Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Liv loves The Wizard of Oz. She loves it to the point of obsession. When she first discovered the movie, somewhere around the time she was three, she put it in constant rotation. She cried and carried on when anyone wanted to watch anything else. I told her about how back in my day, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, we only got to watch it once a year. Her reaction clearly demonstrated that she felt that this was tantamount to abuse.

She had the movie. She had the soundtrack. And she had the ruby slippers. Oh boy, did she have the ruby slippers. She had ruby slippers through at least three size changes. I think she may have worn her ruby slippers to bed.

She didn't stop there, either. My mom made her a (spot on!) Dorothy dress for Halloween one year. She wanted to wear it every day. When I told her she couldn't wear it EVERY day, because I had to WASH it sometimes, tantrums of epic proportions ensued. Memaw to the rescue. She didn't make her another full on costume, but she made her two little blue gingham jumpers. So now my daughter could dress like Dorothy every day. And did. When the weather got cold, making it necessary to cover her bare legs, more tantrums occurred. "Dorothy does not wear tights! Dorothy wears blue socks!" I told her she could wear blue socks over her tights, but that wasn't authentic enough. I finally found some flesh colored tights in toddler sizes and she reluctantly acquiesced. She still shot me the stink eye when she had to put them on, but at least her little legs were covered.

She yelled at me one day for having been so thoughtless as to name her Olivia, when clearly she should have been named Dorothy. She asked if there was anything we could do to change it and make it right.

She had a blue gingham comforter and my sister painted a mural of The Emerald City on her wall. Above her bed we wrote, "There's no place like home." We had the playbill from the local Childrens' Theater Company's production of The Wizard of Oz framed. She had the Barbie's and the Madame Alexander's as well as every other toy available. She had music boxes and snow globes and figurines. If this makes her sound spoiled, rest assured, she was not. She was just so obsessed - she really had little else. It made her pretty easy to buy gifts for, because she absolutely did not mind duplicates.

Once she became old enough to read - she'd ditched the costumes by this point, but the room decor remained - she started obtaining copies of the book. She had several - picture books and abridged versions and unabridged versions and pop-up books and annotated versions. Tom read an original version to us as a family between Harry Potter books one year. Do you know I'd never actually read it before that? Once she learned that the ruby slippers were really supposed to be silver - well - let's just say there was a minor crisis of faith and leave it at that.

Somewhere in that time period Tom and I read Wicked. We didn't exactly become obsessed (Giving your suburban home a steampunk makeover isn't unusual, right? Right?), but we did squeeeee every time Gregory Maguire released a new book. When the musical came out, there were large displays in Barnes and Noble (a frequent haunt of cool folks like us) and Liv was immediately intrigued. "This is about The Wizard of Oz?" Tom and I explained the basic premise, and she was in. We bought her the soundtrack and it got heavy rotation. The show, however, was a little out of our financial reach.

It toured once and we had to miss it. That was a rough month.

Liv became old enough to read Wicked. And she did. Several times. She informed me that the name Elphaba (the Wicked Witch, if you've been living under a rock and didn't know) came from L. Frank Baum's initials. Try to pronounce LFB and see what you get. I hadn't known that. If you hadn't known it either, you learned it from Liv, not me.

I loved watching her grow - watching her follow her own yellow brick road, if you'll indulge me. From the little girl in the ruby slippers to the young lady discussing the politics of Wicked; watching her go from black and white to vivid color to muted hues.

Last night? We finally took her to see Wicked. It was a good show. Changes were made from the book (which I read once and Tom read twice and Liv read countless times) but we all agreed that they worked. The music and showmanship were amazing. Far better than that, though, was the look I saw on my daughter's face every time I glanced her way. It was like the culmination of a lifelong dream for her. My baby girl was experiencing pure, uncut joy.

Maybe I should've let her buy three T-shirts instead of just one. I'm going to have to wash it SOME time.

Denied!

I went to see Heart last night with my family.

