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January 25, 2008 > Arts & Entertainment > Ask a groupie how she likes her eggs at breakfastn

Ask a groupie how she likes her eggs at breakfastn

By Nikki Metzgar | Thresher Editorial Staff

This Sunday I went to the Yeasayer and MGMT concert. And I had my first taste of what it’s like to be a groupie.

The Yeasayer moved me. They have a mythological sound, as if I’m listening to a prayer but with electronic beats that make me want to dance.

The lead singer had on skinny yellow pants and thick black glasses. The guitarist’s beautiful long, dark hair flowed in waves over his face. The guy who looked liked Crosby Stills and Nash with the white cotton headband played the bass. I was too short to see the drummer, but I know that he went shirtless during the second half of the set.

During a between-song shout out, Yellow Pants mentioned it was the band’s first time in our fair city. Then it occurred to me: This is my fair city. I, the sweaty, boot-wearing brunette up front, knew this town quite well and if indeed the Yeasayer was interested in seeing it, my friends and I would make the perfect tour guides. I knew I was taking Yellow Pants’ weak attempt at connecting with his audience too seriously, but I also knew that I was eating the best breakfast in Houston the next day and everyone loves breakfast.

And so my friends and I schemed. We would invite Yeasayer to breakfast. The set ended and our new favorite band took its post behind the T-shirt table. My friend Marie seized me and together we approached.

Before long I was talking to Yellow Pants. I told him I liked his pants. Yes, he said, they are yellow. My eyes edged towards Marie, who was thankfully having more luck with Good Hair. Feeding off each other’s energy, Marie and I built up to the breakfast invitation. We raved — raved! — about the potatoes and the chicken apple sausage. I flipped my hair and pursed my lips and spilled beer on MGMT shoelaces.

Oh yeah, said Yeasayer, we eat breakfast.

A little black book was produced and inside it, amongst the names of countless desperate females, I wrote my number. I wrote “delicious.” And I wrote “breakfast.”

Marie got CSN-face — or Ira as he is more commonly referred to — to give her his number. Yellow Pants gave me a band button and showed me his tattoo.

When you hear the word groupie, all kinds of bad associations come to mind. Now I wonder, does “delicious” mean something else when underlined three times? Was the expectation that Yellow Pants would defile me in the back of the band bus, or in Yeasayer’s case, one of their two vans?

True groupies invite rock stars to hip after-parties, but I really did mean breakfast in the literal sense. Sex aside though, maybe our motivations are the same — we are moved by the music. That, and I need friends.

But somehow, for any guy with a guitar, there are countless girls. Frank Sinatra started it; Elvis and the Beatles likewise enjoyed the fruits of groupiedom. As I walked away from the T-shirt table, a halter-topped babe took my place right away. Groupies are working against terrible odds. So the question arises of what is so gratifying about the company of musicians.

For me, it’s not the tight pants. The music has something to do with it — ideally it is good. But what is really so attractive about guitarists, drummers and even cellists, is the fact that these men (and women) have a craft they are truly passionate about. When they strum their guitars and bite their lips in concentration, the burning coals of creative intensity are alive in their eyes. It’s hot.

Nikki Metzgar is a Baker College senior and Arts and Entertainment editor.

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