Galactic Panic

The kittens and I share the same physical and psychological space today. It’s a recovery kind of space. A post-traumatic stress space, where warm teas and milk blend nicely with a mellow dub vibe on the hi-fi. The kittens just arrived back from a two day vacation at the vet where they both got spayed. I am recovering from some kind of bizarre panic attack suffered last night on the streets of Minneapolis.

I can’t say I’ve ever experienced a panic attack before and I’m not 100% certain that that’s what it was. I do know that if it doesn’t happen again in my lifetime, then I’ll be a happier man.

I ventured out last night to the Fine Line Music Cafe to see the funky stylings of Galactic. The Fine Line is notorious for overselling their shows and last night was no exception. The joint was packed tighter than a Pamela Anderson brassiere. It took all my energy to tunnel through and claw my way past the patchouli stained masses up to the bar. The Fine Line is also notorious for small watered down drinks that are intensely expensive. Last night was no exception to that rule either. Gallactic’s first set went by without incident. I was having a good time and getting my micro groove on. But during the break between sets the crowd started weighing heavy on my soul. I noticed I was feeling really hot. Damn hot. Las Vegas in July hot. My legs began to melt, liquify, and spill out from the bottom of my pants. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was happening. At that point I mumbled something incoherent to my peeps and excused myself. I needed some fresh air fast. Easier said than done. Walking from far stage left to the front door of the Fine Line felt like summiting Mount Everest without oxygen. And without legs. I spilled many a peoples drinks as I flung myself slovenly from person to person. I was using humans like monkey bars trying to make forward progress in my claustrophobic hell.
Eventually I made it outside and collapsed on the sidewalk just four feet from the entrance to the club. I couldn’t tell if I was going to puke, if my heart was going to explode, or if my legs were going to fall off. I crawled over to the building wall and sat despondently for a good long time trying to reeducate myself in the fine art of breathing. It wasn’t looking good. I was convinced someone had drugged me, slipped something into one of my drinks. I was the Titanic on the streets of Minneapolis going down quickly. I actually called at people to help me as I had no idea what was going on with my body. Thankfully, everyone ignored my pleas and I was left alone. I kept telling myself to ‘play though’. Then for some odd reason, in my most desperate hour I started thinking about Bill Cosby. Well not Bill Cosby, but rather Doctor Huckstable from the Cosby Show. It was a weird sorta ‘What Would Doctor Huckstable Do’ situation. And damn – it worked. After about three minutes of thinking about Doctor Huckstable and concentrating on my breathing I started to come around. And after another five minutes passed I was on my way to a semi-lucid recovery.

I’ve had minor battles with claustrophobia before. I especially seem to get it bad at Veterinary hospitals. Something about those small windowless rooms with dog and cat intestinal illustrations always seems to send my head spinning. But last night was the first time it took full frightening control over me. It’s probably very hard to explain the feeling of full claustrophobia to anyone who has never felt it. Kinda like trying to describe the notion of ‘pain’ to the girl who feels no pain. Who knows? Maybe Galactic was just too funky and I got a funk overdose. The story would make for a sweet gig review: “The band was so on tonight that I had to leave and pass out on the side walk”.

Anyhoo, I’ve got the the New Orleans JazzFest coming up in just a few weeks and this claustrophobia induced panic attack stuff is not the sort of thing one wants to bring as their ‘A-game’. Bottom line. More training is necessary.