The Pursuit of Chrissie

Part Two: A Loss for Words

(This story makes more sense if you read Part One. It picks up at the moment I was staring at a flyer that was posted on a bulletin board near the Memorial Student Center (MSC) at Texas A&M University.)

I stared at the flyer. 

“The Pretenders are coming! The Pretenders are coming! The Pretenders are coming!” I wasn’t riding a horse or shouting it out like the mythical version of Paul Revere’s ride. After all, the true story is that Paul Revere had to maintain his cool for secrecy. And I was certainly not going to make a scene about the upcoming sale of Pretenders tickets. Better to be discreet, in hopes of being the first in line.

A few months earlier, I had seen throngs of students camping out around the MSC box office late at night. They were waiting to buy tickets for Huey Lewis and the News. It was hard for me to imagine a person so enthralled by Huey Lewis that they would camp outside, but to each their own. I think I actually went to that show, but definitely didn’t work hard to do so. However, seeing those groups blaring their Huey Lewis, gathering around their sleeping bags, hiding their beers, and throwing a party had planted a seed for me. Alas, it was now germinating.

I needed to rally a group to join me in an overnight party to camp out for Pretenders tickets. My friend Tim shared my love for the Pretenders. With the ticket sale approaching, we talked about our campout. How early would we have to start? It would be devastating to prepare for the campout and then be beaten to the punch by another Pretenders fanatic. 

As the days for the ticket sale approached, I began to feel nervous.  I couldn’t just watch the clothes go ‘round. Each time I walked by the MSC, I looked for possible campers, feeling relief when there seemed to be no other congregation of Pretenders lovers laying in wait. It was rare to see people camping for tickets. Huey Lewis was a special case, and even then, the party seemed to start only in the evening before ticket sales. But I had to be sure to be first. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I couldn't take the stress anymore. I called Tim.

“We need to camp out for two nights. Just to be sure.”

We rallied our friends. Tim and I were the only Pretenders die-hards, but we had a fun group of friends who were always open and supportive for big adventures. Our buddies didn’t hesitate to join our campout. What supplies would we need? Who would bring the food? Should we take shifts? It was as if we were planning a multi-day potluck, except we’d have sleeping bags and would be publicly visible as students walked to class. 

That first night, many passersby questioned our purpose. Was it a protest? We explained we were camping for Pretenders tickets. Confirming my notion that we were cooler than most students, the people raised their eyebrows. Who’s that? Why would you do that? The tickets don’t go on sale until the day after tomorrow. A few folks knew who the Pretenders were, but clearly did not understand the need to camp out for two nights. No one’s reaction mattered to me. We had achieved our first goal. We were first in line. Time to party! We had to hide the alcohol in thermoses, pacing ourselves by the light of the moon. It was January, so the chill factor was an issue. We had only a drink or two and snuggled in our blankets and sleeping bags while playing music and generally appreciating our commitment.

The next day, we took shifts around our class schedules so that no one would have to cut class. At least two of us were there at a time to hold our spot while others went to take showers, go to class, or get supplies. No one else joined our group that day. On the second night, we were sure the party would expand. No one. Having secured our position as the first for tickets, we were hoping for more to arrive. Nope. It was just us. Again. That’s okay. “Chain Gang” wailed on the boom box as we sipped wine coolers. Other friends stopped by for a drink or chips but it was only our little core group that stayed all night. Again. 

Early in the morning, well before the box office would open, a couple joined us waiting in line. Now we were gathering momentum. We shared our opinions on the best songs. We spoke of the tragic deaths of James Honeyman-Scott and Pete Farndon. Did you know Chrissie married the Simple Minds guy? Who would be the band? Would it be the same guys on the new album? Finally, the box office window slid open. We had done it. First in line. And there, in our hands, were front row center tickets to the Pretenders. 

My friend Tim and I had been the instigators of the campout. Tim shared my obsession with Chrissie and claimed to have a deep crush on her. I didn’t care about his motives. I was glad to have a partner in crime. We immediately began to concoct a strategy. If we were going to meet Chrissie, we needed a plan.

Tim and I schemed over the course of the two weeks before the show itself. Every planning session usually involved a cold beer or wine cooler. The Pretenders coming to College Station had created quite a party season! For our first session, we made a general plan. Where would we most likely find Chrissie? It seemed to us that we should look for her at the Coliseum periodically throughout the day in hopes of finding her before or after the sound check. But what story would we tell to get past any security or campus event planners? We needed a good reason to ask to see her. We needed to show that we weren’t just regular people, starstruck by Chrissie. We were insiders. 

How could we appear to be someone so special to Chrissie? We would need to bring a gift. A gift so thoughtful and creative that anyone we encountered would agree to take us to Chrissie.