I was going to write some typical squealy fangirl fare about how the first album I ever bought with my own money was Dreamboat Annie. I would've probably mentioned my massive girl crush on Ann Wilson. I might've mentioned that their concert shirt is my new favorite favorite - leave it to Ann and Nancy to offer a shirt that is feminine and pretty and SOFT and still has a respectable amount of sleeve. I will wear no sleeves before I'll wear those dumbass cap sleeves that draw a line across the fattest part of my arm. But not my girls. They gave me a PRETTY shirt that I'll actually wear. I love them so much. (Well - they didn't - you know - GIVE it to me - but they provided me with the opportunity to buy it - which is more than I can say for most bands who draw a very firm line between masculine and feminine and the pretty, feminine options are never an option for ME.)

I would've told you about the anticipation I felt - knowing they were backstage - knowing I was already breathing their air. I would've told you about the way I grabbed Liv's hand and screamed when I saw Ann preparing to walk onto the stage. I would've told you about how Nancy still looks like she did when I saw them last - in 1980 - touring Bebe le Strange. Her guitar hero poses are so full of girl-power and feminine/ballsy paradox that it makes me weep in a happy confusion of vulnerability and strength. I love them so much. (I said that before? No apologies. It bears repeating.)

I would've told you that I was singing every word (well, lip synching every word - no-one had paid their hard-earned to hear me sing). I would've probably mentioned that Liv leaned over during Dog and Butterfly and asked me to help her remember which song it was so she could learn it when we get home.

I would've told you all of those things and more, and you would've been pea green with envy.

But these dreams have a way of ending like a needle scratching it's way across a beloved LP. It just hasn't been that kind of summer for me.

About five songs in, I allowed my adoring gaze to leave the stage and take in my family. I just wanted to see if they were all still 'with' me. I wanted to see my own enjoyment reflected back at me through their faces. To my immediate right, Liv was digging it. To my far right, Tom was digging it. But where was Lea? She was sitting down; shaking and crying. Panic attack. Shit. "Do you want to leave?" I mouthed - concerned. It was very hot and crowded. She shook her head in the negative - not wanting to ruin this night for me. Tom offered to take her to the car and said they'd just wait it out in the car until the show was over. I said, no, we came as a family, we'll leave as a family. I thought if we could just get her out onto the concourse, away from the stifling heat and crowd she'd be ok. We could listen to the rest of the show from there and watch it on the screens. Not exactly the experience we'd hoped for, but it would do. (I think the title of my memoir might be in that last sentence somewhere...)

We made our way out of our row (To the great annoyance of all the people we walked in front of, I'm sure. Sorry.) and were immediately descended upon by a team of rent-a-cops. Just one couldn't have possibly handled the imminent threat of a family trying to get some air for their shaking, crying child. They were - hmmmm - less than gentle. They added a heaping dose of humiliation to what was already an unpleasant situation.

We left - about halfway through the show. I spent the whole walk back to the car composing a strongly worded letter to the venue in my head. (It never made it any further than that. They rarely do.) It would've talked about all the people who were actually breaking rules and being public nuisances while their crack security staff concentrated on keeping the perimeters safe from the clear danger presented by my little family trying to make it's way to an exit. It would've talked about money and how long we have to save to buy 4 tickets (and 4 T-shirts) for a show, but that we do it, because exposing our children to music is a priority of ours. It would've talked about how long I've been attending this festival (somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 years) and how, thanks to the quick and completely thoughtless actions of their security folks it is unlikely that I will return. I was attending this festival before I had my children - before I met my husband. It has been a part of me. I am SO over it. My little boycott will hurt no-one but me. I'm not stupid. I know this.

For anyone who might be wondering, Lea started breathing easier as soon as we walked out, and by the time the air conditioner in the car was hitting her full blast, she was fine.

I'm fine, too. It was only one concert. What's that - really - in the grand scheme of things?

Guilty Pleasures

We've all got them.

Maybe your day isn't complete until you've watched Kathie Lee and Hoda.

Maybe when no one is around you sing Barry Manilow hits from the seventies and weep a little bit when you get to the part about it all being very nice but not very good.

Maybe you can't wait for the next Danielle Steel project to hit the bookshelves.

(Two lies and a truth in the above, regarding the guilty pleasures attributed to yours truly, by the way. I don't think you'll have to tax your powers of deduction too hard to figure it out.)

