MEANT TO BE HERE
I just want to be a good friend.
That’s what I told Mary as I was explaining why I was randomly in town for a couple hours on a Wednesday morning. She already knew this. I’ve mentioned it hundred times. I want to be remembered for two things: for being a great photographer and an even better friend. I was saying nothing new to her, but it was especially pertinent to today’s adventure.
See, I was here because my friend Rachel needed a road trip buddy. It started last month when I asked her if anything was going on in CR for Halloween. Nothing special, she said, but she did have an October trip planned and could use a co-pilot if I was looking for something to do. I said yes without asking when or where.
A few weeks went by before she sends me the itinerary - turns out she’s driving out of Iowa for the first time, to see her favorite band Khruangbin, in St. Louis.
No kidding.
Truth be told, the idea for a Midwest trip around this time was already out there in the universe, because I put it there. Back in July, I actually dreamt up something pretty similar, envisioning some kind of CR-STL-KCMO trip on my own, to see friends and family. But, because I was NOT a good friend to someone on that route, those plans fell through.
I don’t often hiss at people I love, but when I do, it affects them in a way that they would like to go to the airport immediately, either to drop me off or to fly themselves to another time zone and never look back. It happened this summer, and any Show-Me-State plans died before they lived.
But, for whatever reason, the cosmos felt differently this time. I seemingly had a chance to correct my past missteps, albeit in different pair of shoes. And as luck would have it, one of my favorite bands, Jungle, who Rachel and I have listened to for years, was playing there the night before Khruangbin, a show I had already looked at possibly attending.
“Can’t stop the stars”
So the stars aligned, literally and figuratively. I booked a one-way to CR through my new favorite airport, Regan International in DC, and the flight was one of the most beautiful of my life. After seeing the nation’s capital lit up during take-off, a perfect image of the Big Dipper revealed itself as the night sky grew darker out my window.
I ended up using this image to create the third part in my “Written in the Stars” series. Window seat ftw.
The route down to STL from CR is a straight shot - you don’t even have to change lanes for like 4 hours. It was an easy drive, but not an easy ride. We got deep, as we have been known to do - no small talk in that car. Discussions ranged from sobriety, trauma and healing, to karma, positive thinking and synchronicity. And what do you know, they all played a part in the trip.
About three hours in I tapped out and begged for some Jungle to change the mood. I appreciate the free therapy but we didn’t just get 'in touch' with our feelings, they were sitting in the car with us like passengers. I was ready to let mine out at the next exit.
I chose Busy Earnin’ to start it off, the song that first made me a Jungle fan. Although it is actually a diatribe against working your life away (which I could certainly be accused of) it is sonically, one of the most positive sounding songs there is. The horns are infectious. The beat can turn even the worst day into a brief dance party. St. Louis here we come.
We managed to make it to the hotel without any Clark Griswold situations, which was, by design, next door to the venue. Separated only by… wait for it… a weed store. I did not book this one on the fly.
“Roll ‘em up!”
It turns out a rapper that I’m pretty familiar with, J.Cole-affiliate and Dreamville artist Bas, was opening that night. He had a singer and a bassist with him, and they blew the crowd away. The energy in the building was electric. He did his job. We were ready for Jungle.
Sidenote - I cannot believe he played C**** R***. God Shots can hurt too.
“So you’ve come a long way”
You’ll never guess what song they came out to… That’s right. BUSY EARNIN. They went right for the neck. I couldn’t believe it.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!?”
Over the next 90 minutes they covered almost everything I could hope for - although two favorites, Julia and Happy Man were left on the bench, which is just more reason to go see them again. I had rule of thumb for staying present and enjoying the show while still capturing as much as possible: one short vid of a few favorite songs, otherwise 1-2 photos per song, and make them count. After that YOU DANCE.
An absolutely face-melting, voice-losing, sleep-like-you’re-dead afterwards performance.
The next day we did some exploring on foot, hitting the Del Mar Loop for some coffee, shopping etc. It’s a beautiful little area, my favorite part being the Ackert Walkway, which we took about half a mile down and found a spot to sit so quiet that it was almost surreal. As much as Rachel and I enjoy and connect over music, we both enjoy silence nearly as much. That spot, and moment, will definitely stick with me.
Throughout the day, and the trip in general, so many coincidences happened that I couldn’t ignore it. Many of them too personal and I’ll keep them to myself, but there was one that I have to share:
We wandered into a local art store, and after about a half hour of sifting through jaw-dropping local art, I’m rummaging through the last stack in the back corner, when I find this watercolor painting.
It is, seemingly, a painting of us. A tall dark haired man in a hoodie, and a shorter, dark haired woman in black, walking out of the Moonrise Hotel, on a day that looks… a lot like today?
What, and I cannot stress this enough - the fuck!?
I immediately bought the painting.
We didn’t venture far from the Loop that day, and for good reason. We were here on a mission, and that mission was to see Khruangbin. Rachel is a huge fan, this being her fourth show. It would turn out to be a memorable one.
