You don’t expect violence at a Joan Baez concert. Particularly not today, when her most ardent fans are in their mid-sixties at least. But if there’s one thing one should always expect, I suppose it’s the unexpected.
I’m in San Jose, California for the San Jose Mariachi and Mexican Heritage Festival. That in itself merits some explanation, I suspect. There is a thread of logic as to why I’m here, and — probably like many things today — it starts with Google.
I have Google alerts sent to me on Linda Ronstadt, of whom I’m an ardent fan. I’d set one some months ago in the event she was performing somewhere near me. I thought it wouldn’t even have to be New York — I’d go to Boston or DC or Atlanta or Chicago, if she were giving a concert there.
Nothing ever showed up; it seems Linda isn’t doing much touring these days. But then one day, I was alerted to the fact that Linda was the Artistic Director of the San Jose Mariachi and Mexican Heritage Festival, and that tickets were going on sale.
I have some nostalgia for San Jose. Over a four-year period at the beginning of this millenium, I spent time almost every other week in San Jose, overnighting at the Fairmont Hotel, when Intel was my client.
And my absolute favorite Linda Ronstadt album is her mariachi classics, Canciones de Mi Padre. There were to be three big concerts at the Festival: a Cesar Chavez tribute with Carlos Santana, Los Lobos and hopefully Linda; a salute to Mexican film with some famous mariachis; and… Joan Baez.
The whole thing was irresistible. So I booked myself into the Fairmont for old times’ sake, bought my concert tickets, flew out yesterday in first class on American Advantage miles, and here I am.
I spent the day today lying by the pool that I never had time to enjoy when I was here on business. And this evening my Schwab client from San Francisco, Becky, and her husband Tom drove down to join me. We had a lovely meal at Il Fornaio and then walked to the San Jose Performing Arts Center for the concert.
As Becky said when we left, other than it’s being great to see Joan Baez, it was one of the most bizarre concert experiences I’ve ever had.
A very excited woman, who had to be somebody’s grandmother, sat behind us and babbled breathlessly throughout the concert. She reminded me of one of those teenage girls you’ve seen in film clips of Elvis concerts or Beatles concerts, almost on the edge of hysteria. But she had a good 50 to 60 years on any of them. At the curtain call, she chanted repeatedly “Please don’t go, Joanie, please don’t go. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.”
And directly in front of us in the second row were two women, one of whom seemed to think she was having a one-on-one evening with Joan. Since we were so close, she simply spoke to Joan in between every single song, as if they were in conversation. It started out with the usual, “we love you, Joanie” and “you look beautiful” and “you’re awesome.” But then she started getting pushy. “Joan, will you sing Diamonds and Rust just for us? Just for us, Joanie. How ’bout it?”
It reached its peak for me when she said, “Joan, I have all your albums lined up in my bedroom.” “She does,” chimed in her friend. “All your albums,” the first woman continued. At which point Joan said, “I don’t have all my albums.”
But the real whacko was sitting about eight seats to Tom’s left. A woman who appeared to still be on an acid trip that she’d started sometime in 1968 kept pleading, “Joanie, please sing one of those peace songs like you sang when I saw you back in Berkeley. Please. I’d really like that. One of those peace songs. Like you sang at Berkeley.”
She’d stop during a number, although she’d wave her arms in a sort of ecstasy throughout each song, rocking in her seat. But as soon as the number was over, while Joan was tuning up for the next song, she’d start again. “Please, Joan, one of those peace songs like when I saw you in Berkeley.”
Finally, some guy said, “Why don’t you just shut up.”
I don’t remember if it was before or after the a capella version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” that Joan dedicated to her 86-year-old mother who was in the audience. But when the guy told her to shut up, the whacko woman got all indignant. “Who said that?” she snorted. “Was it that fat guy in front of me?”
At which point, the fat guy in front of her, who was probably 65 years old and wearing a teal blue sport shirt, turned around and punched her.
Swing low, indeed.