It became apparent this morning that I actually have quite a few - maybe more than my share. I was reading the paper over the breakfast table when I said aloud, "We ought to go to this!"

"To what, Momma(kin)?"

"There's a book signing today."

"What's the book?"

"It's a rockumentary (if you will)."

"About who?"

"Who's my number one guilty pleasure?"

"Kid Rock?"

"No."

"Beastie Boys?"

"No."

"Lady Gaga?"

"Crap. I have a lot of guilty pleasures, don't I?"

"Yep. Is it about show tunes?"

"No. What does that say about me? That I have so many guilty pleasures?"

"That you harbor too much guilt?"

Mouths of babes.

"Yeah.... I don't wanna play this game anymore. It's about Poison."

A guilty pleasure two-fer, if you will. I like good music (and I like Poison). I like good literature (and I like rock tell-alls). And I am on vacation. If you can't indulge yourself with a double shot of guilty good stuff on vacation, when can you?

I've been taught not to judge a book by it's cover, but I think this cover just might be the selling point when I ask Tom to take me to the mall on what is HIS vacation, too. He makes fun of my occasional fondness for trashy books and trashy bands, but he can't deny his own fondness for trashy women. (You know - looking at them - not marrying them or dallying with them. Just so we're clear.)

Oh my God, look what the cat dragged in.

Ok, I showed you (a small portion of) mine - you show me yours! What are your guilty pleasures? Inquiring minds want to know! (You got that reference, didn't you? Aha! You read supermarket tabloids! I knew it!)

ETA: I went to the book signing and met the author, Christopher Long, who was quite gracious and charming. One of the primary photographers was there, too, and she even took a little time to talk to Lea about rock photography. Haven't read it yet, so I'll let you know. (Goodreads, ya'll!!! Join it and make me your friend, if you haven't already! Check the sidebar!)

Once I Rose Above the Noise and Confusion

As part of our city's Picnic With the Pops series, we went to see Kansas last night backed by the Columbus Symphony Orchestra. When I heard about the show, I thought it would be an interesting experience for Lea, who plays in an orchestra but loves rock - yes even classic rock. EsPECially classic rock. So we purchased lawn seats and marked the calendar.

The weather yesterday was oppressive. It was really hard to even move. But we carried on, like the wayward sons that we are. (I stretched for that one. Sorry.)

Gates opened at 6 and the show was scheduled to begin at 8:15. Since we just had lawn seats, we wanted to be there as early as possible. We packed up our chairs and our coolers, consulted the interwebs as to how to best avoid orange barrels, and off we went. Just as we were about to hit sit still traffic anyway, I turned to my handsome husband and I said, "Did you bring the tickets?" I usually don't even ask things like that because I am SO fearful of being perceived as a nag, but the look on his face when I queried proved that it was a valid question. And that he had not. So we took the next exit, went home for the tickets, and headed out with a new plan of action that would have us hopefully avoiding further delays. We would not be standing there, waiting for the gates to open, at 6:00, though, as is our usual way.

We actually don't even refer to being early (or PROMPT, for that matter) as being early, we refer to it as being Howardly. And since we are all Howards, when we are not Howardly, we get a little uneasy.

When we finally arrived on the scene, the lawn was quite full already. Groups of people were set up with picnics that put our coolers of beer and water to shame. I passed a group who had a beautiful rose and hydrangea centerpiece on a white tablecloth that was otherwise covered with rather gorgeous looking canapes. They were drinking white wine. Lots of people were drinking white wine. Damn. White wine would've been a WAY better choice. We were newbies. What can I say?

We found a spot behind a party that said things like, "Would anyone care for more shrimp roll?"

We said things like, "How 'bout a beer?"

"Soitenly!"

"Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk."

(It's because Tom has a Three Stooges bottle opener. We're elegant that way. *belch*)

I mentioned the oppressive heat, right? I don't want to be one of those people who constantly bitches about the weather (some of you may remember my SAD winter), but it would be difficult to talk about the evening without at least giving it a mention. It was definitely a factor. I raided the cooler and tucked an ice cube into my ponytail (which had started out low and age appropriate, but when even that much hair on my neck became unbearable, it went high). That helped, a little. So I took another and rubbed my arms and then my girls' arms. And then I tucked one discretely into my brassiere. Decorum is highly overrated - I achieved a little comfort on an otherwise relentlessly uncomfortable day.