What do you give a rock star who can presumably ask for anything on the road? It had to be personal. But not creepy. I thought we should appeal to her motherhood. We were both aware that Chrissie had given birth to a second child and was touring with two small children. She might appreciate our understanding of her new challenges on the road. What about diapers? We weren’t sure about diaper sizes and Chrissie probably used cloth anyway.

We continued to brainstorm. If we made a gift for her daughters, it would seem to any security person that we knew her, or had even been invited to say hello. The problem was that we had no clue what two small children on the (middle of the) road with a rock star mother might want. Or what the mother would need. We finally decided on shirts. We’d buy a onesie and a T-shirt. And we would decorate them. 

Decorating T-shirts for the daughters of Chrissie Hynde surely required another mini-party. Tim and I met one late afternoon to continue our work. How would we decorate them? I’m not much of an artist, so we gravitated toward writing something on each shirt. We brainstormed. We knew the names of the girls, but that seemed too personal. Why not put “My Baby,” the title of the second single on her new album, on the onesie? Brilliant! We started naming song titles from the other albums. When we said “Precious” out loud, we knew we had our answer. 

Luckily for me, Tim had a specific vision for the shirts. He wanted to buy the puffy paints that crafters use. We chose red, but I don’t remember why. That evening, we ironed the onesie and the shirt. I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’d taken out my iron since moving to my apartment. Tim designed the font and spacing for the shirts, and we both painted. We set them out to dry. We were sure we had just created a ticket to meet Chrissie Hynde.

The day of the show, we skipped classes. We met up mid-morning. We placed the shirts in a box, decorated with tissue. We had also prepared a cute little note for Chrissie, but I don’t remember now what we wrote. I recall Tim’s excellent blocked handwriting on the note, and the note was clever. It was something about a gift for her children while they were on tour. Off we went. First the coliseum. Then the box office. Then the hotel. Round and round, we rotated through our planned locations.

“Excuse me, we’re looking for Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders. We have a gift for her. It’s for her daughters.” 

The box office staff had no clue, but told us our best way of finding her was at the coliseum for sound check. They didn’t know when that would be, but probably mid or late afternoon. We circled through the coliseum several times, but no one was around. The hotel was pretty empty and looking for her actual room would be stalky. Right? There would be no hymn to her.

The rest of our behavior was totally within the boundaries of respectful fans. At one point near the end of the day, we found a student volunteer who was standing by a door at the coliseum. The door had a taped, hand-written sign on it. It said, simply, “Pretenders.” 

Again we said, “Excuse me, we’re looking for Chrissie Hynde.” We pointed to the makeshift Pretenders sign. “We have a gift for her daughters.”

“She’s not here. She was here earlier, but she won’t be back until the show. But I will make sure she gets it.” 

We expressed our concern. This gift was important and we explained how we wanted to ensure she got it. The student guard opened the door. We were walking into Chrissie’s dressing room! It was stark. It had some chairs and some makeshift primping stations, but it was no room full of mirrors. We weren’t even sure if she’d stepped in the room yet. But this was progress! It might be as the nearest we’d get to Chrissie, and at least we had a small victory. We knew that our carefully made shirts would likely be in the hands of the one and only Chrissie Hynde. After all, didn’t a hand-written dressing room sign count as gospel?

What now? We needed to grab dinner and focus on the show itself. I didn’t want to give up, and neither did Tim. We decided we would circle back one last time to the Hilton hotel. We couldn’t imagine that Chrissie would stay anywhere else. We walked into the hotel for the third or fourth time that day and looked around. This time, there were people wearing ID badges congregating near the restaurant and bar area. We could see that the badges were for tour staff. We were about to get close. Should we wait for a while to see if she would come down to the lobby? It was getting near time for the show and we were trying to balance our goal of meeting Chrissie with our need to guard our treasured front row seats.

And then my gaze moved toward the couch. Oh. My. God. There she was. While the tour crew in badges buzzed around the bar area with clipboards, intently talking, Chrissie was sitting on a couch. Her legs crossed, she was flipping a magazine. She looked bored, as if she were passing the time. I had to double take on my first glance. It was really her! Now what? All this effort into meeting Chrissie Hynde, and now I had no idea on earth what to say!

“Tim!” I whispered loudly. He turned around and I pointed. He walked over to me while gasping quietly. We had the opportunity to approach her, but we were officially tongue tied. Starstruck. Although we had been confident in our plan all along, we were now frozen. We didn’t have the shirts in our hands to begin the conversation. We quietly debated over who should initiate the conversation. We didn’t want to lose this moment. This was the moment we had planned so carefully, and bought a onesie, toddler shirt, puffy paints, and wine coolers for! I walked up slowly. I wanted to be cool for Chrissie. And respectful. After all, she had a lot to say in “Middle of the Road.” 

