The first time I saw Built to Spill was in North Carolina. I drove down with two friends, a bottle of Southern Comfort and a hankering for Burger King. It was on the Streets of Asheville North Carolina that I first met frontman Doug Martsch. The sidewalks were light by the golden glow of streetlights and abuzz with inebriated concert goers, myself not excluded. Overwhelmed by the surreality of the situation I approached Doug, who was wearing a modest unzipped hooded sweatshirt and carrying a basketball. Eager to say anything to break the ice, I asked if he had been playing basketball (a la Dumb and Dumber/ “those your skis?”).
He explained that he shoots hoops to relax before shows and that he and a few other guys from the band found a court to play at in the area. I conveyed how “totally awesome” that was and expressed my sincere jubilation in meeting him. It was at the end of this first meeting that I learned how truly down to earth and humble Doug was (as if the receding hairline and screen-printed t-shirts he often wears on stage hadn’t already revealed this). I asked if he would play the song “Liar” for me.
“Sure” he said, with no pause. So long as he remembered that I requested it, he’d play it. He shook my hand again and left for the venue – the Orange Peel, claiming that he and the band still had to write the setlist.
I retreated back to my car on the high of meeting someone I’d idolized for years. After a few gulps of SoCo and the opening acts’ set, I found myself inside the Orange Peel eager for Built to Spill to come on Stage. Not a word was even uttered when the irradiant riff of “Liar” opened the show. It was a good show.
The next time I saw Built to Spill, I only had to walk to the State Theater in downtown Ithaca from my South Hill apartment. I stood five rows from the stage, waiting to hear any song from “There Is No Enemy” which had just been released not even a week prior to the show. After I bought a t-shirt and the crowds had funneled out, I made my way back into the theater. The formidable Ithaca Police were sternly asking people to leave, to get out of the stage, “to go back home.” Naturally, I pretended that I was exempt from their commands, and shouted to Doug who was winding cords around his elbows far back on the stage. “Doug!” he finally looked up. Knowing the police wouldn’t allow me to sustain a conversation with him, I just asked, “Can I have a guitar pick?”
Doug dropped his cord, reached one hand into his tight jeans pocket, pulled out a tab and tossed it. In contrast to the noise of the show which would make my ears buzz for days afterwards, the pick bounced delicately on the worn wooden stage and slid within an arms’ reach of me. I snagged it, said thanks, and disappeared before I had to hear the police ask me to leave once more.
I’m off to see Built to Spill in Cape Cod next week. My favorite band, in one of my favorite places. All I need is some beer, a Snickers bar, and maybe a Whopper or two. I can’t imagine heaven being much better.
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