Brooke Fraser Concert

I walk quickly along the sidewalk, past the bars that spill music and people which both seemed a notch too loud. The sky is dark with night but the streets are lit in various neon hues. I see my destination and am surprised by the long line of people trailing outside of the building. I walk against the line, pursuing it's end. The line wraps around the corner of the block and I step to the back, clutching my purse which holds, among other important things, the ticket to the concert I am there to see.
I catch the eye of the woman in front of me, a blond who looks to be in her forties, and ask, "Is this the line for the Brooke Fraser concert?"
"Yes!" she responds in a chipper voice. Encouraged by her ready smile, I consider asking if she is here by herself, as I am, thinking to strike up a conversation with another music fan while waiting in line, when she waves and another woman comes and joins her in line.
Other people line up behind me. The show is much more popular than I would have thought. I laugh inwardly at the circumstances that almost seem ironic: a Christian concert taking place at a bar downtown, with a line wrapped around the block on a Wednesday night. On top of that, the artist is from New Zealand. Each piece of the puzzle seems just slightly out of place, yet I'm hoping they will come together for a wonderful evening.
Finally the line begins to move. It is almost 9:00 pm and I got there around 8:30. The line of people is like a very long catepillar: lots of feet all moving in the same direction. I make it around the corner and into the building. Then up the stairs where I flash my ID and ticket at the first landing. Then up the rest of the stairs and into the large room where the concert will be held.
Imagine a house where the second story has nothing but one large room with a small bar area off to one side and a stage at the back. That is what this place is like. There's a booth to one side, across from the bar, where merchandise is sold. I stop here first and buy a CD. Then I wander into the mesh of people and find a spot facing the stage.
The concert is opened by another singer from New Zealand, someone I haven't heard of before. Sam Bradley is his name. I like his first song very much. In the second song he swears, and I like him less. Still he is entertaining which is all one can hope for in a first act. During the intermission I find that I am terribly thirsty. I go over to the bar area.
"What can I get you?" the bar tender asks. He is a man who looks to be in his late thirties and has a shaved head.
"I'd like a bottle of water please," I say. It might be my imagination but I think he looks a tad disappointed. Probably people who drink water don't come back for seconds or leave as good tips. I leave a nice tip and thank him. I am sure to look him in the eyes when I thank him. It was almost a subconscious act: something urged me to do it and I obeyed, though as I turned away I wondered why. Maybe because I have a tendency to be shy and am trying to be bolder or maybe because I simply felt that he needed a thank-you with extra firmness. Despite the crowd it seemed to be a slow night for him. What can I say, it is a Christian concert after all, on a Wednesday night at that.
I maneuver back through the crowd and find myself standing behind a man with a most incredible mustache. It is black and is curled into very precise curlicues. It is something you might see in an old movie which featured a very distinctive French man. It is the kind of mustache my brother used to say he wanted to have someday, back when he was seven. How did the man get it to look like that? My theory is that he put hair gel on his mustache and then curled it around the point of a pencil. It is the most curious thing I have seen tonight. A mustache worth writing home about.

When Brooke Fraser comes onstage the crowd goes nuts. I clap and cheer along with them as she launches into her first song. After the first number she thanks the crowd for being here tonight. Said crowd gives some appreciative yells back.
"This next song is about a girl with Canadian secrets," she says in a mysterious voice. Then, in a lighter tone, "I once saw a shirt that read, 'Canada: America's hat.'" The crowd laughs and she begins to sing about Betty: a girl with "a red birthmark in the shape of Canada, that you try to keep a secret." When she sings the line about Canada, she rolls her eyes for comic effect, as though the line is the most ridiculous thing, as though she herself didn't write it.
The crowd yells in excitement when she sings songs from her most well-known record, "Albtertine", and sings along to the refrains.
"This is such a great crowd!" she exclaims. "I did a show last night and the crowd wasn't this good at all. They would just look at me and I felt awkward." I laugh: it isn't the first time I heard an artist say that a show is better in this city, in a genuine not-just-saying-that way. We love live music here and aren't afraid to show it. It is in a moment like that when I feel that I belong. Suddenly I am at home in this room packed full of strangers. I do not think that I know a single one of them, but here we are, all coming together for the same thing, united by a common love. The crowd is one: we are one. We are unafraid to sing along, to yell and stomp and jostle each other just a little bit so we can get closer to the music. The woman on the stage has come all the way from New Zealand to sing for us, and we love her for it. We soak in her every word, every note. She is funny and talented and beautiful and we are thankful to be here in this moment, completely won over and completely content. When the show comes to an end we clap and cheer with all we are worth. We lean towards the stage, hoping, hoping ... Yes, here she comes, she will give us an encore. The cheering is even louder with appreciation. The last song is wistful and sweet. When it ends we are finally satisfied. Especially since we have one more treat to look forward to. As Brooke leaves the stage for the last time we turn but most of us don't leave quite yet. A line forms quickly at the merchandise table and a moment later Brooke reappears to sign autographs.
"Only one autograph per person and no pictures," someone calls out, instructing the crowd. I stand in line and unwrap the CD I just bought. It's interesting to get closer and closer to Brooke, to be so close to someone whom I've only ever seen on CD covers and in music videos. Behind her is a large poster of her face, and I wonder if that ever feels awkward or if it just become natural.
"What is your name?" Brooke asks when I hand her my CD, in her distinct and lovely accent. I tell her, but then say, "But just sign your name, don't sign it to me." She signs with a black sharpie, with a flourish.
"Thank you so much," I say.

I walk back down the stairs and out into the night. It's getting on towards midnight. I know that when I get home I will be tired and will practically fall into bed, but for now my step is quickened by a buzz of energy exuding from happiness. I went to the concert alone, but I was one with the crowd. It was a good night, a wonderful night. I have a new CD, autographed at that. More than that, I have the memories. Memories of a night of music that is filled with meaning. Memories of laughing and cheering and feeling the crowd united in love. As a final touch to the evening, a man with a guitar slung around his shoulder ambles up the sidewalk and begins to serenade me and a small group of pedestrians who are about to cross the street. The other people he is serenading are quite entertained when the guitarist begins to follow us, strumming and singing a little as they laugh and encourage him. I smile, but find that my steps move me more rapidly ahead, block after block until I am in my car, starting the engine, turning on some music and driving home.



http://www.brookefraser.com/video/
- Shadowfeet