned through a discussion at Casa SaltShaker that porteños don’t like soup. Pasta seems to be the second best bet for a soothing meal, and I order a fresh paparadelle with an arrabiata sauce and an arugula salad. Klover gets carpaccio and a squid and shrimp dish and Klover blesses our dishes as snowflake worthy.

We’ve found the porteños tend to luxuriate over a meal and, though I give us over two hours to eat before the show, our waiter moves slowly and we’re not finished until nearly 11:30 pm. Scott had suggested I get to the venue at 10:30 and the show would start at 11:30, but though our cab rushes us through town, we arrive at the venue and see we haven’t missed anything. By a long-shot, actually. Out in front of La Trastienda there are hordes of people mulling about, smoking cigarettes or hawking tickets, and it doesn’t seem the show will start anywhere near on time.

I’m unfamiliar with the list system in foreign countries, and am momentarily confused and nervous, but find that merely by wielding my heavy American accent  like a brandished sword I’m able to push forward in the line and into the club to the box office. For my efforts, Klover and I receive taltry wristbands before scampering to the bar for a few bottles of agua con gas. After, we slowly contemplate the interior of the club, inspecting the other nearby concert goers.

Again, just as was the case at the Matador showcase, there are 90% guys at the show. Of course, I can't help but love these ratios. And it’s a fascinating cultural experience to look around at the local indie-rock glitterati – some are older, maybe my age, with the ever-present ever-expanding beer-belly, bad nineties shorts and sneakers, and ragged haircuts to go with their two-day beards. Others are much younger and appear very excited, small dark-haired men with slightly receding hairlines and a packet of CDs clutched to their chests in the hopes they’ll be signed by a band member. None of the guys are hugely cute, to be honest, but they are definitely earnest.

Klover observes, “These are the guys who are hanging out in their rooms with their headphones on, listening fanatically to every record in their collection and possibly creating hand-made fanzines. They’re geeks." She wrinkles her nose, and pouts for a minute.

Personally, I’ve always had a soft spot for geeks – these were the guys I’ve always had the most in common with. These are the folks who played Dungeon and Dragons, drove their father's Pontiac, and played the French horn. And I'll admit, I like to talk about first singles, obscure Russian literature, and  critical theory. Or at least I used to. It's sort of a match made in heaven, me and music-geeks. These were my friends in the dorms, or in speech and debate, and later at work. And most of these geeky guys I knew during my own geeky adolescence have truly turned into really cool adults. Sometimes, they've even started their own bands.

The club isn’t necessarily full, and it’s somewhat small – maybe as big as the Great American Music Hall, but more industrial, like Slims. Initially, I start to panic, thinking that I might do something to make the show better, but later I realize - it's really not up to me. I'm just here for the entertainment. And we hear tons of English being spoken all around us and I realize that every English-speaking male ex-pat of a certain age living in Buenos Aires must be here at the Pavement show.

Once the band starts in, the venue and the lights conspire to remind me of early Pavement shows – ones from the early 90’s when Pavement played in clubs this size and there was still that wacky static of possibility in the air. The band plays “She Believes” and “Cut Your Hair” and the entire crowd begins to pogo in unison. It’s beautiful and my heart wrenches - I haven’t seen a crowd this enthusiastic for a really long time.

I remember the first show I’d ever seen Pavement play. It was their first west coast show in Sacramento at the now defunct Cattle Club. Yo La Tengo also played that show, and there was Barbara Manning with Pavement sandwiched somewhere in the middle. I talked all my friends into coming out and “supporting my boyfriend's band,” but was surprised when it seemed they actually had a legit following and some serious fans, even for Sacramento standards, and foolishly I didn’t need any of my sad little handouts to help them along.

