First Person
Maybe it was the stage lights. Or it could have been the several thousand screaming 13-year-olds who surrounded us. But when Destiny's Child took the stage, before they even hit that first note, I was shouting—all right, screeching—"Omigod. They're playing 'Say my name.' I can't believe it! This is so amazing!"
I'm not proud of this complete lack of control; I don't even understand it, especially considering that I have never even contemplated owning a Destiny's Child CD. But, to be honest, this kind of thing has happened before. In high school, I attended a Fan Fair concert at the motor speedway. Concert-goers were allowed to file past the stage to take pictures or stare wide-eyed at the performer, and I became an ever-enthusiastic fan. For the 15 seconds it took me to walk the length of the stage, my camera never once stopped flashing. If you'd like proof, I'd be happy to share with you one of the 20 to 30 photographs I took of a certain Clint Black, circa 1993.
Unaware of my history of stage-light hysteria, my friend Sarah Claire allowed me to tag along to the taping of CMT's 100 Greatest Country Duets. The risks were high—it was (a) at the Arena, and (b) at the Arena during Fan Fair—but she had free tickets and we were feeling reckless. We would risk having our eyes poked out by a passing cowboy hat if it meant we could see Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers perform a live version of "Islands in the Stream." (To be fair, seeing Dolly was my reason more than Sarah Claire's; she had somehow declined to learn every soft country single released during the mid- to late '80s.)
We arrived well before the taping was scheduled to begin, and when an usher led us to our seats, they were, to our surprise, on the front row—the very front row—of the main floor. My initial reaction was regret: why hadn't I brushed my hair before leaving the house? But I'd applied lipstick so I wasn't a total loss. Country artists and Music Row lifers milled around—everyone from Montgomery Gentry to Crystal Gayle was there—and I openly gawked. Sarah Claire played it cooler, although she didn't have her glasses on so maybe she just couldn't see.
Even she got a little worked up, however, when 10 minutes later fate stepped forward in the guise of a headset-wearing production assistant. We had just finished glancing pityingly toward the masses up in the seats when a man carrying a clipboard and looking oh-so-agitated ran up and hovered over us.
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"You people need to move," he said. Behind him stood a pleasant-looking young woman and her date, obviously planning to sit down in our seats the minute we vacated them.
"Why?" Sarah Claire and I both asked. These people couldn't rate higher than us. They looked too normal. Blond and attractive, the young woman smiled throughout the awkwardness. Her date appeared just happy to be there.
"The show's about to start," the clipboard carrier said. "We really need you to move."
"But why?"
"Because these aren't your seats."
"No."
"Yes."
It went on like this for several painful moments. The lights were dimming; taping was about to begin. Sarah Claire isn't afraid of high-pressure situations, and her diatribes can take on the eloquence of a Shakespearian soliloquy. She must have been rattled, though, because with an edge of panic to her voice, and with absolutely no help whatsoever from me, she straightened her back and raised her ticket at the dasher of dreams before us.
"We're NOT seat-fillers!" she yelled, assuming he'd confused us for those who merely hold seats while important people go to the bathroom.
"Your seats are for row G. This is row A," he said. "Now please move."
Ten seconds later, we were crouched down in the aisle, waiting for a break in taping and looking for our new seats. Pride, and the work of some dismal ushering, had relegated us to the dregs of the country music hierarchy. We weren't just seat-fillers; we were seat losers.
It would have been easy to put such unpleasantness behind us, but later, when we were situated in our rightful spots and somewhat more composed, the unimaginable happened: our seat-stealer took the stage. Nudging Sarah Claire in the ribs, I whispered, "Look. It's her. She's, she's Carrie Underwood of American Idol?" Apparently, neither of us had been watching enough reality television. Otherwise, we'd have noticed when the latest vibrato sensation was standing in front of us.
What really just about did me in, though, was when it came time to reveal the No. 1 song. It was "Islands in the Stream," duet favorite on the karaoke circuit and, for the moment, my reason to absolutely lose it. Seeing Dolly in her sparkling outfit and big hair, watching her and Kenny reunite for the first time in years, well, it was almost too much. Sarah Claire will most likely never want to be seen in public with me again, but the joy, the teary cries of "I love this song. Omigod!" poured forth with disconcerting ease. What with the emotional turmoil of Carrie Underwood stealing our seats and then being relegated to the arena equivalent of the gutter, it was too much, the fall from grace too harsh. Or, OK, maybe it was the stage lights.