Last night my friend said he touched Jon Spencer's inner thigh, when he was onstage. I thought about my tall bearded friend touching a stranger's inner thigh, without permission, in public. Spencer piped up and said Jon Spencer's sweat fell all over him once, after a show, as he walked by and grasped Spencer's hand. Yet another friend sighed longingly at the memory of just listening to him play.
What a strange thing it must be to be desired like that, by everyone from would-be lovers to colleagues of the stage. I wonder if he remembers the feel of all those hands. People straining upwards just to brush the side of a leg or if he is one of those people who descend into a state of otherworldly hyper-focus as the music clangs right through his body in a whirl of muscle memory, chords and rhythms.