The next night of that tour, Pavement played the Kennel Club in San Francisco, which is now my well-loved Independent on Divis. Again, I wasn’t sure if there was going to be much of a crowd – it was the first major show of their Slanted and Enchanted tour and Scott asked me to sell their incredibly tacky “Carmel, Carmell, Carmello” t-shirts – a bright turquoise t-shirt with brown lettering - at the back of the house since they didn’t have a merch person. The t-shirts themselves were an inside joke – everyone was getting stoned a lot at that point in history and during the entire recording, and every time Scott and Steve went to the corner store they would bring me back a lovely Carmello bar (so I could get fat and lethargic?). Either way, it seemed only fitting that I would have to suffer through hawking these god-awful shirts. I remember each time someone would come by the merch booth, they would look at me like, “Is this it? You've got to be kidding.” But then they would purchase the shirts anyway – as if the shirt was worth the price of being cool.

And the Kennel Club had been completely packed that first night and there was this insane frenetic energy that I’d never experienced before, and probably won’t experience again. It was like standing on the precipice of discovery, and for some reason it seemed like this music – this band – could matter. This feeling actually continued for a while – maybe even into the time of the Crooked Rain and the Wowee Zowee records – but then it seems like hope was lost. I imagine this happens with many bands. Steve sings, “She believes…in me!” but then sometimes the belief isn’t there, from a she, or from a he, or from the band as a whole. It’s like time makes people give up, break up, and maybe start a new band where there’s hope again. Belief is a necessity. But sometimes it's hard to know just how important belief can be.

I recently listened to a Radiolab podcast about how people deceive themselves and how deceit, or lying, can be beneficial for many people. In the podcast, they talked about swimmers who believed they could swim better and faster, and because they have this belief, and not necessarily because they have any particular talent, they actually do swim better and faster. The whole thing was about how we have this idea that we should always tell the truth, even to ourselves, but the truth is, magic can happen when you deceive yourself and truly believe something that others may see as impossible. People who believe are more likely to be happy, they found – and successful. Likewise, they found that people – people no doubt like me – who are constantly attached to living a life with integrity and being as truthful as possible, are often pretty melancholy. The truth doesn’t set you free – it sometimes weighs you down and makes you feel hopeless.

And this is something about Pavement - I think all the members are incredibly intelligent, but most are also realists and somewhat depressive. They don’t believe. I don't think they deceive themselves. I'm not sure they have to believe. Maybe they did at one time – during Slanted and Enchanted? – but I think Steve M., in particular, stopped believing a long time ago.

By contrast, as I stand in the middle of the crowd of fans at La Trastienda, and since Pavement has never played Buenos Aires before, it seems like there’s a sense of discovery there that I haven’t felt at a Pavement show for a really long time. Between songs, fans chant “ole, ole, ole, ole” as if we’re at a futbol match. And, as we watch Pavement kick into “Box Elder,” I remember when I first heard that single and the sense of discovery that came with it.

At the time, I was living in a rented apartment in a Fraternity House in Berkeley with odd brown shag carpet and I played the record on my turntable in my make-shift living room-cum-bedroom. Scott had given me all the early singles the night we met in an effort to win me over, and for some reason it took me at least a month to actually sit down and listen to them. And when I did, naturally “Box Elder” was the song that slowly caught my attention. At first listen, I thought to call Scott and give him some critical feedback and tell him they should re-record the song – “it needs better vocals! It could be a hit.” 

But slowly, after repeated listens, I realized I was clueless. Scott knew what he was doing. And I could see that the flaws within the record were what made it magical – it was a grower, my highest compliment. It could expand and get bigger and deeper and wider. 

Last time I was here. 
You were on the couch, 
pressed into a little electric tube. 
It’s not the way that you smiled, 
but I knew at once – I had to get the fuck out of this town.

The lyrics seemed to mock me as I sat on my couch, pressed into whatever I was pressed into, needing to get the fuck out of wherever I was.

At La Trastienda, and toward the end of the show, Pavement plays “Here” and Steve sings, 

Come join us in a prayer, 
we’ll be waiting-waiting there…
everything’s ending here.

