Meeting Brian May and Elena Vidal, Part I

Recovering from speechlessness….

Part I: The Preliminaries.

Here we go. I give you my experience, looking out my own eyes at Dr. Brian May, CBE, fabulous guitarist of Queen, king of all guitar tone and harmony, in the flesh.

I’ve read a number of descriptions of Brian and Elena’s presentation on their book, A Village Lost and Found, on the web already; enough to know that it’s been a long tour for these two (the book appeared around Christmas), and by comparing notes I know even the jokes are mostly scripted. Although they work well, and we all laugh easily during the presentation. I’m just happy I found and took the opportunity to be there and learn more about this fascinating, fabulous thing called stereoscopic photography, and the brilliant artistic mind of the man who was T. R. Williams. [Visit http://www.londonstereo.com for the lowdown on this art medium.]

I had about a week to prepare after discovering it was within my range to get to the lecture in Los Angeles last Tuesday (July 27).

During this week I can’t even count the thoughts that went through my mind. The autograph I’ll come home with isn’t remotely important. It barely hits my radar.

It’s meeting him. The chance to say hi. Smile. Look in his eyes for real, in person. Connect.

And I panic. What to wear? What to say? I’ll have maybe 10 seconds not to be shy, not come off stupid or obsessed, and clearly—can never possibly express everything I wish I could talk to him about. That would take an actual friendship. And I offer real prayers of gratitude for the chance not only to see him, but maybe to shake his hand and say thank you. Thanks for what? Too much to list—even here, in a blog he’ll never read, which would bore even those of you who are.

Saying “You’re my hero” seems too trite, too chic, too pat… and definitely too often repeated. No, skip that. Do I remind him he printed my poem a couple of years ago on his site? No, that seems merely self-aggrandizing, and psssh, it was just a poem, previously published at that, and something I doubt he remembers. Still, it was a sweet red-letter day—he liked my writing. There’s a switch. And deigned to speak to me by email, a few words.

I content myself with the facts: into my lap has fallen a rare opportunity to meet someone very cool, whose work has reached out and struck a chord in my heart, a lifeline even at times, who is also–from all I can gather, a very kind, rare and considerate human being.

Internally I gain further knowledge that there is a God, and that He knows and loves me in enough detail to say, “Go—I know how important his music is to you—here, you can meet him this Tuesday.” Go ahead and un-infer that, say it’s not God at the helm if you like, blame coincidence, serendipity, or chance: I like to give credit where it’s due.

The odd thing is, outside of personal friends and the Quorum of the Twelve, I just don’t get like that about very many people—wanting to meet them, I mean. Where I care. I’m the type to stand back askance, arms folded, saying, “I dare you to impress me.” And even if your art manages to impress me, I’m sure and certain everything you stand for won’t—the chances are quite slim. I double-dog-dare you.

Yet he does impress me, on all counts. Wherever I look, he’s anxiously engaged in a good cause.

Blast. It’s unfair.

I knew about this book, A Village Lost and Found, from reading his website [http://www.brianmay.com]and casually—I refrain from stalking the site—maintaining an interest in what he’s working on. I knew he’d published another book, Bang! (not about rock exploits, but the origin of the Universe—he holds a PhD in Astronomy) and did many signings in England. I read all this wistfully, realizing he was making himself accessible, but not in any location I could get to. Suddenly, here it is: they’re coming to LA! Five hour drive? I can do that!

Because while I have yet to hear the Red Special played live (sigh…), the chance to look in his eyes and say “Thank you” means so much more. All else being equal, if I could choose the front row at Wembley or the O2, or hear him speak in a tiny theater seating 200 about something he loves, with a little signing afterward? Oh yeah. I choose this.

And I got to thinking about Elena.

There is a co-author here. A woman who has sure and certain worked equally as hard on this labor of love as Brian has, restoring the photographs and writing and researching and making terrific contributions. A woman equally as deserving of equal recognition.

A woman who probably sits through all these lengthy signings more than half-ignored, or if not ignored, mainly asked about Brian or how she knows him—forget the work or why she’s here: Queen fans can be especially rabid. I’ve met some of them, online and elsewhere. No offense intended, but I try not to fit that bill.

I make it my goal to be sure to listen to her equally, and at the signing table give her also my full and equal attention. Even though without Brian and this book I’d have never heard of her, this is her life’s work. God being no respecter of persons, he doesn’t draw that line: why should I?

