Last night I saw one of my heroes, Jackson Browne, in the flesh; he was so close I could almost reach out and touch him, if I had better seats. I had purchased the concert tickets months ago and had been counting the days for the last couple of weeks. It was a dream come true, and I hoped nothing would arise to spoil the night. On the drive into the city I worried: Did I have the time right--was it 7 or 7:30? Did I even bring the tickets? Did I remember to blow out that candle in the bathroom? Would he be terrible?In fact, my fears were for naught and all was perfect: We snagged a parking space on the street instead of in the parking lot, so we could avoid that mood-deflating, post-concert crawl. The venue, Portland's Merrill Auditorium, is one of the best: not too big, not too small, and with great acoustics. The ticket-holder directly in front of me was a no-show, so my vision remained unobstructed for the whole time. And Mr. Browne, who at 63 seems only to have improved with age, is still angel-faced and rail-thin with silky, brown hair. (One woman in the audience couldn't help herself and shouted out into the night, "Your hair looks great!" while others, including men, called out declarations of love.) His piano-playing was still other-worldly and magical, while his guitar--he played about twenty different ones during the evening--was by turns somber, haunting, elegiac, piercing and always spot-on. The whole thing was a dream come true, except.....
Except the sickeningly sweet smell permeating the hall wasn't of marijuana but likely a mixture of Shalimar and Old Spice. And the audience was full of old people, most of whom were fat and very out of shape. A majority of the men were bald or certainly balding, and almost all of the women had very short, very white hair. And everyone had wrinkled faces, except for Jackson himself (who I later learned via Google had had an eye job and a full face lift). They all looked like somebody's parents, certainly not us. It was grotesque! What were they doing there? I ran into the ladies room to splash cold water on my face, and with one look in the mirror my dream became a nightmare: I was one of them!
That was my last concert. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go cover all the mirrors in my house.
I had a similar experience at a Joan Baez concert last year, to which I drove many hours. The most disturbing part was the way she laughed about the old days and dismissed the ideals and politics, to which she and many of us were committed, that made so many musicians relevant. It was sad because I have never given up on those values despite my cynicism, and I would have hoped she hadn't either.
ReplyDeleteI went to see the Killers. I bought beer for younger people a 250% mark up. Then I sold their cars. I felt it all went fine and I looked great.
ReplyDeleteDeneb says: oh get over it. old is fine.
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