And of course, everything truly is ending here; it’s not even cute. Buenos Aires is Pavement’s last reunion show, and I can’t really imagine them in five or ten years playing again – I mean, do they just keep doing reunions? They can’t. Can they? And as the song plays catatonically on, I think about how Scott had once told me that he’d heard “Here” had inspired Coldplay’s “Yellow” and I imagine that there are plenty of other bands that have been inspired over the years, so Pavement never truly ends anywhere – they’re a band that was influenced by many, a pastiche – and they now live on through their potential to inspire others.

Klover asks if I ever get weepy when I hear Pavement’s music. And despite all the memories – a lifetime - this makes me laugh for a moment. I shake my head, “No. Not really.” I realize though I’m incredibly sentimental, other things are more likely to make me cry - like Charmin commercials and Hallmark ads.

Another thing, there was an interview once where Bob said something about Pavement being the least sexy band ever. I’d also have to say they’re probably the least sentimental. Nevertheless, I do feel the occasional twinges of something close to sentiment just being around them. November 2010 marks the twenty-year anniversary of me knowing Scott, Steve, and Pavement as a whole – and this is something: a huge part of my history, if nothing else, ends here.

Later when we’re backstage, I run into Steve M. and as with the rest of the band, he’s sweaty though he enthusiastically offers me a knuckle-knock instead of a hug and we talk for a bit about Buenos Aires. I look at his face, the fine lines around his eyes and the grey in his hair, and despite these small signs of time, he seems like the same Steve though maybe less depressive. And though I imagine he doesn’t believe in Pavement anymore, he doesn’t seem like he feels like he has to. The rest of the band seem the same way to me – they have kids, but most look pretty much the way they’ve always looked and they’re as happy to have done the tour as they are to be going home to their families.

Again, backstage the discussion turns to this being their last show. Scott says something to me about "never knowing" and Theresa, the General Manager of Billions (the band’s booking agency) and wife to Boche, notes that she actually got a tad teary during “Here.” 

“I can’t help it!” she says. 

I’ve known Theresa for the entire history of Boche booking Pavement and I used to stay with her and Boche in Chicago during tours and band stops. Thinking of how long I've known some of these people and all of our experiences together makes me weepy, though the song itself can’t.

As we continue to discuss Theresa’s weepiness, Klover comments how I said I didn’t get weepy while watching the show. “I guess you’ve heard Pavement a lot!” Klover notes, almost sympathetically, and under my breath, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Probably enough.”

Both Scott and Steve West, sitting nearby, look at me surprised, and I quickly say, “I mean it’s been really fun, but I’ve seen a ton of shows this year. Probably too many. And during other tours, of course.”

This is more about not knowing where I belong anymore than anything else though I can’t help feeling like I’ve put my foot in it. Scott looks understandably hurt, but Steve West seems to find the humor, and when Klover asks him if he ever gets sick of playing Pavement songs, he says, “Yes. I like it best when Steve suggests we play something that we don’t normally play or something we don’t know how to play.”

The truth is, I don't think Scott ever gets sick of playing Pavement songs. By contrast to the rest of the band, and me, he’s always been a believer. Besides everything else – which is sort of a lot – this is probably the reason Scott and I were never an ideal match: Scott had the capacity to deceive himself into believing most anything and he often confused this with a misconceived capacity to deceive me. But I can’t help thinking that his belief was a gift for Pavement – he’s probably the one who loves the band the most and the band probably wouldn't have ever happened without his belief.

It’s 2:30 AM and they’re kicking us out of the club. Klover made friends with a lovely French gal from a band that played an earlier set and she’s surrounded herself with tall gorgeous French men as they discuss “bonne herb.” The plan is to have a big dinner with Boche, Theresa, Steve West, Remko (Pavement’s soundman who’s been around since Slanted and Enchanted) the following night, so it isn’t goodbye to these folks forever. And though some guys are going to go to a bar, Scott is feeling jetlagged and I’m still feeling ill – my voice is gravely like a pack a day smoker – and I know I need to sleep so I can enjoy another day. On the way through the maze of backstage stairs, Scott suggests we take the shuttle bus with the band back to the hotel where the neighborhood is a tad better and we can call a cab.

