It was a mess. I was a mess. Sweaty from lacrosse, hands dirty from the roughing and flailing, I arrived at Em’s house distressed about San Francisco weather. “How cold will it be there?” “Can I wear flip flops?” It was 80 degrees in San Jose.

On our way there the GPS led us within close proximity of the San Francisco Airport, a place we did not want to go. It took us topsy-turvy, prolonging our driving time by twenty, thirty minutes. The GPS had reverted to “no highways” mode. We were puzzled. We glanced at our watches periodically. Doors opened at 7. The show began at 8. It was 7:24 now. 7:32. We were still in the car driving from one local road to the next, turning aimlessly, ignorant of all sense of direction. We listened intently to the spoken, mechanical voice of the GPS.

Finally on Van Ness, finally on Geary. When we arrived at the Fillmore, it was gray. Black, shiny trailers lined the sidewalk, and clumps of people chattering with hands folded and hands in pocket seemed to enliven the scene minutely. Frisked, bag checked, tickets checked in, we walked upstairs and headed into a dark room, dimly lit by buttery yellow stage lights. I was relieved. Relief soon turned into amazement, and next excitement, and next elation when we noticed the ideal environment into which we had entered. The people were sparse; we made our way to the front of the stage a mere ten minutes before the show started. “Bah-see-ah Boo-laht.” We had no idea who she was.

I saw a young girl eating an apple. “I really want an apple right now,” I muttered. Chocolate soymilk and a banana did not make for a satisfactory dinner. An unexpected response – a girl sitting diagonal to me with a hippie skirt and a bandana on her head chimed in, “The apples are free you know – you can get them in the bucket near the stairs.”

“Are you serious?” I replied. “The apples are free?”

“Yeah,” she said assuredly.

I ran and picked up two – two cold, red apples from a silver pail. The apples were good-sized and they curved in the right places. “Here, Em,” I said, and I gave her one. I sat back down and chomped on my apple. Nothing had ever tasted that delicious. All it takes is the right moment and the right time – the right place and the right circumstances, and anything can taste like a million dollars. That apple sure did.

As people packed in, I stood in the same place eating my red apple, an apple that tasted like a forbidden delicacy, a forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge. As I neared the core of the apple, I realized I would have to dispose of it somehow, but there was no way in hell I was relinquishing the spot in which I was standing. How to dispose of an apple core … memories from Yosemite camp came flashing back, as our trail leader encouraged us to be a part of the “hardcore applecore club.” What exactly does being part of this club entail? Eating an entire apple. So I did. The core, the seeds, every little piece of the apple. I’ll admit I cringed once, but I did it and it was worth it.

The lights began changing colors. Basia Bulat came on first. “Ba-sha Boo-lay,” she said. We know now how to pronounce her name. A sweet, cute blonde with deep-set, huge, innocent yet playful eyes and large teeth appeared in front of us. She broke out into an acapella song without saying a word. I was taken aback by a deep, sultry voice, resounding like whiskey and hearty rum – a voice that seemed to flow so smoothly yet intensely out of the blonde’s mouth. She clapped and stomped her feet to keep rhythm, swaying from side to side with elbows jutting out and head cocked to one side. It was enjoyable, and all I could do was digest. Digest her voice, process it in my ears, in my mind as fast as I could. I could keep eating more. Her voice and an apple.

Basia and her band played on – laughing off all technical and mechanical tribulations, thanking us for loving her. We did.

A too-long waiting period passed, and the lights finally darkened. We knew what was coming up next. A flash of red lights, and to our surprise – in front of us stood two young ladies, dressed scantily in leotards. Burlesque, caked in make up, features heavily defined. They struck cat-like poses, enticing us and entrancing us, throwing delicate carnations that draped over our heads. They worked up to a climax, and then DeVotchKa slipped onto the stage, turning a whole round of cheers and applause.

DeVotchKa was sweaty from the start. Sweaty and pure and resonant. Sultry. They captured and captivated us with slurred words and mumbled songs, with loud and bellowing noises and whistles of whimsy. Of which category and genre of music, I do not know. They made music the way they liked to do so, and plainly, it was magnificent. I even dare to say epic, mighty, brilliant – balancing on the edge of perfection. Those are all the words I have for now.