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People at concerts annoy the hell out of me. No matter what venue, what time, what band, there are always those types waiting in the wings, ready to flail and irritate.

So I decided to do a study. I’ve dated a lot of bands—I mean; I’ve seen a lot of bands. Therefore I’m well versed in the music scene and those that make the music scene much like a horrendous car crash.

But seeing that I’d like this column to be an enduring expression of my insanity, I decided I couldn’t just describe any band. Honestly, this column is something I hope my many illegitimate children might one day read.

With this in mind I needed to go to a concert that would survive the test of time. That would never ever become antiquated.

So what better then to travel to 1824 and see the famous Franz Liszt perform his piano extravaganzas at Drury lane? What a great idea! First off he’s a prodigy and second off he’s damn sexy with a definite way with the ladies. Also the gentlemans. Plants too. Strictly the in home variety though as he doesn’t know where the outside garden types have been. Understandable.

It was decided. I would go see this 19^th century rock star. I would stare up and marvel while taking notes for this column. I would also don my finest finery:

Then I hopped into my time machine:

I know what you’re thinking. Eileen, a 1985 Fairy Tales? What a piece of junk!

Okay, for a time machine it’s seen a fair share of bloody coups. Probably has about 15 million years of miles on it. But there are a lot of memories! Like that time Leif Eriksson and I pillaged all those coastal villages. Sexiest Norse explorer ever.

I just can’t bear to part with my Fairy Tales. At least not until I can afford something from Hasbro.

Pictured with my good old ride is my entourage Bluebird and Ms. Pretty. They really weren’t into seeing Liszt, they wanted to go to a Sunday morning concert at the Hensel home and hear Fanny Mendelssohn! I was all like “Whatever, she is so riding on her brother Felix’s coattails.” They were pretty pissy, but I explained that if they didn’t shut their plastic pieholes I was going to replace them with Barbies.

Ms. Pretty and Bluebird settled themselves in my faux fur coat. Then they started telling me that the dollar bills I had stuck in the brim of my leopard hat were useless because we were going to England. I told them it was a fashion statement. God they are so irritating, the only reason I brought them was because they’re really good friends with Marie d' Agoult and I thought they could get me to Lizst’s backstage parlor.

You always have to remember to dress according to the performer’s musical style. However, at this show there were a lot of girls dressed according to Liszt’s libido style. I mean, they were showing off their ankles for God’s sakes!

I quickly ignored the floozies and settled myself in the middle of the blossoming crowd. Not too up front, mind you. This is because when the main performance comes on, people are going to slam you against the stage. Hardly romantic in my opinion. Except that one time.

At this point, everything seemed cool. I tossed back a few ales, talked to some people. I also placed myself conspicuously away from King George IV. He is always humming really loud to Liszt. He’s also infamous for showing up with an “I Love Liszt” banner that he waves around furiously until Franz finally gives him a wink. Ever since he saw Lizst perform for him in 1825 he’s been diseased with Lisztomania. He’s one of those Fan types. You know, those people who have memorized every goddamn oeuvre a musician has ever composed. And they’re all like “Did you see what he did to the piano at that last concert in Germany? Oh my Dieu he wailed out Totentanz! It was unbelievable!”

Posers.

Anyways, Liszt walked out. People started screaming and waving, yelling out “Liebestraume”. I, on the other hand was hoping he’d open up with one of his rarer songs, “Fruhling”. I commented to Bluebird and Ms. Pretty that I was a woman of taste. I quickly stuffed more dollar bills around my decolletage and settled in to enjoy the show.

And then it happened. A big head slipped in front of me. Blessed with an entirely too large cranium, a big head also has telekinesis so they know where you are going to try to move so they can follow suit and still ruin your view. At that moment I wished for a mighty saw in which I could slice that irritating tumor off and retain my perfect picture of Liszt. This big head was worst then most because it was 1824 and he had on a huge Beethoven wig. Ugh, I swear he covered that shit in rancid foot powder.

Of course I had to find a better place to stand, and I ended up right next to some humpers. That couple who has to express their love in public by looking as if they’re going to film a porn later. Or in 1824’s case a “sumptuous reel of pleasure”. The guy was holding the girl from behind and they were rocking back and forth, therefore casting a wider blocking net then the big head. Also the guy was so engrossed with the possibility of getting laid, he kept stepping on my faux leopard heels. Turning around finally the dude apologized, quick to give me a drunk once over. Then he asked if I wanted to join in. I was so insulted. Especially since it was Frédéric Chopin groping on George Sand. What a perv. His etudes drive me batty with all those damn minor chords. He goes down on piano keys faster then a working girl doing business in the red light district.

My anger was wiped away momentarily when Liszt broke into Mazeppa, a killer tour de force. People were pretty engorged on ale and mead by that time. Which meant the can’t dancers started to strut their left footed stuff.

These people are obnoxious simply because they’ll take up a whole floor just to show off their groove thang, which usually involves bounding up and down like a helium infused bouncy ball. They add to this by waving their hands in the air, further obstructing your view. Then there are can’t dancers who try and reenact some sort of water ballet, moving so slowly and out of rhythm that you wonder what they’ve been smoking. Add all this to the “Eileen attending 19^th century concert” and you get a bunch of flouncy skirt, high sock wearing retards doing the Elizabethan shuffle.

Which brings me to the druggies. No matter what symphony, rock concert, garage sale, whatever, there are going to be those people who just want to do a line of arsenic off the bar. And they love to stand next to me. I don’t do drugs, and I certainly can’t stand the smell of opium, yet I got a nice whiff of it when some stoner decided to puff up right next to me and blow that shit all over my outfit. My faux leather, fur, leopard outfit mind you! Jeez, find an opium den.

By the end of Lizst’s third encore I had had enough of my study. I also had enough of all the young girls tossing their promise rings and chastity belts up on stage. What a mess.

Bluebird and Ms. Pretty were nannering on at that point, telling me “We told you to go to Franny’s. You are such a ninny! We could have had crumpets and tea!”

I tossed those ungratefuls into the nearest sewer. Let the newsies have their way with them and then we’ll see who’s the ninny!

I really do like crumpets, though.