"The Koz"

i'm submitting this for my non-fiction class tomorrow. major props to john nobles and ryan fucking charlton (yea, i said it) for their part in this memory. :)

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This August I enjoyed the excitement of seeing one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Mark Kozelek. Third only to Sam Beam of Iron&Wine and Ray Lamontagne in my list of favorite musicians, over the past year I had grown to love Kozelek's music and his distinct, melancholy sound. His lyrics are exquisite, and his voice strikes me as being a mixture of yearning and regret. Mark, affectionally referred to by my friend Ryan and I as "The Koz," was playing a show in Birmingham, of all places, which was very accessible and a must see. Ryan and I were dead set on attending and I was happy to find out his roommate, John, was going too. My only concern was the venue. A barbecue festival at Sloss Furnace? Barbecue festivals sounded like all out hick-fests and I'd only heard of Sloss Furnace as being epic in regards to its haunted house every October. I knew Mark deserved an epic venue uncluttered with hicks.

The smell of barbecue was strong and caught nostrils whole blocks away from the actual festival. My friends and I had parked rather close, but I knew that whether someone was going to the barbecue festival at Sloss Furnace or not, the smell had permeated the area.

"This smoky barbecue smell is going to be stuck in my hair forever."
It was a concern of mine, with my thick brunette hair that tends to trap smells and hold them. I looked pretty that night. My skinny jeans, black tube top, gray knit hat, and perfectly straightened hair. Straightened hair that now reeked of barbecue.

We meandered up to the entrance of the festival, when right as we went to buy tickets, what looked to be a father with his family who were leaving caught us off guard.

"Hey, are you entering tonight for the first time?"
"Uhh, yeah, we--"
"These are weekend passes. We don't need them anymore if you want them."

The man handed me two tickets and went on. I looked at Ryan, he looked at me, there was a mutual shrug, and we set off for the ticket collection area. John went to buy a ticket, which we had promised to split three ways in cost.

"Hmmm, there seems to be something wrong with the tickets, one second please," said the woman, as her brow wrinkled and she looked at the computer like a child who had just misheard her and not done what she asked.

I looked at Ryan with a face that said, "Oh look, these tickets don't work, how nice." As a reflex, my face flushed and I just started laughing.

"Ma'am, where did you get these tickets?"

I looked at Ryan, subconsciously trying to throw him under the bus by making him reply. In the wake of his silence I finally replied, "Someone handed them to me as they left."

“Oh, okay, well these have already been used for tonight, sorry."

As we walked away, I had one thing to say to Ryan: "I bet those people think we're total douche bags."

"Sorry John, everyone buys their own ticket."

We laughed and went to buy our real tickets. Tickets that would work.

"Hey, I'm back!" I said to the woman when I returned.

She laughed and we got our ticket stubs and went on in.

We walked purposefully, to try to find the main stage, yet at the same time probably looked really lost, because we kind of were. Holding our festival map like a paper compass, we found the main stage and surveyed the area. I first noticed how small and intimate it seemed. The ground we were standing on sloped down to a stage, which isn't complete with the almost kaleidoscope assortment of colors from lights. There were chairs set up, but most people seemed to just be standing around, or already locked in to their fold out chairs they brought themselves.

At the main stage, cigarette smoke overpowered barbecue smoke and I preferred it. Something about cigarette smoke made me nostalgic, whether it took me back to memories of live music, or sitting outside of coffee shops and talking about philosophy with some of my closest high school friends. Though I didn't smoke myself, the smell reminded me of good times, chill times.

I realized that I could most likely see Mark Kozelek play each and every song with my own two eyes. This was new for me. I often listened to live music, but rarely saw musicians play live music. It is a disadvantage to being 4'11". The slope of the ground, mixed with the size of the stage and crowd resulted in concert environment perfection for me.

Mark walked out onto the stage, and honestly, I knew it was The Koz based solely on his holding a guitar and waving awkwardly at the crowd. I'd never seen the man before, but I assumed that since he was sitting in the spotlight and center of the stage, he must be who I had paid to see.

Mark Kozelek is an awkward character. He spoke in almost short phrases, quickly I would say. He rarely seemed to be looking out, speaking almost as much to his shoes as those of us watching him. For some reason, his frazzled nature didn't surprise me. Depressing indie folk musicians rarely have a stand up comedian countenance. Something about their everyday attitude speaks of the songs they write. I imagine you can tell by speaking to them that they have, in fact, lived every hurt they've sung.

And so, Mark sang..

Cassius Clay was hated more than Sunny Liston....

He started off the set with "Glenn Tipton," which happens to be the first song of his recent album Ghosts of the Great Highway. When the song ended, I naturally expected "Carry Me Ohio" to follow, as it was the second song on the album, and my personal favorite. I'm pretty sure musicians rarely, if ever, play a set list that is their exact album list, but something about hearing the end of "Glenn Tipton" reminded me of listening to the whole album and left me expecting the next song.

Still, I was certain that when the night was over, I would hear "Carry Me, Ohio." The Koz had to play that song. It was my favorite. At one point in the night, I even heard a guy yell the song title out, a drunken request on his part. Mark would totally play that song.

False.

Of all the songs he played, he didn't play it. I can truthfully say that was the only downside of the night.

There is something about live music that exhilarates me. I am a writer at heart, but music has always been that unattainable love. I know it will never be a skill of mine but it still captures me. That might be why it captures me -- I can’t do it myself. I've always had friends that are musicians, some for fun, some signed on record labels. Many have succeeded, some have failed, and I've witnessed both end results. I walk around campus, or my neighborhood, with an iPod shoved into my ears, blocking out what's around me. I enjoy seeing a white-cloud sky and hearing a soft indie folk song in my ears. I like to watch someone sing a song they’ve written and hear their life experiences in the tone of their voice and the images they paint with their sound. When I listen to music, I feel like I’m invited into the dark crevasses of a stranger’s life, so that they don’t have to be such a stranger anymore.

And that is a little bit of what I felt that night. I felt like I was sitting in a beautiful haze composed of the emotion behind a man and a guitar, mixed with smoke and friendship.