People who brandish cell phones at shows are distracting and disappointing. It’s rude during performances, as it encroaches upon an artist’s time and that of their audience. Put the phone down and dig the show, sluggo. Live in the now.
But this isn’t a rant at millennial meatheads and their all-important tools of hipster oblivion. This is an apology to Margaret Explosion.
Wednesday night I found myself at The Little Theater Café wallowing in the ether and digging the images this group routinely paints in my head. As the open-minded melodies really kicked in, the brain candy got more acute and I started hearing words coming out in a sort of celestial-Beat cadence. “Shit, I gotta write this down.” But alas, I had no paper, So I clicked on my phone’s notepad feature and began to write:
Got stars for spurs
He’s got his
You’ve got yours
Rocket to the moon
On a Wednesday night
It was a tight flight
Out of reach
And outta sight
As I was right in front of the band, they could see me with my mug buried in my phone. Guys, I’m sorry. But I wasn’t playing Candy Crush, nor was I downloading celebrity nudes. I was writing lyrics that will someday turn into something I’ll perform while some clown live-streams it.