We got there as early as anyone and she gets second row. Amazing view, nearly front and center. They come out and put on a great show; Mark easily being the best guitarist I’ve ever seen live, and Laura Lee, dressed to the nines, pink headband and all, methodically high-stepping, dipping and slapping the bass to the beat of the drums. A true superstar.
They play for nearly two hours, and the fans go wild for the last song. They pace the stage from right to left, giving the crowd on each side one last good look at them for the night before they return to center to say goodbye.
If you grew up in the midwest, especially in the 90’s as I did, then you know about a game called 500. Surely there are other versions elsewhere in America with varying names and numbers, but where I’m from it’s 500.
A group of kids gather on one side of a yard or street while a lone quarterback opposite them throws a football up in the air as high as they can, and exclaiming a number, up to 500. Whoever catches the ball gets said amount of points, until their score totals 500 and then they themselves are the QB. You aren’t very far from each other, it would be much easier to just toss it across the yard, but that’s not the point of the game. You gotta launch that motherfucker, as high as you can, then yell the number at the peak height of the throw.
Playing this every day, summer after summer, for the entire span of a childhood will hone in some unique skills; a few of which might turn out to reveal themselves later in life.
Cut back to the show. This is the grand finale. The crowds going wild. Laura Lee reaches for her head.
She grabs the pink headband.
500.
Laura Lee reaching for her headband...
I knew it was mine the split second it left her hand. I was third row, Rachel in front of me, with Laura not more than 20-30 feet in front of us both. But she launched that motherfucker, high as she could. They definitely play 500 in Texas. Whatever calculation my brain did in that fraction of a second is a direct result of endless reps in Coach King’s front yard on 5th Ave. This is why I’m here. I will never forget seeing the headband in the air, with the ceiling of The Factory behind it, frozen in time. Just the same, I will never remember actually catching it.
But I did catch it.
Seeing the look on Rachel’s face when she realized I was handing it to her might be the best I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I seriously mean that. I actually remember trying to wink at her, but all the muscles in my face were already pre-occupied, with smiling ear to ear. I also had a presence of mind, while grinning like the Cheshire cat, to double click the photo button on the side of my phone, because I was not done here.
Remember what I told Mary - I want to be a great friend AND a great photographer.
So as Rachel gathers herself, fights off a panic attack and turns around to show Laura she’s the proud new owner of the headband, Laura looks back admiringly, almost as if to say you deserve that.
That’s when I snap this photo.
Rachel, hands in the air, headband in a death grip, connecting eyes - and therefore souls - for a brief moment with the star of the show, who was essentially the reason for the trip, just seconds before she leaves the stage for the night.
It was written in the stars.
From Myrtle to DC to CR to STL to Chesterfield. There were a thousand people in that building and not one of them traveled further than me to be there. It was meant to be. To catch that headband, to get this shot.
You can’t tell me otherwise.
The next morning we float back down to earth and set out for the day. After finding some coffee on Del Mar we set the GPS for Forest Park. As we were doing this I pointed out how shitty Google has gotten - it was the 7th result for ‘parks near me’ - hear me out - ITS BIGGER THAN CENTRAL PARK and it’s two miles away. I would think that would warrant a top 5 result, at least.
She says “Ok now say something good about it”.
It has all the information that’s ever existed in the world, at my fingertips, on-demand at all time, I replied.
Very good, she said. She was right. Positive thinking.
After an absolutely beautiful stroll through the park - again really embracing the silence - we begin the search for more coffee, and I get grumpy about it. This is my first and only time in STL after all, and I don’t drink coffee. Times a wasting, I felt.
We fight some mid-day suburb traffic, find a soul-less Starbucks in something called downtown Clayton, again relying on Google, this time by my own hand. I was given the reins and used the same shitty tool I was just complaining about to lead us here. No one’s fault but my own.
As we’re sitting out front, we come to a disagreement about something meaningless and she corrects me with… another Google search result. And what do I do? I hiss at someone I love.
Fuck.
“Made the same mistake twice when I got the moment”
So, here I sit, at the St. Louis airport two hours earlier than I need to be, with a stinging realization that the last person I hissed at sat in one of these very seats, and thought about the bittersweet lesson that I had finally, finally, learned the hardest way possible..
The distance you go for someone, literally or figuratively, does not matter, if you don’t treat them with respect in the end.
There is no headband, guitar pick or drum stick that I could have pulled out of thin air that night that would make any difference. Wouldn’t matter if I traveled from the moon to get there, or if I somehow got Rachel on stage to play the fucking drums for a song. It. Would. Not. Have. Mattered. Because I was rude to someone that means the world to me, again.
“There’s no better lesson on earth than a second kick from a mule”
So this feeling will sit with me, just like a passenger. But this time I can’t just turn up some Jungle, and I don’t see any exit signs ahead to let them out. It could be a long ride, but maybe that’s what it takes.
Ok, now say something good about it.
At least I caught that headband.