We wanted to meet them so bad. We plotted like fiends, the four of us—me, Meghan, Corinne, and my sister Stefanie—on the floor of my living room, every Friday night for a year.
Meg and Stef sent letters. To Oprah, then to Rosie O'Donnell. Then they sent videotapes, made with someone's Dad's camcorder, full of giggling and pleading. They ran up the phone bill calling Carson. They stayed up around the clock calling radio stations. And we talked. We sorted out the details, the probable-yet-unlikely series of events that would need to happen in order to put Us and Them in the same place, at the exact came time. We wrote notes to each other in class. We lit candles, and hunched over a ouija board for hours on end. We poured through phone books. We scoured the internet. Stefanie filled the pages of a blue, spiral-bound notebook, The Book of Stardom, with names, addresses, URLs, clues, and various other Hansony voodoo. We thought we could will it—The Meeting of a Lifetime—into existence.
There is a story I want to tell those girls, who shuffled around a Massachusetts high school in dusty-toed Dr. Martens with Middle of Nowhere spinning a dizzy orange blur in their Discmen. Stef and Meg, obsessed with angel-faced Taylor, memorizing the smile lines around his eyes in their sleep. Corinne, with her uncalled for, but charming Zac fascination. And Laura, who liked the older one. The older one with his familiar awkwardness, and his braces, his spine drawn straight with eldest-child obligation.
The story is about what happens when you get what you want. And how no amount of divining or research will save you as you stand next to them, your expectations shattering to bits.
Shuffle Up to Buffalo
Buffalo, NY is like your grandmother's honeymoon, relived. It is Niagara Falls and The Maid of the Mist and snow globes in a gift shop. It is the Erie Canal and the Adirondack Line and nice foliage and hawks making lazy circles, etc. It is a tourist trap fit for another era, before quadruple-helix roller coasters and Mickey Mouse changed the American definition of "escape." Here, the only thing to see is water. An impossible, fathomless gush of it, hurtling itself benignly over an arbitrary edge.
It's also a hell of a long way from Manhattan. It's even longer when you're sick, on a morning when you have forgotten and retrieved a set of tickets from a basket on your refrigerator, when you have missed a bus, downed some Sudafed, and had a Roy Rogers burger, when all you want, for the love of all things holy, is McDonalds.
Welcome to the tribe, right? And how many miles did you travel?
So in the middle of this Vacation Wonderland, land of too-much-water and empty-windowed steel mills, cometh the brothers Hanson with their bagfull of glittering harmonies and pretty hair. Even Taylor, god of all things spangled, played down-dressed family man for the evening. For this event, it was black jeans and a polo shirt. He even left his necklaces on the bus.
But what a place is the downtown dance-club-cum-ratty-concert-venue Sphere, with its new-age name and Velvet Goldmine décor! Besides the excellently cheap alcohol, it also featured a steep, tiered auditorium. What was the single best thing about the Buffalo show? Laura, who clocks in at a formidable five feet, two inches tall, could see absolutely everything that happened on the stage. Let us all recall for a moment, the bobbing dismembered Hanson heads encountered at various world-class cities on the Acoustic '03 tour, including Albany and Baltimore. Brava, Sphere. Thanks for the memories. If they made a Sphere snow globe, I'd have bought one.
Of Third Legs, Feet, and Asses
Even Hanson's bus was a little more Niagara Falls than on the other legs of the tour. It was a noncommittal beige, the hue of so many of downtown Buffalo's slouching half-skyscrapers. (How long did it take you to figure out, guys, just how conspicuous a neon-blue and yellow bus can be?)
The music. No, the music was anything but beige.
Benefiting from a mostly well-behaved crowd, and a particularly great-sounding mix, the music glittered warmly. The progression of one song, however, should earn Hanson some sort of prize. A dream vacation for three, maybe. A foliage-peeping tour of the Adirondacks. "Rock N Roll Razorblade," a song which largely sucks on the Hanson.net member CD, and almost as hard as it did in demo form, has become, on the Acoustic '03 Tour, a pretty fun, intense little number. Mostly, Taylor has tempered his rock diva urges on this song, which seemed so misguided at the beginning of the tour. He plays hard, surely, but he's hitting the notes, both right and wrong, at the right times. Now, that flourish of bad notes in the middle of the song—played with his bear-paw hands, fingers splayed, swinging above his head—is finally what it should be: Huge, clangingly dissonant, and instantly charming. At one point toward the clamoring final chorus, we even saw feet, Chuck Taylor-clad, pounding up on the keys. And even for this gentle, well-mannered vacation spot, it hardly seemed rude at all.
