Boys the night will bury you

My worlds are colliding: I just got spam from Richard Buckner offering me a bigger wang. I think he's in town this week; perhaps I'll ask him about his new side gig in person.

Richard Buckner is actually one of the few (semifamous) musicians I've ever spoken to for any length of time. (Interviewing John S. Hall for the SUNY Albany radio station when I was 17 doesn't count. Nor does the time I had drinks at the same table as Jon Langford and giggled like a cretin at everything he said.) One night he was playing at Mercury Lounge and I happened to stand next to him at the bar to order a beer. He smiled at me. I said, "Gosh, I love your music. I've seen you every time you come to NYC." Or somesuch fawning nonsense. We proceeded to talk about music, and Atlanta, and stuff. The opening act was still playing. "Oh, hey," he said. "I gotta go up and sing a duet now, I think. Will you watch my beer?"

See, this is the beauty of being a wee little innocent-looking thing. How many times do you think, say, Cameron Diaz has asked a fan to watch her beer?

I stood for awhile at the bar, figuring he wouldn't come back, keeping one eye on Richard Buckner's beer, the other on the bathroom door, because I had to break the seal something fierce. I was beginning to think that this was some prank that alt-country musicians like to pull on unsuspecting fans, the ol' "Watch My Beer for Eternity" joke, but no, he came back. "Sorry about that. What were we talkin' about?"

I don't actually remember what we were talking about at all. The feeling of talking to someone whose work I admired never dissipated into the feeling of enjoying a conversation with a stranger. Finally, the opening act ended. "Hey, I gotta go backstage and get ready to go on. Are you gonna be here after the show? You should stick around."

I didn't, of course. I left as soon as he put his guitar down. What, you think I'm some kinda No Depression buckle bunny?