And I’ve been on the other side of that table. Granted, my lines don’t run out the door—yet—but I know it can be long and hot and tiring and while you enjoy meeting people (I do, quite honestly: I’d rather meet fans than celebrities any day of the week), it has to be just a little bit weird to be the non-famous one at the table. Sure: I’d be thrilled beyond compare to be in her shoes, co-writing a book with Brian May (I’ll stop there before I drool) and just deal with it. But still. That has to be weird in its own way.

I followed an impression that day and stopped in at Trader Joe’s before getting ready for the evening, and bought her both a Milk and Dark Truffle bar. She can share if she wants (or not!), and as I don’t know whether either one prefers milk or dark chocolate I got one of each. The stuff is divine. Should help anyone get through a long signing if need be. I wasn’t sure if gifts would be allowed, or it was a good or bad move or whatever, but it felt like the right thing to do.

The presentation itself deserves its own space, so I’ll tackle that in Part II, and the signing in Part III. I think.

I’ll just journal this all out. After all, it’s not likely to happen again, and I want to remember it in detail.

I was a complete mess the entire day. Neurotic. I can’t even describe the nerves. Food wouldn’t go down. (In fact, two days later, food still isn’t going down. Explain that. Anyone?) My brain could not, would not decide on the best thing to say. I didn’t want to sound scripted. Or trite. Or dumb. Or scary. I can’t say everything, so which thing should I pick? What’s most important, right now, today?

When I woke up Tuesday morning I could have thrown up. Backed out. I said to myself, I’m not going. I’m not doing this. I just won’t show up. It’ll be easier that way. Never MIND. This is NOT happening! Goodbye, I’m driving home. Forget about it. I can’t.

Holy cats, I wasn’t this freaked out the day of my own wedding! (Then again, I was very, very secure about that wedding, and still am—so maybe that’s why, on that point.) What was wrong with me? I still don’t know. Man.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t go through anything like this as a teenager—following a band, meeting anyone famous? Is this some delayed time-warp thing denied when I was fifteen? Maybe I should make my kids get out and meet people when they’re young.

So they can avoid these more than half-queasy butterflies and just deal when the time comes.

I did shake Mary Stuart Masterson’s hand when she was in Nine on Broadway, with only a slight flurry of nerves, not potent enough to stop me. But I didn’t have a week to think about it, it happened all at once because it was Broadway Gives Back night, and there she was standing right in front of us with her donation bucket. And–her work hasn’t hit me the same way, emotional, right in the gut–though I do think she’s cool.

I’m a little proud of myself I never did actually throw up.

The stupid thing is, I’m more aware than some that celebrities are just people. Human beings like the rest of us, who get hungry and tired and have bad days and just happen to be in the limelight, generally, due to some freak cosmic accident of luck more than anything else. There are a billion talented people out there who never become famous. It’s such an oddity, an unpredictability. And an ugly thing to live with a lot of the time, buying back lost privacy, blasted on one side by those who love you far too much and up-and-down the other by those who utterly hate the fact that you still breathe.

As I said, I’ve been on the other side of the table. I’ve bumped into people in bookstores who recognized me and had that eye-widening look of awe come over their faces—and when I see that, I feel unworthy. I don’t deserve that. From time to time I get gushy fan letters telling me things about my writing that while it’s wonderful to hear, is probably better if I don’t internalize and believe, such as, “Your book is as great as To Kill A Mockingbird!” (Yes, someone told me that: thanks, you’re a gem! But really? Hmmm….)

Granted, it’s been a few years since I’ve done a little tour of signings and my writing is stuck in the mud and blocked beyond all reason lately.

But those experiences taught me, whoa. Wait a minute. I am just a normal, ordinary person here and people are looking at me funny because of something I did. At least it’s a good funny. I have yet to attract the attention of the real oddballs, the possessed, the obsessed beyond hope.

Which all teaches me that no matter my opinion about his work, Brian is also a normal, ordinary person who has been at least a month away from home, many months out doing this same presentation and signing, may be tired and hungry by the time I see him somewhere in a  long long line of faces, and it’s going to be late at night and he’s been very giving of his time to do this—it would be nice to leave a positive impression with the man, but please, don’t let me leave a dent.

I gave myself the best treat I could during the day and attended a session in the Los Angeles Temple, where I hadn’t been before. It was completely gorgeous and resplendent on the interior, and offered a modicum of peace to my rattled nerves.

I snapped a photo of the spire which I hope to turn into a 3-D shot, thinking of the evening’s presentation.

These may not ever line up right; I have yet to figure out the Photoshop end of it. But if they do it will be COOL.

Soon enough it was time to primp and go. My hair turned out. Hallelujah. Not that it mattered, really: but I didn’t want to show up looking bad. I put on my flowy pink blouse with sequined front, and black slacks. I chose the blouse, maybe a little stupidly, because it reminded me of something Freddie might have worn in the old days. That, and I just plain like it, and it helps me look a little slimmer than I am.