Taylor's rendition of the Elvis classic "Love Me"—a redundancy if there ever was one—was a stunner, but let's face it: Elvis had left the building, and we're not sure he'd ever been there in the first place, if you took Taylor's interpretation as proof. There's really nothing of Elvis in Taylor's throaty, soulful rendition of this song. He sings it about five steps higher than Elvis ever could, and runs literal circles around what were the straightest, warmest of tones. It works, though. Imagine Elvis channeled through Ray Charles. That's more in line with the Taylorfication of "Love Me." And the crowd, no surprise here, did.
Isaac is hot. The new Isaac, I mean. With his rockstar hair and his stinging confidence and his half-ironic business-casual garb. (Only half-ironic because, come on, this is Isaac after all.) At one point in his life, Isaac was maybe a Niagara Falls sort of guy. A Maid of the Mist riding, blue-poncho-wearing, snow-globe buying sort. We like New Isaac better. He of The Most Excellent Tan, even in October. We like the Isaac who slithered his way through Bill Withers's "Ain't No Sunshine" in the most convincing, grownup, dirty-thought provoking way. When they announced the song, the immediate thought was that Taylor would handle vocal duties. It is, after all, a song that needs emotion and sex in equal measure, and let's face it. That's Taylor's territory. But Isaac, with his earthier voice, and his newfound sense of subtlety—dare we call it keen?—made perfect sense of a tricky song with an ultra-specific tone. This is Ike, now. You remember him. Braces. Gangly. Odd hair. We have no idea what happened. (We suspect it was a who, and not a what. A her, if you want to get specific.) But we pray it happens to him again, and again, and again. And if he keeps dressing like that, we think it probably will.
Zac, the only Hanson who we think would appreciate the kitsch value of Buffalo, is pretty cute too these days, as evidenced by the seizure-inducing shrieks that erupted from the crowd when he pulled off his shirt. So odd, that moment. You wanted to poke the younger girls in the shoulder, sound like their grandmother when you tell them the story: "You know, honey. Back in my day, we used to do that for the middle one..."
But Zac's emergence, besides the one from his clothes, has put an entirely new spin on the wonderful, shiny-bright thing that is Hanson's songwriting prowess. It's like they grew another head. And it is so, so different from the other two. In Buffalo, "Lulabelle" was the Zac solo of choice, and what a winding, lovely thing it is. It has none of the caffinated jolt of a hook-heavy Taylor Song, nor the liquid antimelody of an Ike Ballad. Zac's songs are more the pop music equivalent of arty tone poems. They are structured backwards and upside-down, houses with awkward additions, porches, and pathways jutting out in every direction. And the result, shockingly, is lovely. The exquisite creations of a master chef who measures nothing, who's not quite sure what he's concocting until it's until it's in crocks on the table. In "Lulabelle," as with its even smarter, lovelier sister, "Broken Angel," none of the math adds up. And no one, not Zac, and certainly not this crowd, seemed to mind.
For the benefit of Us, that is, the fannish you and me, Hanson played the new, acoustically sound rendition of "Where's the Love," which is really is fun after all these years, even if it does seem so beneath Hanson these days. It is, let's face it, dumb, sticky kid stuff. And the fans, almost depressingly so, still do that arm thing on "Round and round."
Other Musical Musings, in Brief:
To exactly no one's surprise, "Rip it Up" has become the new show closer, and for good reason. It makes the crowd move, and lets Taylor flail his pretty self around. For Hanson fans, there are no better things in the universe. Taylor, as the Dean of Crowd Participation and Fan Satisfaction, led the clapping. He's changed its sequence since the first leg of the tour, we suspect because he either forgot the original sequence or got bored. But what is it with the fans who can't muster the coordination to do the Fast Clapping, i.e., the Funnest One? Come on, girls. Work with Taylor. He's trying to instill in you a sense of rhythm, just like I, with equal amounts of futility, am attempting to instill in Hanson a sense of irony. (Homework: Before Carnegie Hall, please practice the Fast Clapping in "Rip it Up." It would make me happy, and I bet Isaac wouldn't mind either.)
