Original image by There Stands the Glass.
My regrets are infinite. Most every honest person who reaches my age shares the painful trait. I’m often reminded of a relatively minor but nevertheless unacceptable incident in my past as I attend performances in spaces ranging from barrooms to amphitheaters.
Riding high during SXSW in 1997, I met up with a few of my clients at an Amy Rigby showcase somewhere along the 6th Street corridor. My memory places the gig in a space that was more like a glorified hallway than a proper venue.
The configuration meant that most members of the audience of several dozen were within twenty feet of Rigby and her band. The intimacy was marred by my oblivious insistence on chatting up clients during the performance.
I regretfully recalled my boorish behavior the next day. The guilt I feel about the incident is undiminished nineteen years later. Every time I grow livid at rude chatter during musical performances, I’m forced to check myself before chiding the offenders.