We arrived an hour ahead to find it’s a strange little place, tucked into the squalor of downtown LA right on Main Street, a bit run down and seedy… but not to the point of frightening. Before dark. More the tiny type of venue that might be booked for me than a superstar named Brian May.

The line outside wasn’t long yet, and we were excited–that meant we could sit way down in front like I hoped. And all the Queen merch on all the people: I stood there and looked and was so glad I didn’t do that.

And it occurs to me that if we’re going to be honest, I’d much rather front a band than follow one around. Wearing stuff with logos to the show… not important, never has been. Does it prove loyalty? Or simply obsession?

image linked from brianmayguitars.co.uk

Some brought their guitars along, and I scratched my head. First of all, he’s not going to sign it. All the signs, all the promo, everything printed everywhere says PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE. They are ONLY here to sign the book: don’t ask for more than that! Second, we’re not having a little jam session after the lecture, are we? Or during. And even if you own a Brian May guitar—which I hope to, someday, in lefty and solid white with gold (which they don’t yet make)—what’s the point of bringing it with you? It’s not like he’ll care if you learned to play from listening to him or that owning the guitar proves anything about your axe skills or that you can’t just tell him you bought from his guitar line. Or that he’ll even care you play, whether it’s three chords or three hundred. These aren’t auditions. Hello. This is a photography exhibit. Anyway… oy.

We sat down in terrific seats third row back, right in front of the podium where Elena would soon speak. And the gal next to us asked, “Are you here for Brian, or for photography?”

“Both,” I said. In honesty. Although really, Danielle was there pretty much just for me. Moral support. She stayed on the fence whether to buy the book all night.

“We saw him in Philly,” the girl added with a smile.

“Cool,” I said. And thought: Oh. One of those.

I know they exist, fans that follow around to every venue. I just had never met one before. She went on for a minute about how they had friends here in LA and were able to come. I mentioned I drove from Northern California. They flew. She explains how Brian will come out and stand at the left podium and Elena will be in front of us on the right. I should mention—inside, this is a small, narrow, independent movie theater complete with old, weird black starry-print carpet, specializing in 3-D with stadium seating, and a podium for each speaker set up on either side of the screen.

They were even selling hot dogs and popcorn. And beer.

Odd.

Then the kid just in front of us, replete in a Jazz album logo jacket, asked me, “What’s your favorite album?”

“Day at the Races,” I said, not missing a beat.

He shook my hand. “Me too!” Great kid. Even if he is one of the ones who brought a guitar.

“’Teo Torriatte’ is maybe the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” I gush. “Of course Night at the Opera was awesome too.” And I feel sort of all right that I can carry on this conversation with intelligence, and a little justified that I’m actually not the only American who knows these things. It just feels like it, most days.

“And Innuendo was amazing,” the other gal interjected.

Of course, I nodded.

“What’s your least favorite?” he asked next.

I thought a little. “The Miracle.”

He smiled and seemed to agree, and we both agreed it wasn’t Hot Space.

“Oh, but ‘Breakthru’ was great,” the girl interrupted, next to us, disagreeing with our album choice.

I agree with her on the song, but don’t feel it’s wise to justify my choice any further in her presence. Then without warning, she and he launched into a conversation about, “He looked so good in the ‘Breakthru’ video, even though he was already so sick,” and suddenly Brian vanishes nameless into the ether and everything is all about Freddie; a wistful sadness descends upon the little group as they think about his illness and death and patently felt absence.

Freddie

At this point I let them talk and stayed out of it.

And wondered halfway if Brian ever felt like Elena must, in Freddie’s presence.

A moment later, I looked up to realize they’re both gone—different people inhabit those seats. “What happened?”

“They went over to the Brian Side,” Danielle said.

I looked. Ah.

I thought about that for a minute, and realized that at three rows back the view is excellent no matter where on the row we sit, and figured I’m glad to be here on this side, supporting Elena rather than deserting her like that.

Then a brief introduction by the president of the LA 3-D club which meets at this venue every month–ah, so that explains it–and the two authors walk down the aisle on our right, just a few feet away, and the room is electrified with excitement. It became a surreal, exotic feeling of “Wow. There he is.” Right in front of my eyes. Brian May.

It felt a little, I suppose, like spotting the rare shy wildlife creature that appears only just at dusk in secreted faraway places, if you know where to look.

And if one is patient, and doesn’t scare him off into hiding, one might just snap a flash photo before the lecture starts.

Part II still ahead: the lecture and book.