Meeting Commander Cody
May 11, 2008
I met Commander Cody.
I met Commander Cody, and I acted like a Beatles fan. Jumping up and down, and all.
If you're Sarah Poulton, you refer to Commander Cody as "That Race Car Guy." Others simply say, "Like, the 'Hot Rod Lincoln' guy?"
I explained to a few at the show, "I don't know how the music came into my life, but it won't leave." For some inexplicable reason, I love the Commander Cody Band.
Two events were slated for May 3 that piqued my interest. One was Camp Lo at the B&O Station, and I liked their work with Talib Kweli, so I thought that it'd be a decent hip-hop show. The other was Commander Cody Band at Tully's in Sharon.
I debated for days which to go to. When a friend tore a flier off the wall at Quaker Steak advertising the upcoming show and immediately thereafter brought it to me, explaining, "Come on, you've been talking about this guy since I met you," I knew I had to go.
My boyfriend was working and friends had other plans. I'd be rolling solo, something I'm usually down with, but not at a place like Tully's where I was certain I wouldn't know another soul.
I sat down at a table with a Coke(super-sweet bendy straw and all), camera and reporter's notebook. I would've looked like a total loser, but fortunately you can still smoke in places in Pennsylvania and we all know that smoking makes you cool.
Immediately I recognized guitarist Mike Emerick. He was sitting up front watching cover band Pipe Dreams play. (Note: Pipe Dreams? They're pretty good, actually.)
After about an hour of building courage up, I awkwardly proceeded to introduce myself to Emerick.
"Excuse me," I said. "But I'm a huge fan. Really, I am. I just wanted to say hi."
I'm not sure what he responded with, but he offered me a seat at the table where two Canadian fans were sitting. They had driven in for the show.
We talked about the music and why I liked it, before Emerick offered to take me backstage where he had glossies he wanted to sign and give me. He also gave me a Commander Cody shirt, eggshell blue and glorious.
I asked if he thought "The Commander" would be mean when I met him, he cautioned there was a chance, but probably not.
After the up-close interaction with Emerick, I was looking for some time to think about what just happened and laugh at myself. I went back to my table and got out a notebook to start sketching.
A gentleman came over to ask, "Are you an artist?"
"A writer, actually, but I'm a photographer, so yeah, kinda," I say.
"Oh, okay. We're artists at that table and we saw your notebook and were wondering," he says, motioning to the table next to me. "You could come sit with us."
"Actually, I could really use some company," I say, grabbing my things and sitting down with them.
In all of my post-Emerick glowing, I forgot everyone at the table's name. All of them. I feel awful now, but they were pretty cool as we started talking surf rock and life.
There was plenty to watch, as it was a prom-themed night, with people of every age in prom gowns, tuxedos and Chuck Taylors. I kept my eye on Commander Cody as he talked with fans at the back bar, but was ultimately too shy to say a word. I figured I'd say something after the set.
The set? It was amazing. The second song was the 1947 Tex Williams song "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! (That Cigarette)." Short of one guy humming it at The Village one time, I never knew anyone else who had even heard of the song.
I immediately turn off my unusually large work camera and get out my cell phone to start recording. I had validation. It is a good song. Even Commander Cody thinks so.
The table of artists I was hanging out with offered me a dance or two, so I obliged and took to my standard bridemides form of dancing. Then, I heard Emerick tune the guitar. To exactly the notes of "Hot Rod Lincoln."
I grabbed my camera and went stagefront for my moment of bliss. I sang along with every word, in absolute musical euphoria. I got to here my song. It's probably pathetic, but that song is me. It has defined me, it's my gimmick, it makes me happy.
A few lines in, "4-barrel carbs a duel exhaust, 4-11 gears," the bassist mouths, "Wow." I grinned. I kept singing and doing some version of dancing when The Commander looks over and grins.
Validation. A week away form graduation, but this is the validation I needed.
After the set, that bassist walks up to me and says, "Most people don't know all the words to 'Hot Rod Lincoln,'" or something to that effect. I grinned, but couldn't come up with a quick reply before he walked away.
Now, I knew I had to do it. I had to meet The Commander.
I ask one of the artists for his advice. He was far more outgoing that I'll ever be and thought he'd have some ideas.
"You wanna meet him?" he asks. "Follow me."
He tears off and I follow, camera and glossies in tow. He holds his 35mm up by the stage and walks through. He sees The Commander and says, "She's a fan, she wants to meet you."
I quickly explain I'm not doing a review, but I'm just a fan. I thank him for his music and talk about the research paper I just wrote on "Hot Rod Lincoln."
"Really? I have a CD for you. Come here," he says, taking me backstage.
We chat about his band, "Hot Rod Lincoln" and this tour as he fumbles through a messenger back.
Taking out a stack of personal CDs, he hands me one. "You'll like this, it's a recording of all the bands that have done the song," he says, signing both the disk and the CD.
I hand him the research paper Emerick had already signed, and he signs that and the glossies. I'm glowing.
All I can think of to say is, "I sing 'Hot Rod Lincoln' every time I go to karaoke."
("What a dork," I think to myself. "You're so lame.")
I awkwardly thank him and tell him it was a pleasure to have met him. It really was.
As I reach for his hand, he puts his arms around me. At this point, I look like a German Michael Jackson fan.
I start walking back out, stopping when someone asks if I got to meet him. So I very smoothly lose all of my call, jumping up and down, spitting out words faster than I could think.
I'm too bubbly to talk. I call my boyfriend from my car in the parking lot, and he's flat-out laughing at me. "Okay, let me calm down and call you back." I call my mom to relay the story to her. She cares even less.
I tuck my glossies and shirt into the passenger seat, throwing the new CD in and turning up "Hot Rod Lincoln." I listened to it about five more times before I decide I'm calm enough to take on rainy Sharon streets.
It was a long night, as I had to be in Toledo by 8 a.m. the next morning and I didn't even get home until at least 1 a.m. And this is before finals week.
But I got to meet The Commander. I got to hear "Hot Rod Lincoln" live. It made my life about 3-percent better.
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