Beyond that, though, "Rip it Up" rocked, as it always does. Taylor, ever the eloquent Hanson, requested that we "shake our asses." There was an earlier request in the show for us to "share our booties," which went largely ignored. So maybe he figured that if he got kinky with us, we'd respond better. A word to Taylor: There's not much room, guy, to shake anything at a Hanson concert. So we didn't listen. But Zac did.
Mid-song, Zac stood up. No surprise there. It's a shock-value tactic that Taylor pulls every once in a while, designed to get the little girls up front all hyper because now he's huge and looming, his hips are eye-level with the front row. Intentional? Who knows? Symbolic? Honey, it's the stuff of rock and roll myth.
Except then Zac started to... well... shake his ass. A lot. A way lot. So much about Zac's body language is so different from Isaac's or Taylor's, after all. Even when he's not being a wiseass seventeen-year-old quasi-goober. All night, he moved freely through the music, mouthing the beats, slamming his head around, like he always has. Taylor and Isaac, in a lot of ways, internalize the music so that it cramps and twists their bodies. After all, doesn't Ike need traction or Pilates or something to help him combat the physical stresses of the music carousing through his skinny self? That's what I mean. With Zac, you will find no such hesitancy.
Like when he decided that he was going to bust his bass drum. It was a decision. You saw the change on his face, in his knotting eyebrows. He was halfway through the song, and he thought, the evil glee barely concealed, "I am going to break my bass drum." And he did. He was pounding so hard at one point, you actually saw the whole drum set inching closer toward the edge of the stage. He achieved his goal, if the concern on one roadie's face was proof enough, as he calmly surveyed the damage after the boys left the stage.
After Party
It is no secret at this point. We met Hanson. In a parking lot outside Boston in cool September sunshine in 2000, their hair flying in every direction with the breeze. It was not how we had planned it all those years before in the living room. It was not on Oprah or Rosie O'Donnell. We were not Chosen, recognized and rewarded for our awesome, devoted fanhood. It was an accident. A last-minute tangle of subway tokens and fast-walking based on half-accurate information. Meghan missed it by an hour. She was on a bus, coming home from Connecticut on her way to the concert. It is still the Eternal Bummer of that otherwise excellent day, the one no ouija board could have predicted.
It was not life-changing. They were very polite and funny, Isaac and Taylor especially with their dorky jokes and shy smiles. We took no pictures. That wasn't generally allowed back then, so there is no record. We have no proof except the precise, simultaneous memory of Taylor's black jacket with the snap at the collar, or the rhinestones on the back pocket of his jeans. Or the impossible size and softness of Isaac's hand as mine disappeared inside it.
It happened. It was a notch in the tangled, still-growing oak of our friendship. All we wanted, really, was once. Something marked and special. Something for us. And we got it once.
But what happens, then, when it happens again? And in a way that has never been part of any childhood fantasy? At seventeen, it never occurred to me that Isaac Hanson would ever be old enough to drink in a bar. Or that I would.
At seventeen, there are so many things that never occurred to me. It never occurred to me that I would be hundreds of miles from home, my New York City home, standing in a dark corner, at the bottom of my G&T, and that he would walk in the room. It never occurred to me that it would last this long, that this band, and its music, would still exist. And mostly, it never occurred to me that he and I would ever be in the same place without our families. Him, without The Other Two. Me, without The Other Three.
Amanda was with me. I knew she could be counted on should something dire happen. If I passed out, for example, or if he tried to have me arrested for annoying him. But I knew too, that if I was going to talk to him, if I was going to slink up next to him, my vaguely provocative black sweater sliding off one shoulder, I would do it alone.
And so it was, hundreds of miles from Oprah, from any pleading letter or well-planned loitering, that I walked up to a bar on a Friday night, ten inches from his right elbow, and ordered a Midori sour.
And I was struck, suddenly, with the horror of the situation I'd just walked into.
It was, at once, ten thousand different things. It is the story of a girl, and a boy she is fascinated with, a boy whose looks and mannerisms she knows so well that staring at his profile induces a kind of hazy, off-center déjà vu. It is also the story of a nervous girl and a very cute boy, of her trying to get his attention, a scenario that repeats itself millions of times, in millions of smoky, poorly-lit bars, every night, everywhere on earth. And it is the story of a rock star and a fan, of the fan trying to decide how, and if she should behave.
