My brother in law, Jeff, who lives in Denver, wrote this.

Rodrigo y Gabriela: Walking in Their Shoes (or sitting in their seats)

I recently attended a concert by Rodrigo y Gabriela at beautiful Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado with my family and some friends.   It was perfect weather and we had all looked forward to hearing these two incredibly talented kids play.  We entered the amphitheater, gave our tickets to an usher, and he sat us very near the front just right of the stage. In the fourth row, we could see on to the stage, see the faces of the performers in great detail, see the instruments and sound equipment.  It felt like our new home and the band was in our living room.  We could feel the bass notes in our chests, the sunrays wrapping around the smooth red stone walls of this magnificent venue.   I joyfully anticipated the percussive Spanish riffs of these gifted musicians from Mexico whose music we knew so well.

Absorbed into the sounds, I did not notice a woman who enquired about our seats--implying that they were hers.  We looked past her and tuned in the music.  Soon, an usher woke us from our trance and upon inspecting our tickets discovered that we belonged in general admission in rows 51 or higher.  Reluctantly, we grabbed our things and trudged up the stairs and assumed our new position, in the seats we paid for, cursing the mean woman and her nerve.  Although still a gorgeous night and the music so full, we needed binoculars and then some.  I was longing for that place where I was minutes ago where I could almost smell the musicians.  That was a better place.  All people should be able to sit there.  Rodrigo y Gabriela took the stage and as the memory of those wonderful seats was fading, I was taken away by the familiar sounds of their two guitars.  I found peace again.

The concert was beautiful.  Four songs in, I got a serendipitous message on my cell phone from a friend who works at Red Rocks and he invited us to tour the backstage area.  Grabbing all of our blankets and food from our nosebleed seats, we gleefully joined him, thumbing our noses at the mean lady who stole our seats as we passed her by to go backstage.  I thought that soon we might be in even better VIP seats of which the average aficionado only dreamt.  Our tour brought us on the side of the stage where we could look out over the huge crowd of people from behind the band without being seen.  It was like we presided over the mass of subjects and could deliver edicts of our will if we chose to do so.  Much to my disappointment, the tour moved on.  Suddenly impeached from my backstage power post, we were shown a few more interesting bits of history of the amphitheater.  Having given us a glimpse of the kingdom, my friend wrapped up the tour and sent us on our way, telling us to enjoy the show.  There we were--slogging up the stairs like honor-less soldiers, defeated in battle with our bashed up armor, heading into our place of exile.  We lumbered past the mean lady we had come to loathe to our new reality.  I thought I saw the lady make a face at us as we passed.  No VIP seats, no nothing.

We came to our binocular seats only to find someone was sitting in them, swaying to and fro to the beat.  They looked so at home--as though they had always been there from the beginning.  They sort of looked past and around us as we explained that we had just been sitting there.  Dejected and now conquered by a people with whom we were not familiar, we would have to sit another ten rows higher, very near the top of the theater.  These were telescope seats. We sulked for a moment but the music was gorgeous and we were still, after all, watching a concert at Red Rocks.  We resigned ourselves to having what was left of our colorful night in Colorado

I was thinking of the resiliency of people and the relativity of our various lots in life.  We can find joy in places that by comparison would be dreadful for others who knew differently.   We can also covet the very lives of others when we see that their grass is actually greener.  Finally I was reflecting that it is not always about the grass.

The multitude was still on their feet roaring their applause for the talented duo when a guest 'artist' came on stage and the music stopped as he 'raged against the machine'. Zack de la Rocha began shouting about how grand this night was and how fortunate we were to live in such a great state.  People cheered automatically under the influence of the music and other substances. He talked about the performers from Mexico and then meandered to the evils of racism.  People roared.  Who wouldn't?  It would be like saying babies weren't cute.  Then he bellowed that he hoped we in Colorado did not go the way of the boycotted "evil state of Arizona".  There was relative quiet as the masses began to realize that a political speech was being delivered in the midst of this carnal performance.  There was clapping but also some murmuring around us. Someone shouted "Play the next song!"  He delivered his message like an inspired politician, taking advantage of the mood and emotions of the audience (and the influence of the substances they consumed.)

When the music returned and many wondered what had just happened, most simply adapted to the rapidly changing themes and returned to their previous state of delight. Some were actually leaving but most stayed.  A woman in our group tried to make the most of an awkward moment by giving a murky comment about how the only people who really know about these things can only be those on the Arizona border.  To be thorough, she threw in New York and the controversy of building a muslim Mosque near Ground Zero.  She emphasized that we can not really know how others feel unless we are there, feeling their emotions in the matter.  Her comments were Swiss in their neutrality and I could not tell which people we were apparently unable to understand--those coming into the country or those trying to keep them out.  To her it did not matter, only that we couldn't know unless we were in 'their' shoes.

As we sat in our new country, having glimpsed the best country and being driven out of our own country I wondered if the mean lady up front thought about our feelings.  Weren't those seats really ours, since the usher put us there, never mind that the  lady paid for them? Wasn't it really the ushers fault?  I felt I deserved them.  We felt really bad in these telescope seats after having tasted the good life only moments ago.  Yet it came to me that how we felt was irrelevant.  The facts were that the seats belonged to the lady (even if she was mean).  Our feelings were unrelated to the lady.  Had the usher insisted that she share the seats with us, I would have felt terrible and never accepted.  I suppose I felt a sense of honor and my integrity would never allow me to take something I did not deserve.  No, they were her seats.  I could have spent more money and sat in her section.  I could have earned her seats but I could not take her seats.

The music of Rodrigo y Gabriela no longer riveted me.  There was a sour note in the air that did not make me want to tap my toe. We left with much of the concert left to hear.  I guess it is easier to boycott an event than an entire state.
Those seats were really great though.

written by Jeffrey W. Frank

 

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