Yesterday, my best friend and I camped out for 15 hours trying to see the Smashing Pumpkins at the 9:30 club. Tickets were nearly impossible to get ahold of, so we decided to try the stakeout route, as two teenagers in their last summer before college with too much free time and dedication are supposed to do.
I spent the night before with a set of sharpies and reinforced posterboard putting my cartoonist skills to work, creating an elaborate Billy Corgan, in full "Tarantula" video garb. Simply put, Billy Corgan is as simple as an eccentric and slightly sinister bald man. It's all about the wardrobe - give him a cat and he's a Bond villain, give him Kryptonite and he's Lex Luthor. On the other side, I drew Jimmy Chamberlin, although I was later informed that he needs to look more like a "brick s--thouse." I censored that for the kiddies, but it's a compliment, apparently.
I arrived at the 9:30 club at 7am, when it was already 96 degrees in D.C. For the next three hours, I waited outside of a tour bus, hoping it might belong to the Pumpkins, after identifying an adjacent bus as their crew's. Turns out, the bus belonged to Mickey Avalon, the Hollywood rapper/former male prostitute best known for the song "My Dick." He'd played the night before, and his tour manager explained that "there just wasn't anywhere to park this damn thing." To top things off, I didn't even get to meet the man behind the couplet, 'My Dick cost a late night fee/Your dick got the HIV,' as he had already moved on to a hotel in Baltimore.
My best friend, a die-hard Pumpkins fan who has single-handedly ruined listening to them in the car with commentary on the technical prowess of Jimmy Chamberlin, arrived at 10:30, unable to get out of a committment at his fire department.
When Avalon's bus left, I moved across the street to sit along the club with the two other people there - two women who had apparently been following the band across the country and had seen almost every show on their current tour. Pleasant people, but, the fact alone inspired incredible jealousy. I mean, who needs to show up ten hours early when you've already seen the band and met them? I thought that was a desparation move.
By noon, the crowd had swelled to upwards of 9, and we were relieved from the hundred degree heat with...
...a thunderstorm that lasted close to an hour. So, the most devoted fans of the Pumpkins were treated to a furious storm that broke umbrellas and soaked the blankets set down by people hoping to work on their tans while holding their spots in line. At least three people hid under a truck, despite the lightning risk. With no shade provided by the club, three of us hid in a doorway of an abandoned building, but the wind blew the rain our way anyway.
The rain died down for about an hour, only to be followed up by a second storm that lasted 45 of the longest minutes of my life, roughly 3 minutes for each person waiting.
By the end of this second storm, my vinyl copy of Siamese Dream was a ragged mess, thanks to a messenger bag that took upon spongelike qualities.
The Pumpkins eventually showed up in a car that parked in a heavily guarded alley between the club and abandoned warehouse next to it. I held up my sign for Billy and he smiled. Realizing my in, I called his name when he was five feet away, and he didn't do as much as turn around. The sign got the attention of Jeff, Ginger, and Lisa, all of whom listened to my friend and I's sob story (we were there 8 hours at the time, and still soaking wet), but said they didn't have the power to get anyone in to the show.
Luckily, a sympathetic bouncer, with earlobes stretched out so far that you could fit tennis balls in there, was willing to help, as my friend and I were both longtime patrons of the club. He promised he would get the poster - a gift, now - to the band, along with a written plea to Jimmy Chamberlin to help us get in to the show.
We continued to wait in line, occasionally stopping to talk to a girl filming a documentary on the band, complete with all-access pass. She asked me to describe my Billy drawing - which I attempted to do as dryly as possible. Being videotaped in front of the massive flag only helped the vague hope I held on to.
Hours passed.
As the line grew in to the hundreds and we began our 12th hour, our hopes grew dim.
Eventually, the videocamera girl, who by the way, had the most amazing hair dye job, came to my friend and I, standing across the street thanks to security as the "rally" was set up, and asked for our names, promising to get them into the hands of "people with some power."
The next time we saw her, she was in a classic car with the band, rolling up in front of the club.
We saw the complete "rally," and despite being the third and fourth people in line, club personnel did not allow us to participate due to our lack of tickets.
The security at the club was insane, and roughly half the people who showed up didn't even get to see the opening act, as fears of scalping resulting in roughly 2 hours of ID checks before people entered.
The only scalping we noticed was unfortunate. The guy came in and decided to sell his extra to the first person he saw who needed one. A woman who cut in front of us in line got the offer. She had already been to about eight shows on the current tour.
She would also get to join the 'Anti-SP' crowd, taking a sign that the band's staff were going to let us hold, but then club security kicked us out.
We never did get in the show. We left around 10, only to find a $100 parking ticket for an obscure parking meter violation.
So, despite losing some weight, getting a great chance to wash some clothes, and not meeting Mickey Avalon, I have to say it was one of the worst nights of my life.
But, man. That new album is so good. I would've done anything to hear it live.
So, anyone else have a story? What's the most you've ever done to get in a show? What was your worst experience?
http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v5...=billytoon.jpg