If you don't recognize that sentence fragment, then you're not as big a fan of Men at Work as I am (was?), which is disappointing, since when it comes to this "reggae-influenced mostly-Australian band" I must confess to being mostly only aware of their hits.
But what great hits they were! Down Under! Overkill! Who Can It Be Now?! Be Good Johnny! It's a Mistake! And, of course, "Dr. Heckyll and Mr. Jive," which you can see, from the above photo, was number five on Colin Hay's set list at the Aladdin on Saturday night.
I almost didn't go to the show, meaning some Craiglist browser could have scored an awesome front row seat, if only I'd had the energy to list it. (Not front-row-center, but does this matter when there are only 14 seats in the front row? No.)
See, I'm still Not Well after the heat exhaustion (I assume) episode Thursday. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be much information on how to treat heat exhaustion out there, just how to prevent it or tell if it's coming on, plus the basic common sense of lying down for a bit if it happens to you. Not every site even mentions fainting/collapse, leading me to wonder just how close to a heat stroke I got.
Not that I really followed common sense... I stayed down less than ten minutes, just how long it took me to get mentally oriented enough to stand up and physically oriented enough to keep my balance, plus swab down the more obnoxious gashes of blood. Then, as already blogged, I went back to class to tell my professor I was leaving, walked across two lots in the 100+ degree night to the car, drove 15 minutes to the corner store, hung around another 15 minutes waiting for them to cook me a custom pizza (mushroom!), then went home and flopped out, took a two hour nap somewhere (my schedule have wrapped itself around to nights at the moment -- this seems to be my irritating destiny), drove to the DMV a few hours later so I could stand in line in the sun for 20 minutes before the DMV opened (already #117 in line), waited an hour for my number to come up, got my Nevada driver's license, drove across town to UNLV to submit my residency paperwork, dealt with an obnoxious chick who didn't like my paperwork, drove to school district office up the street to get different paperwork (it takes one year of living here to be eligible for in-state tuition, but teachers can pay local rates), drove back to UNLV to resubmit paperwork to a much more friendly person, although I had to rush because I didn't have enough money for the meter on the second trip (as one of my professors says, "a parking permit it only a license to hunt"), then went home around 11 am and re-flopped.
The point of which being that I did not spend "12 hours resting after the incident," as the only site with a long term plan for heat-related collapse advises. In fact, I had already gone to Sunset Station on Friday (see purple candle above) and Palace Station (see binoculars above) and Aladdin (see set list and autographed CD above) on Saturday by the time I found out that I was supposed to have rested for 12 hours even if I'd proper taken care of myself at the time.
Oops?
So this is probably why I feel like crud. I can't seem to get my temperature to stay above 97 for very long. My head hurts. I feel... weird. Paranoid. Fearful of fainting again. Which is why, when Colin Hay went ten more songs after Dr. H and Mr. J before playing another known Men at Work song, I was a little cross that I might have to leave the show without hearing some songs I knew. I'm not saying I wasn't open to the lesser known or new stuff -- "Are You Looking at Me, Pal" was really good -- but you cannot do 10 songs in a row that people are not likely to know, especially Vegas people who may just be tourists who were up for a show and not diehards who can't get over 1983.
Although, I think Colin was more miffed at us than we were at him. Or maybe he wasn't. He just kind of stopped the very funny banter after song #9 ("Down by the Sea" -- which is well-known elsewhere, to be fair, but didn't get much play in the States), and we were probably a little too polite. (Or, as he put it after playing "Down Under," -- "Can't be doing too bad. Finally got some people in the front row to uncross their arms.")
I shouldn't say "we." I was moving and clapping, as was the guy next to me. But I had to conserve my movement (somewhere around song #9, actually), as I was getting sort of weak and dizzy with the effort. So, I'm sorry, Colin Hay, if that bummed you out at all.
I'm not saying it's not a good show. It's a good show. The reggae aspect to the distinct CH (or MaW) sound was clear. His voice is strong. He's be a good guy to see outdoors with a little more sway room. His sidekick, Cecilia Noel (sorry, I can't remember the umlaut code for HTML right now), is great! She sings and dances -- but it's really fun dancing, with silly poses and lots of energy, and you know she's just having a good time and that she loves the music. No isometrical Britneyesque moves, no smug Madonna vamping. It reminds me of that scene in Dickie Roberts: Child Star which you will get if you've seen but otherwise it isn't worth explaining.
On the Flickr page for the photo above (click and see) I alluded to how I got the set lists and autograph, and that was what I planned to blog about, but now I'm feeling a bit puny again and want to nurse my strength for the cable guy. (Yes, on a holiday!) But, okay, I'll be brief.
I eyed the set list about half way through the show. It was something to think about during the "I don't know this song" times when I wasn't thinking about the playlist for my funeral. Who doesn't think about their funeral podcast? In fact, I think I'm just going to post a master mp3 list of songs to remember me by, and otherwise just cremate me along with the hamster cemetery (something Mike can explain to you when the time comes) and save the money. I like flowers, so buy yourself some while listening to whatever my mp3 choices are.
