red hair on the highway.

The weekend took me to Syracuse, NY – a destination I swore I would never return to after I last visited in April. Syracuse sat on the cusp of spring and summer – a changing season I knew was changing in me. I wasn’t quite enchanted anymore with the city I spent the past few years. Sometimes you know when your time with a place is over.

Which makes the flutter of phone calls back in July all more bizarre. See, my roommate loves Tori Amos. And I don’t mean love – I mean obsessive, life-altering, idolize. Yeah, something like that. The U.S. leg of her tour would put her in Syracuse, NY. And, since it was a weekend, it seemed logistically possible to go. Before I could convince said roommate otherwise, we had eight-row seats, left-center stage. A crash course in the Syracuse version of The Landmark Theater – those seats fucking rock.

Memories pervade my drive up I-81. I’ve spent so many hours of my life passing trucks, stopping at Turkey Hill and creating games to test my speeding ability. This weekend was no exception. We stopped at Perkins in Hershey, PA. It’s a strange combination of Denny’s and a truck stop. Here, Randolph said to every table: “My name’s Randolph, I’m your server. What can I get youz?” Every time. Perkins smelled stale, the lighting looked a depressed yellow, and the restaurant bubbled with travelers, truckers and locals. It’s a strange energy. Because roommate and I clearly stuck out in tighter jeans, form-fitting shirts and styled hair. Clearly, we weren’t from these parts.

But nothing shakes the image as I approach Syracuse. I remember the first time my parents and I approached that puffy, marshmallow dome. And I told them this is where I would go. It’s the first image I see when I arrive and the last when I exit. It hits me, when a thousand emotions and memories rush back of the seven years in this space. This snowy, blustery, wickedly alive, yet dead, place. I instantly recall why I chose to come here, and why, after all those years, leapt out. It’s no coincidence that I returned on Homecoming weekend, but not because of that event.

A Tori Amos concert is an interesting exercise in musical appreciation and fanaticism. Between the vultures swirling around the merchandise table to the listless fans swaying in the bitter chill of winter’s preview – listening for the faint sounds of a soundcheck. Yeah, we were there – as my roommate proclaimed, “I think I hear something!” I love going to concerts with him, especially these. Because music, to me, is an emotional lift regardless of the end result. And no one in my life feels music more than he does. So it’s no surprise that the minutes clicking down to show time feel like death. That the minute the lights go down and everyone screams in anticipation, he is silenced by the sheer power of his idol peaking around the corner. That, if he dropped dead right then, he would be smiling.

These people are euphoric. They have special names for themselves “Ears with Feet” – a name Tori coined back in the day to describe her fans. Why? As one person said behind me, “we go to at least 7 shows a tour.” My roommate is going to three. Next up is DAR Constitution Hall in D.C. And we’ll continue the ritual. The drive consists of listening to albums, consulting setlists and imagining what the concert might entail. What songs would you die to hear? Which ones would you cringe at? I would love to hear Gold Dust – because it spins an incredibly lonely story that I want to see. But if I hear Leather one more time…

My roommate’s happened this Saturday when Tori unleashed a song he had waited for a decade to hear. Everyone has a defining song – this was his. Little Earthquakes – the final track on her debut album on Atlantic records. And it didn’t take much to rip him into pieces.

Set list:
Bouncing Off Clouds
Little Earthquakes
Juarez
Rattlesnakes
Beauty of Speed
Roosterspur Bridge
Professional Widow
Big Wheel
Parasol
Spark
improv
Cornflake Girl
Northern Lad
Caught A Lite Sneeze
improv
Yes, Anastasia
Never Seen Blue
1,000 Oceans
Taxi Ride
Code Red
Precious Things
Tear In Your Hand
Hey Jupiter

And I'll leave you with a clip from one of the better versions of Yes, Anastasia that I've seen: