EXCURSIONS BOSTON

DON'T SAY YOU LOVE ME, YOU DON't EVEN KNOW ME:

Boston, MA | Orpheum Theater | 09.21.00

The Orpheum Theater is in an alley, wedged between the Suffolk University Lawschool and something called Buck a Book, set so far back from the street that you’d miss it easily if you didn’t know better. And on the outside, it’s grimy. And unimpressive, and not anything like the well-mowed lawns and shady alcoves of Great Woods, where Hanson played in that proverbial "last time." You know, back when they used to sell albums.

But Great Woods is such a woefully suburban venue, miles outside of Boston and only open in the summer. It’s a place where people go in their SUVs with coolers and beach blankets, a place where chicken fingers and a Coke will set you back ten bucks, and nobody seems to care. A place where the July sun beating down on the bikini-clad contingent with lawn seats frequently gets hotter than the music onstage. A place where you go to see Nsync. Great Woods, excuse me, the Tweeter Center, is for sissies.

But the Orpheum is something else, dirty with chipped plaster and torn rugs, where most of the security has hair longer than Zac’s and hell’s angels tatoos on their arms. And that’s just the women. Rock Bands play the Orpheum. Jonny Lang played the Orpheum.

And so we went to the alley, a place to take shelter from the bothersome September bluster that would have messed up many a teenie hairdo and blown city grit into their eyes. The busses had already arrived. They were still full of their much sought-after cargo, as evidenced by the crowd gathering on each side of the bus, cameras and signs poised. Security was getting cranky already, nudging frantic 14 year-olds behind some arbitrary line on the ground that would keep them a sufficient distance from Hanson, whenever they chose to leave the shelter of the bus. We stood back. Close enough to look. Not close enough to touch.

A tiny, curlicued blonde head popped up in the front window. The crowd screamed. It was Zoe, who seemed generally unaffected by the assembled crowd. She pouted. She waved. She peeked at the girls who took her picture.

Zac was the first Hanson off the bus, and he moved pretty quickly, averting any real contact with the crowd and tossing a rather terse half-smile in either direction before disappearing inside the theater. There was screaming, of course. When Ike came out, he attempted some contact with the crowd by touching a few hands, but that soon escalated into a sort of minor group mauling, so he pulled away and went inside.

It really is a problem when Taylor is the last one off the bus, because it makes it seem like they’re working up to something, like there’s supposed to be some building of suspense involved in this whole process of getting Hanson from point A to point B. Of course, that’s entirely rediculous, but that’s what it seems like to the crowd, especially when they’re waiting for the Golden Boy, and only the Golden Boy.

So he got off the bus.

It’s a stretch to even really call him blond anymore. Underneath, his hair is downright dark, almost darker than Isaac’s. Granted, it does have these rather vivid, pale streaks near the top that are indeed as dreamy as Teen Beat and the New York Times make them out to be.
He was carrying the most perfect, exceedingly cool, corduroy patchwork messenger bag. I want one. Really. It’s awesomeness is literally unparalleled in the universe of messenger bags. This also prompted conversations over what, exactly, Taylor Hanson carries in that neato bag. We’re sure it’s interesting, just because he’s Taylor Hanson, and even if it only contains bubblegum wrappers and a spare set of keys, they’re his bubblegum wrappers.

He touched some hands and got groped by the girls near the door. Usual sort of thing. No, it wasn’t nice to watch. But I won’t launch into a diatribe over the Personhood of Hanson. We’ll leave that for later.

Then we stood by the door and got pushed aside by bodyguards and staff and caterers and we watched the Hanson family amble around just inside. At one point, Zoe was standing just inside the door in her blue crushed velvet baby capris (Best part: The diaper sticking out of the top.) just sort of curiously gazing at us. (This condition runs in the family. But I’m getting ahead of myself.) And so I did what I thought was a pretty innocent thing. Considering that she was looking right at me, I smiled and waved. Nothing too frantic or startling. Just a wave. I was rewarded with a terse, Isaac-esque little scowl and a sharp shake of her curls that very clearly read, "No." I hadn’t been there an hour and I was thoroughly shafted. By the youngest Hanson.

Then Mackenzie came out with a can of sour cream and onion Pringles. He showed them to some girls.

Then some insane things happened, and I’m not going to divulge details, but I use the word "insane" in the best possible sense. The Taylor Hanson, Tulsa, Tokyo and the Middle of Nowhere sense. I’m not going to divulge details because for all of the frantic giddiness the process caused us, it would be boring for you to read. Suffice it to say that an hour later, we found ourselves on the other side of Boston in a radio station parking lot waiting for Hanson to pull up in a van. Besides the four of us, there were only two other girls there. After a few minutes of tentative hellos and nervous shuffling between the six of us, it occurred to me that I was about to meet Hanson.

I was very much numb, still in a sort of hazy quasi-denial that this thing that we think about and wonder about and covet so intently was just moments away. I thought about every thing that could go wrong, every traffic jam and prior commitment that would keep them from arriving. None of it happened.

They got out of the van. Like normal people get out of vans. Like I would get out of a van. Taylor approached us first, which didn’t surprise me, given the endless numbers of Hey I Met Hanson! stories I’ve encountered. And I think we said hello. You could feel the ice break, the tension in the air fade and go slack, when Taylor extended his hand to Corinne. From that moment forward, it was OK. OK to breathe. OK to not worry about saying something stupid. Then he shook mine. It was nothing… a mutual "Hey, how are you?" It was freakishly human. I was standing too far away from him to get a full handshake; it was more a fervent gripping of fingertips. But it was enough to paint this horrifically vivid picture of what the palms of his hands were like, the surprising hints of roughness at the fingertips. It was cool, for a handshake, strong and purposeful.

I think I noticed his eyes immediately after that. I’ve complained a lot in the past about The Universal Set of Fanfiction Adjectives Devoted Exclusively to the Description of Taylor Hanson’s Eyes, and I take back every word of it. I know now why every fourteen-year-old in the world uses words like "glittering" and "crystalline." It’s because every one of those words holds impossible amounts of truth. They’re the palest, shimmering blue, and when he talks to you, they focus with a gentle, unwavering curiosity. There’s nothing even remotely intimidating about it. There are other little things too, about how his eyebrows aren’t really flawless once you see them up close, how they’re slightly messy and imperfect about the edges. How he’s nicely, comfortably tall. How he was wearing some sort of remotely religious looking amulet, something small and Celtic. How he dresses to kill, period, with his cute little black jacket with the snap at the collar and his designer jeans. How the faint traces of something, not quite stubble, the indefinite precursor of stubble, betray the fact that he shaves, and how the fact that you knew this already doesn’t make it any less interesting.

By this time, I was seeing Isaac in front of me and thinking of what would happen to my faculties should he touch me in any capacity. He was wearing what may very well be the best, hip, neo-cowboy shirt I’ve seen in ages, all dorky orange and yellow plaid.

Even his handshake is sexy. Really. Something enveloping and warm and soft and strong all at the same time. Like a particularly familiar, comfortable pillow. Although admittedly, the coolest thing about it was that my hand basically disappeared in his. Swallowed. Gone. Bye.

Then Corinne asked Isaac whether they’d be playing Kate. He could have just said, "NO." One word. Minimal hassle. I honestly thought that Ike’s tendency to ramble was something prompted by television cameras. Apparently his ramble fetish stems to everyday conversation too, because he proceeded to spew words upon words upon words regarding why they wouldn’t be playing this song, and even offering that if we went to "a lot of shows" we might hear it, and that it was something they were playing "few and far between," whatever that means. It was rather shocking and wonderful. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to kidnap him and bring him home with me. He even continued to ramble as Taylor and Zac and Walker and other assembled Hanson Folk stood at the top of the stairs saying things like, "Come on, Ike," and "We really need to go, Ike."

Then they went into the building and did assorted band related things, I’m assuming. Then they came back out:

"Wow! It’s really windy out here," said Taylor Hanson as he descended the stairs, his hair flying in every direction as he pressed it back frantically.

"What? You trying to sound like us?" said Corinne, detecting the distinct drop of the R on the word "here."

… at which point, Hanson came over and proceeded to discuss the mystery of the Boston accent with us, up to and including the curious pronunciation of the word "Worcester." Let it be noted that hearing Isaac mispronounce an already mispronounced word is so amusing, it’s almost blasphemous, especially when it basically drops the chance to correct him in your lap. We did correct him, sort of. Although I still don’t think any of them quite got it, the correct pronunciation, or the incorrect one for that matter. (Note to Ike: It’s not Wooster, rhymes with rooster. It’s Wistah… rhymes with… well… nothing.)

The whole experience was akin to that of being in the schoolyard in the fourth grade and making a little huddle of a circle with your friends, only Isaac and Taylor Hanson happened to be in our circle. In our circle with the wind blowing their floppy hair in their faces and the orangy autumn sun reflecting in their eyes.

I’m not entirely sure what happened to Zac, but he was there. He was hovering around us, just watching. At one point, I caught him in the corner of my eye, standing by himself with this sweet little smile on his face. I’m not sure whether he was contemplating coming over, and decided not to when we formed The Circle, or whether he figured we were just too old or whether he just didn’t want to talk. I can actually sympathize with all of the above. But he was smiling. That, I’ll remember.

