Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

A few months back I said I’d never go to a live gig again…

That is, until I received a text message at 1am the other morning asking what I was doing the next evening. See? There’s a reason why I stay up late every night – things happen late. I get important emails from other time zones late at night. And I get important text messages!

Depeche Mode ticket

So thanks to my somewhat bizarre sleeping habits, I finally got to see one of the music world’s greatest bands, Depeche Mode – a band whose talented front-man Dave Gahan is in possession of the sexiest voice on the planet (and don’t even try to argue this point with me, because you won’t win!).

Dave Gahan is also hot, no doubt about it. I’ll say this much – when he stripped down to his delightfully low-slung black trousers, he looked mighty fine, mighty fine, indeed. In fact, he looked so damned fine I could even overlook all those tattoos (not being into tatts myself).

Unfortunately, what I could not overlook was the sea of heads belonging to the other concert goers. For I’d found myself in the standing section of London’s O2 Arena – the section known less officially as “that giant pit wot’s in the middle”. Despite being relatively near to the stage, I struggled like hell to see the performers, spending half the time yelling “Where’s Dave???” into my mate’s ear. Aside from waving arms and cameras stuck up in the air, I had to contend with the taller members of our species who, despite having the advantage of height, still insist on getting up close and personal and thereby, blocking the view from the rest of us shorties.

Where are all these tall guys coming from? I thought England was a race of vertically challenged people. It’s beginning to look as if they’re breeding basketball players in this country. I was getting so annoyed with these Jolly Green Giants that I  considered starting up the Depeche Mode Coalition Against Tall People. My gig-going cohort Clive, who’s a proper little English lad, not one of this new-fangled breed, said he always tells people that if they ever need to find him at a gig, to look for the tallest person there – and he’ll be stuck behind them. So let’s just say that neither of us was doing much “ho-ho-ho-ing” that evening. Indeed, I began to get quite menacing any time some tall guys got within a few feet of me, telling them that they couldn’t stand in front of me because they were too tall.

It worked. Even the guy with the huge metal stud piercing his chin backed off. Guess I can be pretty scary when I want to.

There’s one problem with gigs and drinking beer at gigs (and I was sipping VERY slowly, mind!). I knew I’d never make it through the concert without having to spend a penny. But when I overheard the guys next to me saying security weren’t allowing people back into our area if they left, I panicked. Our little section was being patrolled by a very nice member of O2 security staff, who informed me that there was a password to get back in. I thought for sure she was taking the mick. Password? I felt like I was in that speakeasy scene from the Marx Brothers‘ film “Horse Feathers“, only rather than saying “swordfish” to get in, I had to give the name of our security guard.

I kinda think she’d taken a wee bit of a shine to me too, because when I’d returned from the loo and couldn’t find my mate, she suddenly appeared like my fairy godmother, taking me by the arm and leading me straight to him. Now that’s what I call service! In fact, I was quite impressed by security and crowd control in general at the O2 (at least the exorbitant ticket prices pay for something!). They were damned serious about maintaining order – quite a contrast from the Forum in London, where I went to see Staind and Seether and nearly got decapitated by crowd surfers who, according to a big sign in the lobby, will be ejected from the venue, but in reality were instead recycled back into the crowd to create more mayhem.

I can’t help wondering if my old Facebook buddy, the Dave Gahan “impersonator” electrician from Kent who’d conned me into believing he really was Dave Gahan, might’ve been at the Depeche gig as well. Not that I would’ve recognised him. I mean, he was supposed to be Dave Gahan, and as far as I could tell from the rare glimpses I had between people’s heads, there was only one Dave Gahan – and he was that sexy geezah up on the stage.

I hope the next time the real Dave Gahan decides to visit his old mates in his former stomping ground of Basildon, he’ll stop by mine for a cuppa. And if he’s real nice to me, I might even let him have some cookies.

Reach out and touch faith!

Mitzi Szereto with Aaron Lewis

Mitzi Szereto with Johnny April

Mitzi Szereto with Mike Mushok

Mitzi Szereto with Jon Wysocki

Yup, I figured I’d rope you in with that headline! I bet you’re imagining all sorts now – wild nights filled with endless amounts of Jack Daniels, weed, blow and, of course, sex. I mean, we are talking about the big bad boys of rock and roll (and the little erotic writer), aren’t we?

Well, the joke’s on you, baby!

