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January 1, 1800

the aretha franklin chronicles

part one

Originally published September 19, 2002

I'm off to the East Coast to see Aretha Franklin on her last concert tour ever. Hopefully 'Reethy will not be in one of her legendary moods and will go on stage as scheduled. Chancy or not, I've gotta see the Queen while I can, or I just don't think I could live with myself. I'm hopeful, of course, that she sings her two obscure songs that I'd like on my movie's soundtrack, but I ain't holdin' my breath. I'll settle for a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Originally published September 24, 2002

3000 miles by air, six hours by car, and the bitch doesn't show up because her sister died. 

Hmm. Turns out her sister died 11 days earlier. 

Hmm. That's a full 9 days before I last confirmed that the concert was on, right before I got on a plane. 

Hmm. When my mom died, I showed up for work the very next day. 

Hmm. That's $500 on airfare...
$350 on hotel...
$210 on the rental car...
$78 on parking at Sea-Tac...
$180 on the dog kennel...
3 precious vacation days used up...
...yet she was so overcome with grief that even with a nine-day window, she couldn't give her fans notice of their imminent buttfucking. Nay, she couldn't be bothered to use lubricant. What a thoughtful human being. What a pro. The show must go on, indeed.

Oh yes, fuck you straight to hell, Aretha Franklin.

Originally published November 3, 2002

Whadya know. Karma usually takes longer.

I hope authorities don't spend too long piecing this perplexing enigma together. What came around, went around.

interlude

Editor's note, July 2005: In January 2003, when I was sitting in the Phoenix airport still basking in Ohio State's championship glow, the airline offered me a free ticket to anywhere I wanted to go if I would accept a bump to the next flight and thereby be able to finish watching Michael Vick beat Green Bay at Green Bay in January, which had never been done. Yep. It was quite a roll I was on. En route back to Seattle with my voucher in hand, I realized what it represented: a free ticket to try again with Aretha. And thus pull victory out of the jaws of defeat.

Originally published March 27, 2003

The rescheduled Aretha Franklin concert is in a couple months. Mrgm. I taste copper.

Originally published April 16, 2003

God help me, I'm flying to Hyannis, MA to see Aretha Franklin. And may God help her if she doesn't show again. What will it be this time? The death of her dog two weeks earlier? A really sore, chafing thigh pimple? Arson? Whoop, I guess that 's been done. Well, the arson of her dog's thigh pimple, maybe.

Originally published April 17, 2003

Cocksucker of the Day Award

To Ticketmaster, who irritably hissed that there could be no refund for the original, postponed Aretha Franklin concert, for which I pointlessly took vacation time, spent a small fortune, and flew six thousand miles—after having diligently reconfirmed it with them just prior to my departure. If people three offices down heard the eruption of profanity through my closed door, imagine how the guy at Ticketmaster felt. I got my refund, which cost Ticketmaster the COTD Award but saved their souls.

part two

Originally published August 21, 2003

I'm heading back East tomorrow to visit friends and—sigh—attempt to see Aretha. If she dogs me again, well, pay no attention to the media reports.

Originally published August 26, 2003

There's much to say about my New England swing, but the crux can be summed up in two magical little words: she showed!

And Aretha and me, we patched things up.

The Cape Code Melody Tent is a unique venue, a circular seating area around a rotating stage. There are only about 20 rows of seats, so to say there's not a bad seat in the house is to undersell; there's not an non-excellent seat in the house. As we waited, Amy, Rob and I placed bets on how long Aretha's set would be. I said 70 minutes. Rob, who's apparently watched far too much Price Is Right, said 71. Amy, prone to all sorts of fancifully optimistic blunders (moving back East without a job offer, joining the Green Party, drinking with me, etc.), predicted 90. I "won" when Aretha took the stage for 64 minutes. Mind you, that includes at least 10 minutes of breaks, an inexplicable homage to Nelly's "Hot In Here," and the pre-encore exit theatrics—none of which involved her actually singing.

Yet I loved the performance. It was the first time at a concert where I've felt star-struck, where I got chills from just seeing the person. This effect was heightened by some teasing showmanship. First, the band took their place in the pit. Ten minutes passed. Then the backup singers took the stage, and it seemed the show was imminent, so the crowd started clapping in unison as if in a Roman coliseum. We're marking time: Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. And then the minutes passed. And we petered out. And the backup singers sat patiently. And the crowd started squirming. And minutes more passed. And then off in the distance, we heard a siren. And then it hit me: oh my God, the bitch dropped dead from a heart attack. And then the lights went out, and the crowd went apeshit, and I saw an eruption of camera flashes going off outside the opposite side of the arena. A dark shape poised at the top of the aisle opposite my seat. Is that her? I can't tell. The shape stood there as the backup singers took us through a medley of very familiar songs, including "Think" and "You Make Me Feel (Like a Natural Woman)." And then the MC grabbed the microphone and channeled a boxing announcer. He presented the uncontested Queen of Soul, who was suddenly and brilliantly illuminated as she and her bodyguards made their way down the aisle toward the stage. It was a entrance worthy of the heavyweight champ.

Fittingly, the first lyrics she belted were "I'm Here!"

I was afraid that at 70ish, Aretha would have lost something. Perhaps that something is stamina. But what the show lacked in length, it made up for in energy and passion, and that old lady sure got the assembled milquetoast Cape Cod Country Club jumpin' like they were in a Birmingham Baptist church. She alternated between torchy ballads and upbeat hits, and while the crowd leapt to its feel and danced for "Respect," "Chain of Fools," and "Freeway of Love," it was the ballads that I enjoyed most, particularly the magnificent anthem "Make Them Hear You" and a lovely, breathy encore cover of "I'll Be Seeing You." (The only clunker was her inexplicable cover of the Pocahontas crap-fest "Colors of the Wind." Was that for the zero 12 year olds in the audience?)

As I said, I got chills. Repeatedly. It combined the best of concert going experiences with a palpable sense of divinity, or at least of being touched by history. I beamed. I teared up. I didn't want it to end. I'd traveled 184 miles for every minute she sang—over 3 miles for every second—and I consider it a bargain.

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