Should she lie, then? Pretend that she is a baggage-free innocent, a Buffalo girl having a drink, a girl who has no clue who he is. "Mmmbop." Yeah. She vaguely remembers that terrible song. Or does she come clean? Apologize, maybe. Offer disclaimers about not stalking him.
And then there is the drink, glowing murky phosphorescent green in the plastic cup. Does she drink from the straw, or go straight for the lip of the cup?
One thing, however, was certain. That boy Isaac Hanson was, the thoughtful, too-awkward older brother struggling to find his place amongst Lovely, Talented Taylor and Zany Zac, is gone. He made me shake, literally, with nervousness, as he shot the shit about college football and trash-talked with the venue security. As he clenched the fat stub of a cigar between his lovely fingers.
I wanted, mostly, just to stare at him for a bit. And I did. At the fluid movement of his shoulders under his t-shirt, at the ring, a new one, encircling the middle finger of his left hand. It is exquisite, delicate and filigreed and the only piece of jewelry he wears, heightening its visual impact tenfold. (Taylor, take notes.) My eyes kept going back to his hands. Their continual movement, graceful and bold at once, is integral to the way he communicates. And less intimidating, too, than looking at his face. Than the prospect—completely frightening—of him figuring me out.
I am not a cool person. I am not one of those girls everyone pays attention to in a bar, or at a party. I am, in fact, just the opposite. I am small in stature and silent in groups of people, content to absorb, to save things up for later, when they find their way out in a story, or a conversation, or a journal.
Corinne is the talker. She is tall and awesome looking with her red hair and fair skin, and she is a royal, fearless wiseass. She is the one who found her voice first in that parking lot three years ago, who spit out a question to Taylor while the rest of us just stared, transfixed, at the quiet blue of his eyes. I can not tell you how badly I needed her, perched there next to Isaac, one hip against the bar in some tough, brave impersonation of cool, the liquid in the cup trembling every time I took it off the bar.
But then I made a decision. I came this far. For the sake of my friends who could not be here, for my concert review that I will post on my web page, I have to say something to this infuriating, mesmerizing boy. This boy, who, if he asked me to dance, had shoulders of a height that would be very perfect for leaning on. The boy who I am half-hating for betraying all my pre-conceived notions of him. The boy who had the whole room at attention with his stories about nothing, his silly voices, his slouchy-shouldered rock star persona, all of which made him immune to criticism or vulnerability. His famous-person armor.
But I know you, boy. I know what you looked like at sixteen, and I got pictures to prove it.
"Isaac?"
He completely ignored me. Or he didn't hear me. I was so horrified, I almost picked up my cup and ran. Almost.
"Hey. ISAAC."
"Hey."
"The show was wonderful tonight. Thank you so much."
"Thank you. No. Thank you." He meant it, I think. A smile and a short nod of his head, and then he was looking at me, which had me tongue-tied and petrified.
And I thought, I have nothing else to say to him. And I had so much to say to him. But in a bar, on a Friday night, there was nothing else. Not while he was busy chatting football and owning the room. There are options, in a bar, for conversation.
There is work.
There is college.
There is high school.
There is your favorite band.
And Isaac Hanson and I, suddenly and devastatingly, had exactly none of those things in common. Even while I chatted with another boy at the bar, a waiter at Sphere who was cute in his own right, it was hopeless. It was me, waiter boy, and Isaac in a neat little half-circle against the bar. And the waiter boy was talking about how much he liked working at Sphere. He worked at a bank during the day, and at Sphere at night for extra cash and free booze.
I wracked my brain. I tried so hard, trying to find some way to drag Isaac into this conversation, a conversation about regular everyday shit, about day jobs and working at a bank. Things that have never, ever been a part of his life. I came up with nothing. And he walked away. I saw it, then. How lonely it must be for them sometimes. For all of them. To never, ever be able to join a conversation about Regular Life. So it comes back to the same things, then. Football. Girls. Cigars. Macho trash talk. The things men talk about when men have nothing in common.
He left soon after that, without good-byes, for another city, and another bar. And I was just another girl, finishing off another drink. A girl who remembers too much about that particular ten minutes. The smell of that cigar. Or, the smallness of his eyes. The impossible smoothness of the skin on his arms. The heady volume and body of his laugh. A girl whose face and shape, that slouching black sweater, he undoubtedly forgot, as soon as he walked out the door.