When I slipped my shoes off to try to cool my feet a little bit, my daughter commented on how swollen they were. I had that momentary panic wherein I envisioned myself not being able to put them back on again. "Your feet are so swollen - they're HUGE!" One daughter said, poking them.

"And you have hair on your toes."

Shoot. I'd been meaning to take care of that...

"You're like a Hobbit." This from my loving husband.

Some women's lovers compare them to a summer's day... Mine? A fictional creature with large, furry feet. I am livin' the dream, I tells ya. Livin' the dream.

The orchestra took the stage promptly at 8:15. Why have I not heard the Columbus Symphony Orchestra before? Oh. Probably because I am not a huge fan of orchestra music and I usually respond to the prospect of it by wrapping an air noose around my neck and pulling it taut until my tongue protrudes and my eyes cross. Mime is money. But this (because of the 'pops' element, I'm sure) was very accessible, even to an oaf like me. The conductor, Albert-George Schram, was supremely entertaining - I'm tempted to even call him - oh, what the heck - he was adorable.

When they broke for intermission, the sun had almost set. The evening became downright pleasant, with a gentle breeze. More talking about the weather. I'm sorry. When did I turn into the sort of person who talks about the weather? Ugh.

When they took the stage again, it was with Kansas. I really enjoyed the show - the full orchestra was really suited to their prog-rock sound. During one of the first songs they played, Liv compared them to Nightwish (as per Wiki: an award winning Finnish symphonic metal band). That's a high compliment from her, as she digs them a lot. It is a testament to my age, no doubt, that I really enjoyed sitting in my chair the whole time and clapping politely at the end of each song. That was - new - for this squealy fangirl, and I didn't hate it at all. Now I told you about the weather, right? It's not so much the heat, it's the humidity. Now get off m'lawn, y'damn hoodlums.

Kansas. Their music was an integral part of my high school years. It was wonderful to get those memories flowing - just in time for my high school reunion next week...

Kansas: I close my eyes - only for a moment, and the moment's gone...

Liv: It's called blinking, dude. People do it all the time. Drama much?

Kids today. No sense of romance. No thirst for enlightenment.

Dude.

Mommy's Alright, Daddy Not So Much

We had plans to see Cheap Trick last night. The blog title was set before we acquired the tickets: Mommy's Alright, Daddy's Alright, They Just Seem a Little Weird. It's blog titling 101. Easiest thing in the world. Perfect fit.

Except Tom didn't feel well. He was knocked out by a nasty cold? Allergies? I don't know, whatever the reason he was feeling crummy. So crummy, in fact, that he opted out of the show. My perfect title. Denied.


On the way to the concert, our heat wave was broken by a downpour. With the windshield wipers on full speed I was still blinded. I turned to the girls and asked, "How much do you want to see Cheap Trick?" They looked at me like I was both new here AND smoking crack. They weren't gonna let a little rain keep them down. I'll take this moment to digress and point out that last week when I borrowed Billy Joel's Cold Spring Harbor from the library, both girls said, and I quote, "I can't believe you're listening to this when there's Cheap Trick in your car."
















Fine.

Wouldn't be my first concert in the rain.

As we stood in line for the general admission show (numbers 13, 14 and 15 in line we were, thank you very much) I thought of another good blog title: Three Out of Four Howards Agree: Cheap Trick is Worth Getting Wet For. I hadn't thought about the double entendre evident in that one until just this moment when I typed it out (at the time, my meaning was infinitely obvious). I probably made the right call not going with that one, though.

As the rain died down, the line behind us grew. We - and the handful of people in front of us - were soaked to the skin. A guy came out in a Dream Police uniform, handing out VIP passes. Did he even approach us drowned rats who did the hard-core waiting through the storm? Aw, you know the answer to that. He approached groups of pretty women in their 20's. I suppose that's good. Pretty women in their 20's never get any breaks. Their lives are pretty tough. The world is most unkind to them. It was nice of him to bring a little sunshine to their dismal existence. (VIP passes, BTW, weren't - like - a backstage, meet the band sort of thing - it just meant they got to sit at one of the VERY FEW tables with chairs at a general admission outdoor concert.)


