Once Molly and I got to the sold-out Girl Talk show in Covington, KY (after driving 2.5 hours at 50 MPH in a snowstorm from Indy), we found [sketchy] parking and walked briskly to the Madison Theater. It was freezing outside and we wore only light jackets over our tank tops for the painful stroll down the snow-covered sidewalk. We waited in line for approximately 10 or 15 minutes before reaching the will-call window.
This is where complications always happen. Faced with this scenario regularly, I get a sense within the first 15 seconds of my interaction with the person behind the window of whether entry will be quick and trouble-free or if it’s going to be an embarrassing hassle. Tonight, it would be the latter.
I offered to pull up a confirmation email on my phone after I was informed that there was not a name on the band’s guest list that matched the names on my license and photo press badge, but the woman working the window said she could do nothing for me since my name wasn’t there. “If you’re not on the list, you’re not on the list. Now step aside; I have to get all these people inside before the show starts,” growled a large security man who was rapidly alternating between policing inside and outside. I immediately retrieved the phone number of the PR contact I made arrangements with and had received the confirmation email from.
On her computer, she recalled the email that delivered the guest list and assured me that my name had been included. “I can’t call the tour manager now, because Greg is on-stage and he has to be there during the show.” She was right; we could hear the familiar beat from Ludacris’ “Move Bitch” that’s part of the opening segment of Girl Talk’s latest release, All Day bumping from inside. The woman on the other end of my phone wanted to talk to someone, anyone… but nobody in front of me was interested in talking to her. I lingered near the will-call window, still talking to my contact, but neither of us was really saying anything. A different security guard walked by and I flashed him a look of desperation; he had seen the ordeal minutes earlier from a distance. When he opened dialog, I quickly explained my predicament and offered the phone to him.
“Who are you talking to?” he asked.
“Girl Talk’s PR manager,” I replied.
“For what company? I work for Girl Talk.”
I spit out a name, to which he simultaneously rolled his eyes to the back of his head and bent his knees, signaling I had answered correctly. But when I stated the tour manager’s name that I had been given, he was adamant that I was incorrect and had been misinformed. Our conversation had gone from optimistic (I almost had him sold) to counter-productive and we soon parted ways. The woman on the other end of the phone had started firing off emails and I told her I’d grab a beer down the street and hang around for a while as she tried to help me correct the error that had been made.
Molly and I had each consumed a large can of sugar-free Red Bull en route to Covington. We never stopped for a restroom break, as the snowstorm had delayed us considerably enough as it was. We had also just spent the last 20 minutes in ridiculously cold temperatures with nothing more than light jackets on. We had to pee and we needed to thaw out.
A guy tried to offer me a pair of tickets when he saw my distress as we entered the bar.
“Listen. I can get you in there,” he said. “Now, just listen. Fourty dollars.”
I shook my head and walked towards the door.
“Thirty,” he offered.
I walked.
First of all, dude, their face value was $20. So, no. And secondly, my name was on the guest list, damnit!
After another 15 minutes, the large security guard who had shooed me away from the will-call window earlier walked in to the bar.
“Did you ever get things worked out with the list?” he asked.
Would I be sitting here if I had? “I’m waiting on the PR contact to get back with me. She’s sending emails as we speak.”
He then offered to take me next door to talk to someone. I had heard a lot of names in the last 40 minutes but the one he mentioned did not register with me. I said yes, anyways.
We entered the office for the Madison Theater and, as the security guard led me to the back, my phone rang. I put it on speaker phone.
“Hi, Danielle? This is Girl Talk’s tour manager. I understand there was a miscommunication at the door and you weren’t able to get in. Are you still in the area?”
“She’s next door in the office!” the security guard answered for me. We walked back outside and I motioned through the bar window for Molly to leave the half-full beers and follow me. Next thing I know- my wrist is banded, I’m ID’ed, and thanking everyone who so graciously rose to the occasion to help me get to where I was supposed to be.
We made it in time for the last 30 or 40 minutes of the show. In my formal review on NUVO.net, I compared it to Let Go! at the Lockerbie on crack: a wild, sexy, hipster freak-out dance party that leaves its attendees physically drained after less than an hour on the dance floor.
My only regret? Not asking the tour manager if, after everything we had just went through, Molly and I could dance on stage with “the chosen few” for the remainder of the show. Unfortunately, in the excitement of finally arriving at my destination, the thought never crossed my mind. We hurried inside to the thick, sweaty crowd just as fast as we had ran from the car to the theater when we first arrived.
Next time... we will be on stage.
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