Last night, after the Lady Sovereign show had sold out, which coincidentally was right after Rachel and I waited in the biting wind for an hour, we decided to eat some pommes frites instead.
Some time during this brilliant maneuver, we heard screaming outside the window. Lady Sovereign popped her head out, showcasing her side-ponytail and cornrows.
Amidst the groupie shouting, one teenage girl dressed in striped stockings like the Muppet Babies’ nanny, yelled, “OH MY GOD SHE IS SO HOT! I AM GOING TO GO MASTURBATE NOW!” What? Don’t you have Kermit or Miss Piggy to look after? And besides, Lady Sovereign looks like she’s ten. That’s not exactly masturbatory material, unless you whack off watching To Catch a Predator.
Rachel and I hypothesized over what she must do alone in that gigantic tour bus. Rachel thought there was a play station involved. I was sure she was curled up on plush leather, reading Dickens and analyzing the concept of childhood in late Victorian literature, which just happened to be my senior thesis, woot woot!
We were back in front of her tour bus, waiting to get into the bar next door, when Lady Sovereign stuck her head out. “I need some weed. I need some weed right now.” One guy in sloppy dreads said, “You need some weed? I could get some.”
“So that means you haven’t got any,” she retorted. “This is very unsuperstar-like,” she said to the crowd, “waiting by myself while girls bang on my window asking me to sign their tits.”
Aside from the hancock-on-chest request, what puzzled me was that Lady Sovereign had no weed! In Seattle! What kind of publicist didn’t hook her up with some BC bud? Not that I would know of anyone who distributes said illegal substance, or that I really know what BC bud is; I’m just saying. So I’ve heard. *cough cough*
A bachelorette party was ahead of us in line. Lady Sovereign said, “Who’s getting married?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel answered. “But they’re all wearing those necklaces with penises on them.”
“It’s all about worshiping the dick!” She replied. She retreated behind the blinds again, every so often opening up the window to yell, “I’m bored!”
I don’t know if she ever got her weed.
If I were a rising music star, I’d put weird shit on my concert rider. I would demand a table of fresh cilantro so I could be a diva and flip over the table and say, “Who the hell put cilantro out here? Don’t you know cilantro is the devil? The DEVIL!”
What would you demand?