Maturity Comes Alive

It’s no secret that I love live music.  Seriously, any kind.  It could be the thundering rock concert or small jazz trio at a local club.  Full Broadway orchestra or a simple street performer.  It’s the music, in-and-of-itself, as well as the freedom, unpredictability, and ever-changing improvisation of the live show.  I still find it amazing that you can be spectator in a stadium with 40,000 other concert-goers, and yet still make that personal connection to the performers and their music. 
 

One of the first memories in my appreciation of the live performance came early on, upon the release of the now-classic Peter Frampton album called “Frampton Comes Alive”.  Yes, it pains me to admit that I’m old to remember that release.  My friend and I used to sneak into his older brother’s room on a daily basis and listen to that magical revolving vinyl disk until the needle broke.  I was blown away by the roar of the crowd and the very public, yet very intimate, relationship between musician and audience.  He played a different guitar riff and the audience exploded.  I was hooked.
 

With the love of the live show firmly entrenched in my DNA, I found myself going to concerts and clubs on a regular basis from the time I was in high school.  If you were looking for me and my buddies on a Friday and Saturday night, you could easily find us in one of two places in the Washington DC area.  Either at the renowned Bayou or the original 9:30 Club.  Our homes away from home.  It didn’t matter the band or genre of music.  If it was loud and it was live, I was there.

However, as with life, work and the priorities of the adult existence eventually take precedence.  That was especially true with the responsibilities of being a father.  Potential concert and festival funds were subsequently diverted into boxes of diapers, battery-draining toys, “Wiggles” videos, and food.  Lots and lots of food.  Seriously, who would’ve thought it was so expensive to feed and care for these things?  Every 10 minutes, they’re hungry for another snack.

Hey Pavlov.  Get a paper route.  You’re literally eating my bottom-line.

However, with two of my healthy, well-fed children now entering their pre-teens, their music and favorite bands have started to become an important piece of their social identity.  I can wholly identify with that, as many shades of my own social identity are still stuck in their pre-teens.  That said, I also now see opportunities ripe for the harvest.  Much like mine, those same music identities ultimately turn into a desire to see their favorite bands in concert.  Live music?  I’ll happily be the cackling, old chauffeur of that lumbering gravy train. 

 

 

 

For me personally, the concert bug started back up again last Fall.  I went to see Motley Crue with some of my closest friends from my youth.  It turned into a bizarre time warp before I even realized what had happened.  I sang, screamed, and threw my fists in the air just like I had back in the era of my first driver’s license and the beginning shadows of facial hair.  The mild-mannered business professional had  suddenly transformed back into a raging, teenaged metal head.

 

“Anarchy!  Anarchy!  But only until 10 pm because it’s a week night and I have to lead a meeting at work early tomorrow morning.”

 

Shockingly during the show, and around the magnificent locks of my imaginary mullet, I saw kids at the concert as well.  Kids around the same age as my son, attending with their screaming, equally embarrassing, middle-aged fathers.  My memories of the Crue concerts of yesteryear had easily prevented me from even thinking about bringing my son to this show.  The fights, the drugs, the language, the lack of clothing on women.  Although perfectly acceptable to my teenaged-self at the time, these were apocalyptical ingredients that make up father nightmares.

 

“Hey dad.  Why is she wearing a napkin instead of dress?”

 

“Whoal!  You can see right through her shirt!”

 

Oy...

 

However, the patrons that night were fairly tame.  No fights, little language, and thankfully, an adequate amount of fabric.  Nothing like the accumulation of a couple decades of physical and mental wear-and-tear to help shave off those hormonal, teenaged arrogances and insecurities.  With that same swirling caldron of the alpha-male testosterone and pubescent conceit now left safely 30 years in the past, dare I say that a Motley Crue concert could now be considered a “kid-friendly” event?

 

So it began.  I started taking my son to some of this summer’s staple of outdoor concerts.  Well, the ones that I assumed were somewhat tame nowadays due to the similar “mature statuses” of the expected attendees.  Myself included.  We started with his favorite band, Rush.

