Little Twig at the Elvis Show

Elvis Costello slings more Cool than just about anybody I’ve seen, and his show at the Tennessee Theatre was killer—but I’m a people watcher at heart, and the Elvis crowd was one for the books.

To start with, I had great seats: center isle, 8 rows back. Only this little booze drinker of a thing in front of me decided she’d pogo in her seat all night, up-and-down, up-and-down. She’d raise her glass in the air and whip her product-bouncy hair like a puppy with a chew-toy. She was all shoulder blades and spine buttons, tiny little wrists and square hips. Her knees looked like bulbs in the middle of her pencil legs. Occasionally, she’d turn around and salute the crowd behind her with a high-flying middle finger. Every time I got a view of her profile, I wanted to stick a beer bottle in her overbite and crank off the cap.

I called her Little Twig, and she danced all through the show, creaky in the hips, throwing imaginary snowballs at Elvis. From time to time she’d round-pump her left fist in the air and crank herself crooked, until, breathless, she’d flop into her seat and rest for a few seconds. Then it was back up and hair-in-the-air, her thin little shoulders nearly folding forward past her chin. I was afraid her elbows would clack together above me and shatter like porcelain.

Little Twig climbed up into her seat at one point, too-drunk-to-drive, and she would’ve folded over backwards into our laps if my buddy 9 Bones hadn’t seen fit to catch her.

(I wonder if she had to go to work the next morning, Little Twig? What with all the brown booze she guzzled and all that head shaking, I bet she woke up punching the snooze and reaching for the Advil.)

And then there was the Blue Cyclone, a big curly headed dude who exploded from his stage-left seat and put his dance moves on the spin cycle. He was fish-flopping all over the aisle. He’d leap into the air and bend forward at the waist, kicking both legs up at the same time so he made nearly a perfect greater-than sign: >. Unfortunately, an usher decided to put the Blue Cyclone back in his seat after only half a song.

There was a good deal of salt and pepper in the crowd, tucked in Polo shirts and new Levis, and the place smelled like a barbershop. But man, Elvis inspired some serious White People Dancing, and after an hour or so, even my buddy Greasy Boy bounced from his seat and flopped his arms in the air.

When we left, Little Twig was head-back tapping the bottom of her plastic glass for the last of the ice. At the same time, she was howling into the cup for Elvis to come back out for another song.

Greasy, 9 Bones, and I slipped out of the theatre as Elvis started his second encore. I was a bit worried about Little Twig: Who would catch her if she climbed onto her seat again, wobbly in the knees, and shook herself man-over-board?