Oh well.

The girls walked in the gate before me and as my bag was being inspected, a guy giving out wristbands approached them and asked if they'd be drinking tonight. He was going to give my 14 year old and my 12 year old drinking wristbands! Never fear, MamaBear is here. "They will NOT!" He laughed and acted like he wasn't ready to give them each one (which he totally was). Oh, if I'd sent my babies to that concert alone or with friends...

T-shirts were purchased and we found an excellent spot in the wet grass (just behind the VIP section...) We spread our blanket and engaged in some people watching while we waited. The T-shirt slogans were excellent, but the mullet count stood at a disappointing zero. My favorite T-shirt of the night? Liver is evil. It must be punished. Runner up was a Blue Oyster Cult tour shirt from 1974. I wish I'd kept all of my concert T-shirts. I always wore them until they were unwearable then threw them out. Regrets.

A couple years ago I predicted the results of the presidential election based on T-shirts spotted at summer festivals. This year I'm gonna go out on a limb and predict a surge in popularity for hats, particularly for men. That might be wishful thinking - I really like hats. When I mentioned this prediction to my daughters they pointed out that there might have been so many men wearing hats because a band who hit it's peak of popularity in the late 70's is bound to have more than it's share of bald or balding fans. My girls are smart-asses. I don't know where they get it.

Squeeze opened up. They brought me coffee in bed and tempted me with the fruit of another. I thought they looked great in their suits and skinny ties. Took me right straight back (to when I was a pretty girl in my 20's and the world was a much kinder place). My girls thought the suits made them look old. Liv pointed out that the drummer couldn't possibly play his best constricted by a suit. They were clearly unimpressed. I was meh. They were fine, but they weren't who I was there to see. As far as openers go, I don't think it was a very good fit - which is always sort of unfair.


As the roadies took the stage to clear out Squeeze's gear and set up Cheap Trick's, my girls were enthralled. I sat back and watched them watch - making comments to each other as each item was brought out or unveiled. The lights went down, the spotlight came up, and we were treated to a pop-culture medley of Cheap Trick references and covers. My personal favorite?

Lisa: Haven't you ever listened to yourself on a tape recorder?
Homer: I prefer to listen to Cheap Trick.

Followed, of course, by Apu singing Dream Police. For a pop-culture junkie like me there really couldn't have been a better way to precede the show. Fun stuff.When they finally took the stage, the girls and I went into full-on squealy fangirl mode. I've seen Cheap Trick several times and I have never been disappointed. Robin Zander and Ric Nielsen are total package entertainers. (Also, Robin Zander is kind of sex on a stick - but I promised myself I wasn't going to objectify men anymore. Of course I've also promised myself I'd never drink again, on occasion, so...) They pulled out all the old stuff (No, that was not a double entendre. Get your mind out of the gutter.) and it sounded as good as it did the first time around.

They performed one song from their Vegas Sgt. Pepper show - Magical Mystery Tour. I didn't like it at first, but by the middle I dug it a lot. I think covers of very popular songs are bound to hit you that way. It just took me a few moments to get into a new mode. Once I stopped trying to hear the Beatles and allowed myself to hear Cheap Trick, it was fun.


Lea was thrilled to see Tom Petersson playing his 12 string bass (Heaven Tonight was the first album recorded using a 12 string bass. If you didn't know that before, you've learned something new. You can go back to bed. Tell your boss/spouse/kids I said so.) Bun E. Carlos is not touring with them, although he is very much still in the band. Their tour drummer? Daxx Neilsen. Son of the venerable Rick Neilsen. Nepotism is alive and well and living in rock and/or roll. Rick and Tom switched their instruments out after almost every song - providing us with not only a kick-ass concert, but the opportunity to see and hear some of the coolest instruments around. Did the 5 necked guitar make an appearance? Sure did, but not until the call-back.


