I went to see Eddie Izzard last night and had a momentary realization of what it feels like to be a groupie. Watching him strut around the stage, listening to him talk with that sexy accent (yes, I’m a sucker for a British accent, okay, for most accents), I had an overwhelming desire to meet him backstage. Not so much for where your mind may be going, but to hijack him off to the nearest bar and sit up talking the rest of the night.
He’s that kind of guy – at least from what he shows on stage – the kind of charismatic guy you could see yourself sitting up with at 3am discussing how the Tuolumne salmon’s high risk for extinction may ultimately impact man’s ability to discover new planets in other solar systems.
It’s strange to look around a crowded concert hall and realize that all these people are gathered to see one man. To hear one man postulate and poke fun. To laugh until their cheek bones hurt from over-smiling and their ears ache from straining to hear every word through the riotous applause.
It’s inspiring and humbling, poignant and frivolous, compelling and trivial. It’s bloody brilliant.