When I was a super headstrong 8 or 9 year old, I remember spending the better part of a summer afternoon trying to reason with my dad. The battle this time? Could I please, PRETTY PLEASE be allowed to walk the three blocks up to the local playground without adult supervision? All of my friends were doing it and besides, I knew the last thing my dad wanted to do was stop cheering on the Indians to accompany me. He wasn't having it, though. In an attempt to distract me from my argument, he yelled "LOOK OUT! I'M GETTING... HAPPY FEET!!!" and proceeded to stomp around the kitchen like a lunatic. Unfortunately, his impression worked and I forgot that going to the playground alone was a pressing issue.
King Tut and Grandmother's Song were as much a part of the soundtrack of my childhood as any other "normal" music. Of course, I grew up listening to 50s standards and early Whitney Houston, so I'm not one to base normal off of, but go with me here. There was also a phase for about five or 15 years where my dad would not open a door without pretending to run into it, nose-first, the way Steve does in Roxanne.
My childhood Christmases were magical escapes from the rigid rules of my ordinary life. My half brothers would come roaring into town, bringing with each of them an unyielding love of comedy that was only rivaled by my father's. They would let me watch shows like The Simpsons with them and, if we were lucky enough that my mom worked, I'd be allowed to stay up for that week's Saturday Night Live cold open and monologue. I was too young to really understand the jokes, but I saw how captivated and happy my dad and brothers were, and it made me happy. The three of them took great joy in annoying my mom with impromptu (and constant) performances of classic routines like Who's On First? and What the Hell is That?
When I was an even more headstrong 15 year old, my parents left me alone for an entire weekend for the first time. It was tradition -- for their anniversary, they would go to Buffalo and Niagara Falls for a weekend every summer, but this was the first time I didn't have to stay over at my aunt and uncle's. That Sunday morning, I found Father of the Bride on TV. My dad called me from their hotel room to see how I was doing... and he quickly realized we were both watching Steve Martin have a breakdown over hot dog buns. We spent a half hour on the phone together, laughing and eventually crying over the movie.
It was around then that I started discovering comedy for myself. I wasn't terribly popular in high school, so my Saturday evenings were typically spent watching the two-hour block of British comedies that the local PBS affiliate aired, followed by, once again, sneaking around to stay up late enough for at least the SNL monologues (whoa, look out, we got a real wild child on our hands). I was also lucky enough to find a best friend who was as, if not more, into comedy as I was becoming. The geeks of Freaks and Geeks getting together to listen to worn comedy albums? Yeah, that sort of thing.
When I was 19, my dad turned my world upside down. I had been coasting along, as naive and happy as I could manage, and was enjoying college and the beginnings of adulthood. Then, I was forced to grow up, FAR faster than anyone had anticipated. A few days after everything happened with my dad, my best friend checked up on me. I'd seen a huge outpouring of love and support from all sorts of people in my life, which meant the world, but she was the only person to really understood what it would take to help me keep going. She didn't force me to dwell on the new issues that had become my norm and instead we laughed over some cheesy old jokes.
The past six years have not been easy on me. I've had to deal with family issues that I would not wish on my worst enemies and, while I've had some incredible experiences and finally feel comfortable with myself, I also hit some really terrible lows. Luckily, I've been able to get through this mess with one simple thing -- laughter. A lovely side-effect from that drastic change was bouts of insomnia which, at the very least, allowed me to regularly stay up to watch SNL. The first episode that was new after that awful night was Tina Fey's season 33 hosting gig, that included an infamous Steve Martin cameo.
That brief appearance sparked something in me. I had been a bit wary of how to proceed with my relationship with my dad around that time, but being able to laugh at someone he idolized was freeing -- plus, for the first time, I was old enough to really understand his humor.
I've spent the past four or so years becoming an absolute comedy sponge. My sense of humor has very closely followed my dad's -- if it involves a former or current SNL cast member, Monty Python or George Carlin, I'm in. Thanks to Netflix and Pandora, I've seen/heard everything ever done by those three; it took over eight months, but I've watched every episode of SNL.
Above and beyond all that (brilliant) comedy, Steve Martin has remained in a special category of his own. Somewhere along my course of buying every DVD I could get my hands on (did you know that Walmart has 5-movie collections for $5?!), I finally discovered for myself the beauty that is Steve Martin, the author and Steve Martin, the musician.
It was nearly exactly two years ago when the news broke that Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers would be doing a concert in Chautauqua. The night before I ordered my ticket, my dad called me -- at this point, I hadn't actually seen him in about three years at this time -- and told me that when he was younger, all he wanted to do was see Steve Martin play banjo because he had heard he was really good. That did me in.
I've rehashed the story of seeing Steve Martin, in person, numerous times, but as far as the condensed version goes... I spent the entire day creeping outside the amphitheater and honestly was happy enough just eavesdropping on sound check (Steve yelled that us people watching should have paid big money for the candid show we got to see). A few (sunburnt) hours before the doors were set to open, a regular at Chautauqua approached me because he liked my shoes (???). After a quick conversation, he guided me to a handicapped entrance that he promised would not disappoint me. I protested at first -- like I said, just seeing soundcheck was more than enough for me and I would have been thrilled with any seat in the theater. After briefly telling the other people waiting at that entrance about my ~history~ with Steve, however, they all agreed to give me the front of the line. I didn't quite realize at the time that this meant I was literally the FIRST person to walk into the amphitheater... and my ticket wound up being for the front row. On July 1, 2011, I was front row, dead center, for Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers. The entire concert was incredible and hilarious, but there were a few moments that remain clear as day for me.
At one point, the Rangers left the stage, leaving Steve and his banjo. He took off his picks and explained how there are two styles of banjo-playing -- the happy twangy mess that most people associate with the instrument, and a more melancholy sound that he prefers. The song he played was instrumental and haunting... and I quietly cried through the entire thing. In those few moments, it felt like all the weight I had been carrying since everything happened with my dad was lifted up and away as the breeze moved through the amphitheater. I've never felt so free in my life.
I had heard that Steve and the Rangers had been performing King Tut as a second encore at about half of their concerts on that tour, and obviously was hoping like mad that they would choose to there. The second I heard that ridiculous Egyptian intro, I burst into really stupid, ugly tears. I noticed most of the guys onstage (including Steve, which is kind of embarrassing, but whatever) give me a Look... I guess that's not the typical reaction to a stupid song about Pharaoh? Seeing that song performed live -- stupid dance moves included -- made the night as close to perfect for me as it could have gotten. The only thing that would have possibly made it better would have been if my dad had been able to be there with me.
I realize that I have your cliche "daddy issues." It's a dumb phrase that I've hated my entire life and never realized I could apply to myself until quite recently. I also, thankfully, realize that all these ~feelings~ I'm attempting to unload aren't me trying to fill some void my father left with Steve Martin. That's crazy and stalker-ish and what 99% of the people I hate on Tumblr do with their various favorite people. What I will say, however, is that through his work, Steve Martin has given me so many ways to cope with the shit that life throws my way. Thanks to his crazy genius, I can escape in a movie, book or music, whenever I need to -- and I can know for sure that the quality of that work is going to be really, really good.
My dad wouldn't have raised me as a fan if that wasn't the case.
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