Concert in the Park (2)

There are two types of people: those who come into a room and say, "Well, here I am!" and those who come in and say, "Ah, there you are."
-Frederick L. Collins

Whenever Spouse and I go to concerts- whether they are of our favourite singers or strangers to our ears- we enjoy listening to the original songs of that particular person.
Nothing so strange about that, one would say, unless, of course, they happen to be an entertainer best known for their ambitious recitals of others' work, which falls into a different category altogether.
It so happens that during our recent venture to see Lucinda Williams, an exceptional number of people spent an inordinate amount of time requesting the songs of other musicians.
"Pink Floyd!" some fellow shouted many a time.
"Tom Petty!"
"Neil Young!"
I was unable to hear some of the other requests but am confident that they followed a similar pattern.
Those people asked, it seemed, for everybody but Lucinda herself, which was not the object of her intentions, and they had made their annoyance obvious as she attempted to carry on with her music.
I myself had no notion of just how distressing the scene was for those personally involved, and while I considered the actions similar to an itch that would soon dissipate, Lucinda was growing ever more bothered.
When she vanished for a few moments at the end of a song, a growing murmur of confusion spread across the audience.
She emerged minutes later and announced, to everyone's astonishment, that the incessant calling for other songs was affecting her, the band, and therefore the entire night.
She stated in a level tone that it was not easy to stand up there and sing when people obviously longed for something else.
So, she added, voice gaining a distinct edge, she hoped that people had not come to the concert searching for a different kind of music. Those that had, she insisted, could leave if they wanted to.
"Go. Just go," she urged the heckling few, the ones that had plagued her for songs she had not written and which the rest of us had not paid money to hear.
I wonder why it is that anybody would attend a Lucinda Williams concert and howl at the singer for non-Lucinda tunes.
That is akin to entering a seafood restaurant and demanding a hamburger, and becoming outraged at the results.
Mater is fortunate enough to be readying herself for a Tom Waits concert at the end of the month. I, who would have been there in a flash were it at all feasible, have tried in vain to picture my mother tutting and mumbling, arms folded, cross and unhappy when Tom Waits stubbornly refuses to sing the old Irish dance hall numbers that she knew as a youngster.
Mater would never consider such a thing, both due to her fine manners and to the fact that she wants only to hear the music of Tom Waits, as promised.