Backstage Greenville:

I had just gotten my computer fixed after about a year of messed-up e-mail.  The little voice inside my head told me to e-mail Ivy, so I sent a lame message. A couple days later, I was sitting at work and couldn't wait to go home and read my e-mail. I went home at lunch and got the backstage pass. I wigged out. I guess my feelings were that I was unworthy, that God was greater than I ever imagined, and that I wanted to go back to work and wave the message from the fan club in everybody's face.

I didn't have long to plan anything, but Greenville is only a couple hours away from here - about as close as the Moodies have ever come. I consulted the company's designer about what I should wear, and had my friend Steve, who does all the models' hair downtown fix my hair. As all well-lain plans must go awry, I was horrendously bloated the day of the show, and I looked like a sausage in everything I tried on. Then, Steve couldn't do anything with my hair. I ended up going as a two-bit tramp with Bob Marley hair.

I had had a chance to meet the band before, but blew it. Normally, famous people don't faze me. I just treat them like people, unless they get presumptuous, and then I beat them at their own game. However, I feel a reverent awe for the band. Their music has saved me from my darkest moments;  and the band's graciousness is nothing to mock. Yes, three times in my life when I wanted to throw away all that was sacred to me, Justin Hayward managed to be on the radio saying exactly what I needed to hear to make me think better.

Well, having learned that backstage "Meet & Greets" were not opportunities for fans and the band to sit back in their easy chairs and chat about childhood memories and life's dearest aspirations, I figured I would (against my stuffy principles) consent to playing the fan game and do the autograph and photo thing. I was assisted in my endeavor when the radio station gave me a call to let me know they had a Moody Blues shirt to give me. 

"Ha ha!" thought I, something to autograph! Little did I know it was a NAVY shirt. A trip to Wal-Mart solved my problem. Then, my camera was on the blitz so I got a disposable camera - which I didn't bother to figure out how to use beforehand, either. A true fan I'll never be.

My mental state backstage was not the best. I had promised a girl she could ride with me and my friend to the show, and then my friend absolutely refused to take her. I was caught in the middle and couldn't make both happy. Then, outside, I ran into somebody who had wanted to go backstage, and there I was already brandishing my pass.

We were instructed to pick up our passes at 7pm sharp. Fortunately, we all disobeyed and got them early; the "Meet & Greet" was scheduled for 6:45. I managed to get separated from the rest of the party, but fortunately was the first to wind up in the right spot. Gordon Marshall and Russ the roadie walked by while I was waiting, and both said hi.

When we were a quorum, we were lined up against the wall. That was good; it insured that everybody got a turn with everybody. Of course, the band came out in "the order," just like they go on stage. Yeah, I felt like a dork with my stupid shirt, but at least I got to talk with the band. People have asked me what I said to the band, and that's totally preposterous. See why:

Ray was first. I asked him to pick a color, and he chose yellow. He was totally unfamiliar with fabric paint and asked if he had to squeeze it. I said yes, and he proceeded to test it over the carpeting. I cracked up because I've heard there is no known antidote for the stuff.

Graeme was next. He paused slightly at the strange style of autographs I was trying to procure, and he chose blue. I told him he had to take the top off the tube first. He signed and was on his merry way.

John, the great conversationalist, was next. He tried to start a conversation with, "Tulip Glow," reading the paint package. He chose off-white. I was impressed. He wrote as if he'd used the stuff all his life - a perfect signature. I paid him an awe-struck compliment, and soon he, too, was on his merry way.

I remember the guys talking amongst themselves, asking if the CDs they signed backstage were the first ones. They all seemed to think they were. . . .

Then there was Justin. Like a true fan, I probably adore Justin more than I have a right to, and it must have been written all over my face because he spoke to the person on my right, and then he spoke to the person on my left.  Wait a minute. Was I imagining things or was there somebody in between the two? I tried to pull myself together and convince myself that Justin Hayward really didn't hate my guts, after all, I was just one of a million fans and surely I'd never done anything to make myself stand out in the crowd. He finished the line, and I tried to approach him again, but he turned sharply to talk to somebody else. Feeling like mud, I reminded myself that I was nobody and it had to just be a fluke. Finally, he did sign the shirt with no animosity or anything. He chose white and carefully pulled off another penmanship-award- winning autograph. I asked if I could have a photo, and he consented.

The photos started. Justin noticed that my camera's flash didn't go off. I was flattered, but too ditzy (for obvious reasons) at this point to read the instructions to find out how to make it work. I just gave up and let the others take the photos. The band members started trickling back through the curtain, and a few of us thought we'd not get our turns.  Patiently, Justin assured us that he wasn't going anywhere - and then qualified the statement. I got my turn, and I guess it could be described as the bittersweet feeling a climber must feel at the top of Mount Everest.  Here I was, where I always wanted to be, yet the occasion was evanescent and soon to be over, and everything from here on out would be downhill.

Maggie had taken our photo, and, totally adrift, I realized that the photo was over, and I had no business continuing to stand there next to Justin. So, I snapped out of it and went back to my stuff on the floor. Justin thanked us all twice - to which a few of us replied, "Thank YOU." Then he bid farewell to us as "boys and girls." I refrained from calling him "Daddy-o," and he was the last of the Moodies to disappear behind the curtain as we were herded onto the arena floor.