That Time I met…

St. Vincent

New year, new series. This one can only go so far, but I thought it would be fun to record some of the adventures I’ve had living in LA and running into some of my favorite music folks. Again, not bragging, but these are (mostly) stories that deserve a telling.

So there I was at Amoeba, the legendary record store right in the middle of Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard. I’m lined up along the building waiting to meet Carly Rae Jepsen, who’s doing promo for her new album Dedicated. I’d met Carly Rae Jepsen once before (which will be the subject of a different post later on), but I was super excited to interact with her again face to face, plus give her this awesome pair of sparkly socks that I’d purchased and at Paul Smith a day prior. The encounter was energetic and quick. I had the rest of the day free. It was time for a drink.

I walked a few blocks away to a quirky Mexican restaurant where some friends of mine were working. I sat at the bar and chatted as they juggled conversations with me and tending to the few other patrons there. A manager and a supervisor sat at a both along the wall to my left, while some tourists took up a few of the booths near the front of the place to my right. In the back right corner, about seven people sat together chatting closely and laughing here and there. Some actress who I vaguely recognized sat among them at a bench. I could only spend a few moments trying to figure out where I knew her from until I realized she was sitting next to Annie Clark, aka St. Vincent. I really had to work hard not to choke on the Tajin lining my spicy margarita.

St. Vincent is a genius. She’s so insanely articulated in her wildly avant garde projects and what they mean, I can’t even understand the scope of her intellectuality or creativity. I’ve thought about meeting her before, and concluded that it should never happen, because she’s just too sharp of a person and I would most certainly have nothing valuable to offer her in conversation. There was no mistaking that it was her; she looked exactly as rockstar, coy and fucking cool as I’d ever seen her look in her music videos or her masterful live performances from the times I’d seen her. It was like watching Mona Lisa relaxing at bar with nobody else realizing it was strange but me.

She had a red nylon baseball jacked on with the sleeves pushed to her elbows and a pair of dark sunglasses resting on her head. She was probably eating but I couldn’t stare too long at her without her catching me. She’s quick. I tried my best to not focus on it. I knew that I wanted interaction, but I was uncharacteristically nervous about annoying her. Her opinion was too important and I considered just leaving the place altogether. More time passed and finally the big group she was with rose to leave. I had been coaching my friend “when she gets up, I’m gonna make a move. Take my phone and document whatever happens.”

I stood up, still about seven feet away, waiting for everyone in our path to move. Once they did, it was just her and I. She looked at me and could probably tell I was a fan. I was able to say “Annie, sorry to bug…” until she stopped me “woah cool shirt man!” I was wearing a Robyn shirt. “And awesome tattoo!” she watched as I turned my forearm out so she could check out my Amy Winehouse tattoo. “Wow, you’re totally representing!”

We chatted for a second, and I asked “I know it’s annoying but can I please get a picture with you?” and she amiably responded “oh my god of course babe, totally!” While my friend adjusted and took a few pictures, I told St. Vincent as we stood arm in arm, “Slow Disco is such a jam. I’m happy you made three versions of it!” and she chuckled, taken off-guard as if she’d never considered that there were three versions.

And just like that, she gave a warm thanks and wished me well. I was delighted and, frankly, really surprised. She seemed just as happy to meet me as I was to meet her. I felt like I made a friend that day, who just so happened to be a rock legend.