I am speaking of the American alternative rock band Staind who, as many of you probably know, happens to be a major musical passion of mine. Several months back I secured a ticket to their gig at the O2 Arena (opening for Nickelback… arrgghhh…), then out of the blue on Tuesday night I received an alert on Facebook that they were playing a special gig at the Hard Rock Cafe in London on Wednesday night to benefit breast cancer. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was still able to get a ticket.

So off I went on the frequently unreliable London public transport system, reckoning on an interminable evening of standing for hours needing to pee and having nothing to drink and no one to talk to. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Okay, so we had to queue outside in the ever-increasing cold till 7pm, and I was already panicking that I would lose a good spot inside because I’d need to nip to the loo the moment I entered the venue. I made the pierced lads in front of me swear they would save me a piece of floor, only to lose them once I got inside. It turns out I didn’t need them anyway. With complimentary pink fruity “virgin” cocktail in hand, I ran to the loo, did what needed to be done, and made my way to the head of the gathering crowd, using the excuse that I’m short to secure a place of honour right in front of the stage. I then proceeded to get comfortable and strip down to my Staind vest top (yes, the very same one that was waylaid in Denver the other day), using the lad on my left to hold my jacket and the one on my right to hold my drink.

As the Hard Rock crew came past with munchies (usually neglecting us poor sods at stage-front), a little party started up, consisting of me, the tattooed Glaswegian headbanger next to me, his lady friend from Essex (who was so kind as to buy me a bottle of Corona), and a slew of foreign students from India behind us. We had a gay old time chattering away, singing Staind songs, and exchanging names and emails. This went on for nearly two hours, since the band seemed to be occupied somewhere doing something (eating at McD’s?). Then finally at 9pm – the moment we were all waiting for! Alas, I forgot what it’s like to be directly in front of the speakers. Eh? Huh? What did you say?

I got caught up in the excitement of being up close and personal with my Massachusetts lads and ended up jumping about and screaming and singing along to “It’s Been Awhile” and “Outside” (two songs I die for) and occasionally hugging the headbanging Glaswegian, his friend, and the Indians in my joy at being there. (I’m sure there are photos of my disgrace in several cameras, including those belonging to band’s roadies). When the 50-minute set ended, requisite souvenirs were handed out to the audience, with the Glaswegian securing three Vic Firth drumsticks, one of which he gave to me, saying I “deserved it”. And it was definitely one the drummer had used – it’s generously stippled with the evidence.

After the gig, I went outside with my headbanging mate, who said he was going to try to meet the band. Having nothing to eat at home, I decided to hang about for the hell of it. Well, never did I expect to end up meeting the entire band, not to mention getting my photo taken with each of them. (I hadn’t even brought a camera – my new friends, who’d suddenly increased to include a musician, were kind enough to be my Alfred Eisenstaedt.) Lead singer Aaron Lewis even signed my drumstick. In all honestly, I can’t remember ever meeting a bunch of more down-to-earth guys who, at least from my observation, are refreshingly removed from bullshit celebritydom and really only seem to care about making art and taking it to the people. (Isn’t that what music is supposed to be about?) I only wish I’d asked Aaron to say hi to my bf on the phone, since a couple of people were handing him their mobiles.

Fortunately on the way home something prompted me to take the Jubilee Line to Stratford, for as I found out after I arrived, the Central Line had been shut down for the rest of the night due to some glitch or other. That’s the thing about London – you’ll be in a great mood, then turn into Jack Nicholson in The Shining when you can’t get to your destination. I often feel like I’m plotting war strategy when I go into the city, checking online that the trains and tube lines I need are running and that no one is striking or working on the lines… yet it’s usually in vain, since anything can happen despite one’s best-laid plans. Armed with drumstick in hand, I wasn’t the least bit concerned about my safety walking home from the train station after midnight. I held it clutched in my little hand, ready to use it as a prostate stimulator should any local yob take an unwanted fancy to me. Needless to say, I arrived at my door unharmed, save for the ringing in my ears.

Had I known how the evening would turn out, I’d have taken along a signed copy of one of my books to give to the band. (Wonder if they’d prefer Getting Even: Revenge Stories or The New Black Lace Book of Women’s Sexual Fantasies? I’m now beginning to think I should’ve had the rest of the guys sign my drumstick rather than playing favourites with Aaron. I’m also thinking I should’ve hit them up for a commission or, at the very least, be placed on the Staind payroll. Because thanks to me, a lot more people have heard of them. Hmm… Maybe I’m in the wrong business. I might need to have a friendly word in their shell-like when I’m at the O2 tomorrow night.