They were gone soon after that, yanked back into the van by Walker et al, off to do the HansonWorld chat that we were missing because we had better plans.

We wound up in the 10^th row, thanks to a scalper who had no teeth, and who genuinely thought he could intimidate us. (And to the woman who informed me that I’d probably miss the show if I got arrested, I thank you for the advice. It all worked out, though.)

Zac had on a most interesting, fun pair of maroon corduroy pants with studs up the legs. If anyone wants to buys us some, we’d like a pair.
Taylor was in dress down mode again: blue oxford shirt that was, true to form, soaked through after about two and a half songs. Jeans. Maybe he’s realizing that natural beauty of his caliber needs no silly ornamentation. And we’ll say nothing about the black shoes and the brown belt. Because nobody’s perfect.
Isaac. My goodness. In what may have been the best Isaac fashion statement in recent history, Ike was wearing the much heralded Asian-inspired-orange-silk-kimono-shirt-thing with charcoal slacks. It was perfect – an excruciatingly nice mele of soft, interesting fabrics. Whoever put that boy in that outfit, keep it dry cleaned and ironed and in good shape so he can wear it again and again. Thanks. Honestly, the swish of those slacks may have been the number one distraction of the evening.
Yeah. Taylor was half naked by the end of the show. Blah blah.
Ike was too, and he actually took the shirt off onstage. The number two distraction of the evening? Watching that orange silk slide off those shoulders.

You know Squirrel Man, aka, The Other Guitarist, aka, Jason Taylor. Well, let us put the silly nicknames to rest. Right here. Right now. Why, you ask? Well, before the show, we got our first genuine, up-close eyefull of Mr. Taylor. And he’s an undeniable, bona fide hottie. No kidding. He was randomly standing in that grimy alley in a blue shirt with his recently-grown-out curlies fluttering in the breeze, and he looked… really really good. Between his pretty smile and his nice skin and his startlingly young looking face, he’s a keeper. So what do we call him now? Jason? Mr. Jason Taylor? Mr. Sweet-faced Hottie…
Oh, and Stefanie broke Hanson’s tour bus. She was doing… something… who knows what… puttering around in between the two parked tour busses when all of a sudden we hear a rather suspicious clang. And she’s standing there with this utterly horrified look on her face, staring down at the chunk of chrome that’s just come clattering off the front of the bus, thanks to the energetic motions of her knee. Now, given that my mother raised her fairly well, she immediately did the right thing. She went to put it back, that is, until we all yelled at her and told her to hurry up and stick it in her bag before anyone noticed. So she did. She brought it to school the next day and showed it to her friends, who called her a groupie.
I don’t think I’ve ever been to a louder Hanson show in my life. People screamed before songs, after songs, in between songs, during rockers, during balads, during the pauses in the set where the crew rearranged the stage. It was actually rather awful. I saw several Hanson concerts this week. Boston was the only one that left me rather deaf.
Taking advantage of the Orpheum’s architecture, Isaac and Taylor took turns running to the sides of the stage and literally jumping up to touch the hands of the girls who were in the boxes that were closest to the stage. Good thing those girls decided to eventually let go. That’s all I have to say.

Beyond the incredible noise factor, musically, Boston was a great show. Isaac was so excited, it could be said that he was unquestionably feisty. He ran around and grimaced and danced and spazed, and attacked every guitar solo with a buoyant alacrity. Whatever was happening to him during the show, it looked like a lot of fun. Taylor’s voice seemed to be in iffy form, and the shortness of the set reflected that. There was hardly an accoustic set at all. Save Me was axed entirely. Anything that was overly vocally demanding for Taylor was taken out. But he did a fine job on everything he did sing, You Can’t Always Get What You Want in particular. And Zac… well Zac, in his old age, has ripened into a downright great drummer. Of course, add in the fact that he’s thoroughly entertaining to watch, and well… it’s a nice combination of things that make up Zac’s collective wonderfulness.

Sunshine of Your Love was part of the encore and probably took the Stunning Musical Moment award of the evening. Gone is the frantic, breakneck pace that the song raced along at for most of the Albertane tour, only to be replaced by something slower and undeniably more sophisticated and grown up, (Thanks Zac.) not to mention sexy. Ike’s vocal was appropriately searing, approaching the levels of frantic, I’m-going-to-levitate-off-this-stage-at-any-minute excitement that so characterizes the performances of Ike’s friend/personal hero, Jonny Lang.

Short but sweet. That was the Boston show. They sparkled. They thanked us. They bowed. And the curtain fell.

So yeah... I'm a grou... uh... band-aid.