The Mom, I distinctly recall, at some point in my teenage years said something to me that went a little something like this: “You go to an awful lot of concerts. Do you really need to see another show where five guys in plaid shirts jump around on stage and shout?”
This was, of course, before her good friend dragged her to her first real live concert. Tina Turner. Now, if Miss Turner isn’t enough to show you the way to truth and love and justice and art and beauty, then there is something wrong with you that cannot be fixed.
The Mom was suitably transformed. And now, if would seem, scours the local listings looking for gigs she can attend.
Though, in some ways, her gig-going days, started years earlier. When Crazy D had a band. They sometimes played at an actual establishment, usual a sports type bar on the edge of town. You know the place. No, not that place. This is more the brightly lit environs of a bar in a strip mall next to a shop that sells wood stoves for your cottage.
On this particular occasion, The Mom was keen on going. Not that she wasn’t normally, but I think the fact that she knew the store next to the bar and had seen it in the daylight hours helped her as far as imagining herself actually there.
Before we left the house, because, as ever, we were all going. L’il Sis and I were dressed as normal, in some variation of plaid shirts and jeans and boots. The Mom, not wanting to be out of place in what she would normally wear on a night out, enlisted our help. She also wanted to pay homage to her old Berkeley days. So we found her a tie-dyed tshirt and she put on her white jeans and some high heels and she was ready.
I have to admit I wasn’t quite so sure, but her enthusiasm for the evening bubbled over. She flounced in and got a glass of white wine and L’il Sis and I secretly breathed a sigh of relief that this sports bar had any wine at all.
Crazy D and his band rocked out. The Mom rocked out with them.
I’m not sure that’s when she really got the bug, that’s probably down to Miss Turner, but still. Something in her imagination was ignited.
She’s not yet at the point where she’s buying tickets to everyone and everything. But I can imagine the day when this will happen.
So far, it’s just these tribute bands, but in a recent email, I could hear her squeal with excitement.
“Steven Tyler!!!!!” she wrote with that many exclamation marks. “Is coming to my town!!!!!”
The Mom is a fan of whatever reality TV show it is that he judges. There is something appealing about him, I admit, but my devotion is not as strong as The Mom’s. She loves everything about the man. The scarves, the tight leather pants, the hair. And the scream. She adores it.
When she announced that he was coming to town, I assume that tickets will be had. And I can picture her there, possibly with L’il Sis and Crazy D, and The Man in Her Life, rocking out together.
It’s as if she’s living her life in reverse, and has now, in her slightly more senior years, decided that she really could have done better as a teenager. I don’t think she’s alone. Most of my friends’ parents do similar things. Which is fine for now, but I envision a day when we’re going to have to be the adults and tell them to turn it down and go to bed.