The middle of the road. Is no private cul-de-sac. I can’t get from the cab to the curb without some little jerk on my back. Don’t harass me, can’t you tell, I’m going home, I’m tired as hell, I’m not the cat I used to be, I got a kid, I’m thirty-three, baby.

Those words echoed in my brain. I didn’t want to be the little jerk on her back, interrupting some Zen moment in a hotel lobby.

“Excuse me, Ms. Kerr?”

I knew that she had listed her name as Christine Kerr in the song writing credits on her new album. She had recently married Jim Kerr, the father of her second daughter, and had presumably taken his name for some situations. She didn’t seem to hear me, so I tried again.

“Ms. Hynde?” 

She looked up. I continued,

“I’m sorry to bother you, but my friend and I are big fans. We’ve left some T-shirts in your dressing room for your daughters.” She looked surprised. I think she smiled. She stood up and engaged in conversation.

“That is so kind. Thank you.”

I can’t remember the rest of the conversation. Don’t me wrong; it was intense and the details should have been memorable, but I remember feeling overwhelmed with excitement and trying to maintain some cool. Did I really just call her Ms. Kerr and Ms. Hynde? What the hell? Was she the local librarian? Tim and I did most of the talking, telling the story of our camp out.

The only detail I remember clearly to this day is that she noticed the Pretenders pin on my shirt. She touched it and said, “That’s a cool badge. It’s an old one.”

I might have told her that we found it at a flea market. Did I really say that? I hope not. I didn’t remember the specifics of our conversation within five minutes of the encounter, much less now. We walked away. What…. just…. happened? WE MET CHRISSIE! 

We practically skipped to the bar where we were meeting friends before the show.  We described the steps of our quest: the shirts, the box, the card, the dressing room, and the hotel lobby. I tried to recall every word she had spoken. I kept pointing to my pin. It’s a badge, you know.

Of course, now that we were no longer in the company of Chrissie, we thought of a million things we could have said? Have you been here before? How is the tour going? What’s it like traveling with your daughters? What are those indecipherable words in “Private Life”? The plan had been to pursue and find Chrissie. We were confident, but we had never planned for our success beyond the shirts. And we did not want to be the little jerks on her back.

From that moment forward, I called my Pretenders pin a badge whenever I showed it to someone. And of course, I had a great story to explain why it’s not just a pin, it’s a badge. It’s still in my jewelry box with class rings, wedding bands, and other important jewelry. Whenever I open the box, I see that pin and still hear her voice. “That’s a cool badge.”

Having told our amazing story over dinner, our group walked to the show. Iggy Pop was the opener. I’m sure it was an amazing performance, but I was waiting for Chrissie. Finally, the Pretenders stepped on stage. Tim and I stood up. We did not sit down for the rest of the show. We were standing at the edge of the stage, looking up at the band. 

The show rocked and we sang as we swayed in our seat. We wondered if she might notice us, but she was focused on her performance and seemed to view the crowd as one massive organism. There were no individuals to be recognized. We could sense that we were nearing the end of the show, with a big song coming. A song they could play, and then exit the stage and hold us hostage until we cheered loud enough for an encore. 

Then I heard it. Martin Chambers, the drummer, was banging around a bit on the drums. It was like a pre-solo. He was showing off and the crowd was cheering as Chrissie watched him. Eventually, the solo morphed into that opening drum intro. Guitars and bass crunched in. ”Woo hoo ooo ooooo….” 

The middle of the road. It’s tryin’ to find me. I’m standing in the middle of life with my pants behind me.

It’s not pants. It’s past. But it sounds like pants. Fran and I had tried to figure out the lyrics over thirty-something listenings to that song back in high school when the single came out. We had to wait for the album’s printed lyrics to confirm. (You could never settle a song lyric debate before Google!)

The song continued. She whipped out the harmonica for her big solo, blowing on it into the microphone. It’s a great song ending. The solo ended as the drums signaled the big finish. The crowd roared. Chrissie bent down and alternately looked Tim and I square in the eyes. She tossed her harmonica to Tim, as if to say, “I remember you.”

We saw the band again a few days later in Austin. It wasn’t the same. But I wore my badge.

For the rest of the school year, we reveled in our success. Me with my badge. And Tim with his harp. Some late nights we’d retell the story to each other.

Tim would say, “Look! I’m caressing the harmonica that was on Chrissie Hynde’s lips. Her spit is in there!”

I would counter, “Have you noticed my cool badge?”

It was our tradition of love. I knew that when I changed my life, this would remain a good story.