Anyway, I had the set list on my mind, but when the show was over the curtains began to close very quickly. I started to go around them, but changed my mind. I started to go around them again, now as they were almost closed, but changed my mind again. Did I mention that a symptom of heat illness is disorientation?
Okay, so I finally went around them, grabbed what I wanted (hell, why didn't I take one of Hay's discarded water bottles? have I no sense of eBay?) from the empty stage, then dug my way out of the closed curtains.
Then I wanted to buy a CD since Hay was going to be signing them. Okay. Where were the CDs? Didn't Cecilia Noel announce from the stage that they'd be "back here." Does that mean backstage?
"Backstage" at the lounge is about 6 feet by 6 feet. I wonder how long Hay had to hang out there before the show? (There's no way to get back there without being seen, as I know from having seen the food delivered and seeing Cecilia escorted out before the show to go potty. At the time I thought she was a groupie.) I followed some people "backstage."
No, it was just some people hugging Cecilia. No CDs. I ducked out. Then a woman with a very British accent came up and asked me if that's where the CDs were. I said I thought that's where they were, but maybe not. (Note: right before the last "encore" -- and Hay made some wonderfully witty comments about the nonsense that is an "encore" these days -- Cecilia had to dig around in her purse to get her room key to give it to a guy who would go fetch the CDs that Colin had left up in the room. She was going to get them herself, but Colin said, "no, you fucking will not." Which I guess was supposed to be funny, but it was a little weird. Understand that "fuck" was used lightly and pleasantly throughout the show in many grammatically sound ways, but still...)
But, now that someone was asking me for help with the CDs, I was bold and slipped through the curtain again. "Hey," I said to a passing woman, all smiley and with the keenness of a fan but not the kind of fan who is intimidated by being backstage despite having absolutely loved Men at Work at the screamish age of 13, "whereabouts are those CDs?"
"Where are those CDs?" Cecilia Noel repeated back to me, nodding agreeably. "Follow me!"
And I did, and the British woman done up like Joanna Lumley followed me, and she found where the CD-getting guy was setting up, and pointed us to him with great fanfare, and I thanked her, and she was happy to help, and then she started talking to people nearby, and I mention all of this so that when her "salsoul" sound gives her the international stardom for which she is surely destined, you will remember that Cecilia Noel is a very likeable person and we should not snigger if, in the future, she is caught stealing from Pottery Barn or marries Ben Affleck.
Hay's new CD (and hopefully not one of his "secret albums," as he called his mostly unrecognized recordings of the past fifteen years) is Man at Work and is full of acoustic and new versions of the Men at Work hits plus "more." I have it in the car CD player now, but since it took me thirty distracted minutes to get out of the Aladdin parking garage (worst traffic since I moved here), I haven't given it a proper listen.
While I was fighting with the cellophane packaging, Hay showed up and took a seat about three feet away from where my back was turned. I got in line, was soon joined by the British woman (I will pretend she was impressed by my unapologetic backstage wandering), and waited my turn to see Mr. Hay.
Both parties in front of me were having him sign other things (one of the other set lists, their ticket stubs) and making excuses (or not) for not buying the CD, which has got to be an uncomfortable situation. (But still better than if Hay had been selling the CDs himself, making change with his own mortal hands, I guess.)
I came up, suddenly a bit shy and head-ducky, but Hay was nice enough, even though we had to have that age-old discussion on how to properly spell my name, complete with the "no, really, with an A." I got more brave and made some standard insipid comment on the show, followed by some slightly more insightful dialogue (really, even most of my students are sensible enough to want to hear something other than "great job!" -- people like to know why), followed by his polite (but preoccupied) responses (the guy does not make a lot of eye contact, on stage or off), followed by him putting the finishing "XX" flourishes under his signature, and I held out my hand (well, he shook the last guy's hand, so I thought this was within the boundaries of acceptable behaviour), and he shook it, and I thanked him and turned away and did not look back, although I suspect I was grinning.
Hay should have played Mandalay Beach or one of the Station casinos. The Aladdin may seem more upscale, and the prices are certainly higher, but their lounge venue doesn't seem to attract the kind of responsive audience that makes for a great show. Hell, people, I'm getting over heat collapse , and I still did my bit -- what's your excuse? Television?
Speaking of which, I've already looked at the channel guide for today, my first day of cable or satellite in several years, and of course there's nothing on. I'll still lie on the sofa all day and watch it, though.
If you like Men at Work or eighties' pseudo-reggaeska, go see Colin Hay. Be sure and yell out "Safety Dance!" (He'll get the joke. Especially if he's already told it.)
I hope you are feeling better. I had heat exhaustion last year, it was horrible. The worse part was being hot, having a fever of 101, but not sweating at all. The only way I can describe it is that I felt so miserable, felt like dying, and to top it off, my lack of sweating made me feel "icky." Ah yes, I'm sure "icky" is in all the medical books now.
Posted by: CJ | 05 July 2005 at 10:20 AM