A few nights ago, Ryan Adams was sitting in what seemed to be a hotel room, talking, doodling, all on Instagram LIVE. Someone then comes in the room and says, ‘It’s time.’ He picks up the phone, continuing his broadcast, and carries it through a series of dark, narrow hallways when we hear a crowd. Immediately I think of the backstage scenes from Almost Famous. As he nears the stage, the lights go dark, the crowd roars, he then takes the stage – with his phone. Before walking up to the mic, he props his phone up, then proceeds to tear into his 23-track set list.
While @MisterRyanAdams delighted the Calgary crowd with his witty banter and shredding ways, those of us at home, on Instagram, commented, liked, loved and got a profile shot of Ryan and his unnamed band. A profile or even a backside view may seem less than desirable, but it’s LIVE. It’s a Ryan Adams show, happening now, LIVE. We’re onstage with him as guitars come and go, as zingers are flung to and fro, as he slays into a backbend toward camera and I can’t help but clap wildly from behind my desk, with the biggest smile on my face. There’s no place else I’d rather be. No need for TV, no need for cable or a subscription. The performance is immediate, the experience intimate. Dangerously peek fangirl levels.
After Calgary, @MisterRyanAdams broadcasted from Edmonton, Victoria, Vancouver, Seattle and Portland. At the start of each broadcast I’d set off my Ryan Adams phone tree. Texts sent frantically in all caps. We’d watch together or they’d roll their eyes at my need to watch every single show and let me freak out and watch on my own. Every night. Every track.
In Victoria, the overheated concert hall set off Ryan’s Meniere’s and his ability to hear, so he dismissed the band, and finished the set as an acoustic solo. In Seattle, a few nights later, he came back with a vengeance, as if squashing Meniere’s under his shoe. He said he felt like Kiss, ready to slay, complete with a flying V guitar. In Portland, he played outdoors where it doesn’t get dark till 10, making it strangely unnerving to sing such sad, dark songs in the light of day. By 9:30, his lighting designer finally got to show off her skills. That night, the last of his US stops, he closed out the show with an epic jam zone rendition of Peaceful Valley where I lived, loved, died, was reincarnated into the jam zone, got lost in the jam zone fog, danced in the purple-red-and-blue jam zone light show, was brought back to life again by the sheer slayage of it all, and somehow returned back to this existence. What just happened? Slayage, people. Pure slayage.
For six nights I got to watch Ryan Adams LIVE on instagram. If someone in the crowd sneezed during a sober drop in music, I heard it. And I heard Ryan say, ‘Bless you.’ After each song, I fired off a barrage of hearts to the feed. During every Magnolia Mountain jam session, I sang along at the top of my lungs while waving my hands in the air. From my Los Angeles living room, I watched the concerts with a friend in Las Vegas. Once he had that first show loaded up, he simply responded, ‘Whoa.’ I knew he was on my level, appreciating that we got to witness the magic that only happens at a live performance. I typed, ‘Hey, we’re at a concert together.’ He replied, ‘We never did that before.’
After playing the final song in Calgary, @MisterRyanAdams grabbed his phone, walked us back to the green room and returned to drawing as if nothing ever happened. Then without any fanfare, he cut the broadcast.
NOTE: Next US tour dates are at the end of July. Live feeds can be seen from @MisterRyanAdams with alt views across stage from guitarist, Todd Wisenbaker, @Totally_Tod
