A Letter to a Guy at the Regina Spektor Show

Dear Guy in the Orange Neighborhoodies T-shirt,

You don’t know me, but I know you. You live in Bushwick, because you pronounced it “Williamsburg’s logical conclusion.” You don’t really like Regina Spektor that much, but you know she “attracts more desperate hipsters than Craigslist.” You wear boating shoes (WTF?). And you really, really, really love the song “Samson.” I don’t blame you—it’s a very nice song.

But please, friend. Please. Please stop yelling for songs at shows.

If you watch closely before the show, someone will tape a piece of paper to the floor of the stage. There will be many words written on this paper, and taken together, they will form a list made up entirely of song titles. These are the names of the songs that will be played at the show, in that particular order. This is called a “set list.”

Maybe your song is on this so-called “set list,” and maybe it’s not. But shouting the request at every odd moment of silence probably won’t change what’s written on that paper. Probably, it’s just going to make you the target of some horrible crime, the victim of an unspeakable brutality as you walk home to Bushwick. I’m sorry, maybe this is a tad harsh, but after listening to you shout that same, single word into my ear for an hour and a half, I want to hate-crime you.

Do you see what you do to me, guy in the orange Neighborhoodies t-shirt?

We know! We get it! You downloaded the song way before it made the album, and so you want everybody to know that you know the new shit. You’re down. We know this, amigo. Respect.

And OK, sure, call out a request once to make your preference known. I'm a reasonable guy. You paid your money, and you want to hear your favorites. Lovely. But shouting it all night, six inches left of my ear lobe? Do you think she didn’t hear you the first twelve times, fuckbreath?

Listen: she plays a variation of these same tunes every night, and she needs to keep things fresh. She plays the songs that are speaking to her, and she skips the ones that aren’t. It's in everybody's best interest to keep the performer engaged. If she hasn’t played your tune for you already, she probably won’t. And if she does, it’s probably because of what she wrote on that paper, an hour or so before stepping onstage. Like I said, the words on the paper can’t hear you. Just me, and Regina, and everybody else in this cavernous fucking room. And we all hate you. Everybody hates you, soooo much, and the worst is that you don’t even know it.

I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. But please stop shouting.

Sincerely,
Everybody