This was the opening night of their summer tour - I always love it when I get to hear a band early in the tour. If they come to your town, I hope you get a chance to see them. WELL worth the price of admission.

Feel better, Tom - concert season is just getting underway!

Hair Bands

Concert season is upon us.

I love concert season.

I love sitting outside listening to music. I love sitting inside listening to music, too - but just like everything tastes better at a picnic, everything sounds better outside. That statement is probably wildly acoustically inaccurate and my musician friends will be down my throat about it, but I think you know what I mean. It's a whole - thing.

Yep, I love concert season. But I hate the price-gouging and the monopoly the evil Ticketmaster empire holds. When our family of four decides to get tickets for a show, we know we'll essentially be paying for a fifth ticket in service charges. I don't begrudge them their right to make a buck - they do provide a service - but it has gotten really out of hand. You're going to charge me for the convenience of printing my tickets out on my own computer? Really?

And then the prices of the shows themselves.

Yesterday a friend complained that she'd wanted to take her son to see Eric Clapton and Roger Daltrey (OMG, I KNOW! Right???) but that the ticket price (pre- service charges and convenience fees) was $200. I thought my love for Roger Daltrey knew no bounds. Turns out I was wrong. I don't know where the boundary is, exactly, but it is well before the $200 mark - $800 for my family - before service charges! For that kind of change, I want Roger Daltrey to brush my hair while Eric Clapton gives me a pedicure. (Looks dreamily off into the distance... Roger Daltrey (looking exactly like he looked in Tommy when he went through the mirror) is brushing my hair with his shirt off and...)

Whooo! Back to reality!

A reality where I don't have $200 to plunk down for a show.

That same night - last night - the Scorpions were slated to appear in my town on their farewell tour. I didn't have tickets to that, either, because my daughter had an orchestra concert last night - and also because we can only budget so much money for concerts in 'the season' and that one didn't make the cut. Lead singer from the Scorps was put on bedrest - their appearance was canceled. Cinderella - who were scheduled to be the warm-up band - decided to do the show anyway. They were here - why not? They knew, however, that the ticketholders hadn't plunked down their money to see them, so THEY DID THE SHOW FOR FREE. How patently awesome is that?

I know - comparing Clapton/Daltrey to Cinderella is like comparing apples to tigers - also, it might border on the blasphemous. But come on! They did. The show. For free. They did the show so that disappointed fans would be less disappointed. I was so impressed with them - with that. If we hadn't had another gig to attend, we would've been there for sure - buying T-shirts and showing our support.

(Looks dreamily off into the distance... Tom Keifer (looking exactly the way he looked on the cover of Night Songs) is teasing my hair...)

Eat the Rich

In case you're new here and haven't figured it out based on the title of the blog, I love Aerosmith. My love is pure and true and undaunted by criticism, general or specific. The Bad Boys from Boston rock my world and the Toxic Twins have had featured roles in a dream or two (sometimes even when I was asleep). Love. Them.

When they shared the stage with Britney Spears and N'Sync during the halftime show at Super Bowl XXXV in 2001, I cringed. I didn't approve - I knew it was a joke - I hated it and what it did to their reputation - but I still loved them.

(a long clip which, curiously, does not appall me nearly as much as it did when it originally aired)

When they sold their music and images to Guitar Hero, I knew it was kind of a sell-out, but I also figured it would get their music out there for a whole new fanbase. I got it.

Guitar Hero: Aerosmith - Mama Kin - Expert

(Yeah, I gave you Mama Kin. Like I had an option...)

Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster? Well. A band's gotta make a living somehow.

Commercial for Gap? Forgiven. (If only because of how smokin' JoePerry looks in the last couple seconds of the ad.)

Well-documented in-fighting and stints in rehab? They're only human.

I've forgiven my boys a lot.

But lottery tickets? I understand this has been going on up in their neck of the woods for a while now, but my introduction came yesterday when I heard an ad for them on the radio. Thank goodness Tom was driving, because I might have put us in a ditch.

Lottery tickets? With a Dream On second chance drawing because you don't want to miss a thing? (their words, not mine - I promise) Oh, this is a new low. We're heading fast into KISS territory.