 

That show was outstanding and, overall, was pretty tame as well.  There was one instance where a few guys, revisiting their 20s, stood up to dance for a good part of the show.  There were also some of those same old, testosterone-fueled expletives hurled from a couple of people sitting behind said “Dancing With the Stars” contestants.  However, no fists, walkers, or dentures were thrown amidst their cranky, “get off my lawn” hullabaloo.  I consider that an overwhelming success for the boy’s first rock concert.

 

Next up in our summer concert series was Van Halen.  A slightly different crowd, but I was expecting a similar result.  Partly cranky with a chance of mellow.  We went with a buddy of mine and his son, so I would now also be able to introduce the tailgating experience to the boy.  Oh how I missed the rock concert tailgating atmosphere…  Again, we’re not talking about the whole uninhibited bedlam and running from cops kind of tailgating of year’s past, but a calmer, gentler, less cardio version…with kids.

 

Cheese???

As we stood in the parking lot reminiscing about the insanity of those old metal shows, I happened to glance over at the crowd that had gathered next to us.  They had a table with a table cloth.  Neatly organized and decorated.  With brie, baguettes, champagne, and chardonnay.  Oh the humanity!  I’m rarely shocked, but one is never fully prepared to witness the universal, unrepentant Four Horsemen of the Yuppie-Zombie Apocalypse to appear at an event like this.

 

What were wine and stinky cheeses doing at MY rock concert?  What happened to the afterthought bag of Frito’s and the cheapest swill you could buy from the local 7-11 on the way to the show?  For crying out loud, they even had wine charms on their glasses!  This wasn’t Preakness!  This was Van Halen!  When I said that I expected tame, I didn’t expect this kind of anti-rebellious blasphemy.  It really was more than I could stomach…and it wasn’t the result of the craft IPA in my hypocritical mitts.

 

Hypocrite and Boy

I looked up and down the line of parked cars jammed into the lot.  I then looked at my own mode of economical, family-friendly transportation.  Minivan, Lexus, minivan, Volvo, minivan, BMW.  As it dawned on me, I felt my shoulders slump in one final encore of defeat and defilement.

 

What happened to my generation?  We were Generation X.  The supposed cynical and disenfranchised societal caste.  The slackers.  Somewhere between the job promotions and the specter of professional accountability.  Between the avalanche of bills and mortgage payments.  Between the kids’ soccer games, swim meets, and band concerts.  Mother of all creatures!  When did we get mature?  And yuppie?  None of which, by the way, is the result of the shine from my hair-resistant scalp or the salt in my post-modern goatee.  Apparently, I slept through the “Responsibility Revolution” of my 30s.

 

Once inside the venue though, there was at least one semblance of those familiarities of yesteryear.  Slumped forward in a lawn chair directly in front of us was a woman about ten years my senior.  At first, I thought she was merely privately checking her cell phone.  But alas, I then saw what was likely her dinner on the ground in front of her.  Wine and cheese aside…or on her shoes…I guess some things don’t change after all.  Although I fully expect that the pain inflicted by that hangover the next day probably hurt her a whole lot worse than it did some 30 years ago.

 

Never to miss a productive teaching moment with the boy though, I pointed out the Public Service Announcement conveniently unfolding in front of us.  “See boy?  She was stupid and missed the entire concert because of it.  Don’t be that person…ever.”

 

This Spring, I am taking my oldest daughter to see her first concert, Fall Out Boy.  Or as I refer to them, “Fall Down Boy”.  Sometimes it’s fun pretending to be the absent-minded, old crow.  Other times, I’m not pretending so much.  Honestly, I can really only name one of the band’s songs.  That’s only because the song name was an actress from the movie Pulp Fiction.  Yes, that Gen-X thing again.  Regardless, as long as she enjoys the show…and the music is loud…I’m positive that I will enjoy it as well.  It is live after all.

Besides, I can’t wait to see the horror on her face when she sees me transform from mild-mannered dad back into that screaming, metal head without warning.  Unfortunately for her though, she’s at a distinct disadvantage.  She’ll only be able to mentally visualize this magnificent mullet of mine.