In front of the club, there’s a crowd of fans waiting to get CDs, t-shirts and posters signed by the bandmembers. Scott seems pleased and a little shocked. “I don’t remember it ever being like this,” he says to me, struck with some sort of emotion. “Was it like this before?”

I sort of shake my head at him, thinking of how it’s hard to keep track of how things were or weren’t. “Yes, of course – tons of shows were like this!” I say, and it’s funny how once they were all a tad jaded and used to the fans. But now everyone has forgotten this sort of fanaticism long enough to be truly charmed and inspired by the porteños enthusiasm for the band.

After autographs are had, and en route to the hotel, 15 of us cram into what Klover refers to as the “short bus.” 

“Yep, I’m very familiar with the short bus,” she says, letting her North Carolina accent drip from each syllable.

Scott makes some jokes about how I’m familiar with life in the van, and I joke back that in my day, the guys didn’t like having any girls in the van – it wasn’t cool. But now, oddly, it feels like family, and this does make me a little weepy – I’m sharing my seat with Boche and Steve sits in front of me and Scott and Andy, Pavement’s all-time guitar tech is behind us, and then there’s Remko, a huge spleef in hand, sitting next to Klover. 

Steve West had mentioned this in the dressing room, but the crowd in the van is down to an abbreviated few in Buenos Aires – we’re so far away from home and nowhere near where folks are used to playing that the entourage is just this 15, and many are old-time players. As we drive slowly through the small streets of San Telmo and past fans who are heading out to clubs or to the subte, we open the windows and everyone in the bus sings, “Ole, ole, ole, ole” to anyone willing to listen. Folks on street corners cheer and wave, answering our call by singing “Ole, ole, ole, ole” right back.

At the hotel, some folks linger by the bus for a bit and some rush into the hotel and I don’t necessarily say a legitimate goodbye to most who are flying home the next day. Though I imagine I won’t see Mark or Steve M. or Bob for a long time, if ever, there’s no final adieus, just ellipses. Of course, I’ll see Steve West and Scott along with a bunch of other folks for dinner on Tuesday night, but this non-goodbye is so different than the way I deal with other people in my life.

While we wait for our cab, Klover, Scott and Steve West and I lounge in the hotel’s lobby. They have some very cush couches that have not been properly utilized. We show them how it ought to be done, kicking back, and getting our lounge on. 

On the cab ride back to our apartment, Klover notes, “It’s funny. You two really are friends. How did you do that?”

I think about this for a moment, and I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s sad, but he didn’t really hurt me,” I say. I’ve known this for a long time, and this is something that I feel bad about – he should’ve hurt me more, and though of course it was an adjustment to change my life and actually have to get out and do the scary part of taking risks with the whole dating thing, I can’t be mad at Scott about anything. He’s a sweet person. And Scott and I sort of grew up together – he’s family and more like a brother I’m not so close to anymore - and we have tons of memories of growing up. And even though I felt betrayed in many ways for all that happened when we broke up, I pretty much felt worried about him – I just wanted him to be okay and happy. And he is now. It’s a relief, but he really is. I don’t feel like we want anything from one another. I don’t even want tickets to another Pavement show.

Klover and I talked about this sort of stuff late into the night – how do you stay friends with former lovers? Do you? Should you? She says she never has – that she stays far away from anyone that hurts her and that this has helped her move on. I feel like there are so few people who I’ve truly cared about, or who have really hurt me, that I’m unclear what to do – I get lost.  And this is what I was thinking about when - still coughing and trying to close my eyes and fall asleep – I saw that the sun had slowly started coming up outside the windows of our apartment. Again, I’d stayed up all night like a real porteña would.