Lottery tickets. Man. (Scroll down to the bottom of this link to see the band picture. Nobody is happy about or proud of this.)

I love you guys, but DAMN you make it hard sometimes.

I think the J. Geils band expressed my feelings best:

Love stinks.

Well - that, and:

Oh no, I can't deny it - Oh yeah, I guess I gotta buy it.

Wish me luck.

Troubadors

What a perfect show.

I think I could just post their play list and it would be enough to make everyone who has reached a certain age sigh in happy reminiscence. These are the songs that become tangled up in our very existence; rendering themselves inseparable from the memories of times past. I sat next to a long-lost/new-found friend who leaned over to me at one point and whispered, eyes shining, clearly retrieving a memory she hadn't dusted off in years, "A friend wrote that lyric in my high school yearbook."

You've got to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and show the world all the love in your heart. ~ Carole King, Beautiful

I reached over to hold my husband's hand. I reached across him with my other hand to hold my daughter's hand. I leaned my head into my friend's shoulder. Tom thought I was being a little silly, I could tell, but it was a wonderful moment.

Shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel. ~ James Taylor, Shower the People

My best friend in the middle school years and I listened to her Tapestry album so many times I'm surprised we didn't wear it out. We sang every song, word for word; note for note, over and over and over. We hadn't experienced many of the complexities of life yet, but Ms. King paved the path for us. That friend was taken from this world in a most untimely manner a few years back, making those memories even more poignant for me.

It doesn't help to know that you're so far away. ~ Carole King, So Far Away

They closed the second set, as I'd suspected they would, with You've Got a Friend. They performed it as a beautiful duet, sitting side by side, their long and loving friendship obvious in their body language. Tom and I played that song to introduce the bridal party at our wedding.

Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there - to brighten up even your darkest night. ~ Carole King, You've Got a Friend

It was an amazing show, performed on a revolving stage to make every seat in the house a good seat. Carole King is gorgeous. I don't mean gorgeous for her age (68, according to the ever reliable Wikipedia), I mean flat out gorgeous. It would be tempting to say that she seemed most comfortable seated behind the piano, because that certainly was a natural placement for her, but she seemed equally at ease strapping on a guitar for one or two songs - indulging in guitar hero poses that delighted me to my core. When she was not seated behind the piano, she owned the stage - dancing, engaging the audience, and smiling - always smiling - her beautiful, wide, easy, real smile - all in ridiculously high and skinny heels. Well, you just go on and GO, girl!

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for, and if I make you happy I don't need to do more ~ Carole King, Natural Woman

James Taylor's voice has not changed a bit. He presents as humble, in a manner that is charming, sweet, real and - dare I say it? - sexy as hell. He looks a little older, but still younger than his 62 years (again, per Wikipedia) would indicate appropriate. But his voice? - virtually unchanged. I kept thinking that if I closed my eyes, it would be pretty easy to melt years - decades - away. I didn't, though. Not for longer than the time it took to blink. I didn't want to miss a thing.

So close your eyes, you can close your eyes; it's all right. I don't know no love songs, and I can't sing the blues anymore, but I can sing this song, and you can sing this song when I'm gone. ~ James Taylor, You Can Close Your Eyes

I thought You've Got a Friend would be the end. When you're Carole King and James Taylor, where do you go from there? How could there be a more perfect ending for this show? They left the stage to thunderous applause and I did not anticipate an encore. Except - the house lights didn't come up. And that means...

Up on the roof we went. I was pretty emotional at this point. These two amazing and prolific talents had stirred up quite a lot of memories. I tried to subtly wipe a tear from my eye without being noticed. In doing so, my head turned slightly to the left, and there was my friend rubbing both eyes with her fists. I threw subtlety to the wind. It's highly overrated anyway. We went ahead and openly wept. It had been quite a ride.

When this old world starts getting me down, and people are just too much for me to face, I'll climb right up to the top of the stairs, and all my cares just drift right into space. ~ James Taylor, Up On The Roof

I'm not a huge fan of live albums, but I may buy this one. And I'm going to listen to it with my eyes closed.

Iggy and Patti and Me

I imagine every adopted person out there has, at one time or another, worked up a romantic fantasy about their origin. I've had a few - my strongest and most persistent theory is that I was fathered by Iggy Pop. Don't laugh. You don't know what you'd come up with if you had to invent a fantasy bio-dad. This one occurred to me because a few years ago - must've been his birthday or something - I heard his age and decided that that was just about the right age to have sired me. I liked the idea of some little groupie fan (pre-Stooges, but only by a little bit) turning up pregnant in the days before Roe v Wade and carrying to term her (unrequited) love child, giving it - me - up because she knew she could never raise me properly alone. Or maybe just because the Rolling Stones were getting together around that time and following them would be a lot easier unencumbered by a kid. Who knows? Anyway. All fantasy and conjecture, of course. Don't want Mr. Pop coming after me for slander. Ah, you see that? He even has Pop right in his name. You can SEE how a girl's thoughts might turn...

I am in the process of reading Patti Smith's autobiographical Just Kids. Ms. Smith, by the way, is such a beautiful writer that I think a new word needs to be invented for what the rest of us do, because it's just not fair to use the same word to describe this and that. Her writing exists on a completely separate plane. But I've digressed. In the opening chapters she talks about giving a baby up for adoption when she was nineteen. Do you know what a sentence like that DOES to a person who was adopted in the 60's? I love my Poppa Iggy, but Patti Smith? And with the added legitimacy of her actually having given up a child in the same era? I went positively weak in the knees. I didn't even need to work up a fantasy, she'd written it all out - and in words that read like art. I nearly wept. It was all too much.

I looked it up. Come on. You would've, too. Her child was a boy and he was born in 1965. I'm, um, a girl, and I was born in 1962. It was fun for a second or two, though.

Good news, Iggy. You're back in.

Bieber Fever

Wait, wait, come back!!! It's not contagious, and we don't have a documented full blown case of it in our house, although there has been some possible exposure. You're pretty safe, I think. It's all good.

My girls are not really into his music, so my familiarity had been limited. I saw him on The View flirting with Barbara Walters, so my first impression was that he was a sycophantic little jackass with a silly haircut.

A couple weeks ago, while enjoying a nice frosty drink at Sonic and listening to Sonic radio, One Less Lonely Girl came over the airwaves. My eldest groaned and covered her ears.

"Make it stop!"

"Who is this?"

"Justin Bieber. He SUCKS!"

"Don't say that, he does not." This declaration came, very surprisingly, from our youngest - whose tastes tend to run even harder stronger and faster than Tom's and mine.

"Do you LIKE him?"

"I don't know. Probably not. Maybe. I don't know. But I do know that he makes some of my friends very happy. And anything that makes my friends happy can't suck. Even if I don't like it myself."

"You like Justin Bieber!" my eldest sang, tauntingly.

"I'm a twelve year old girl! I'm supposed to!"

"Do you want his CD?" continued the taunting song, "because you LO-O-OVE him?"

"NO!" a pause, "maybe..."

That Sunday morning we didn't fast forward through his stint as musical guest on SNL when he appeared with Tina Fey. It wasn't my cup of tea, but I'm not exactly his target demographic. He was in a couple sketches. He was tolerable. Cute, even. He looked - safe. He looked like every shaggy haired boy with dreamy eyes I idolized in my own youth. I got it.

But more than that - and possibly the reason I was able to step back and get it - was that my daughter's words rang true: Anything that makes my friends that happy can't suck.

I remember being very happy in the mid-nineties when boy bands made a comeback. I was well into adulthood at the time, so - again - it wasn't my cup of tea - but it was so nice to glance at the covers of '16' and Tiger Beat on the news stands and see these cute, young, safe boys. The eighties saw bands like Van Halen, KISS and Motley Crue gracing their covers. Now I liked me some DLR in the eighties. Oh yes I did. The following is from a story about my first apartment that I posted at Portable Magic:

We bought ourselves a poster of David Lee Roth – 1984 was when he was arguably at the height of his hotness – stepping out of a swimming pool. The poster cut off just below the hollow beneath his hip bones. We knew he probably wasn’t naked, but it was provocative enough that we were free to imagine that he was. It was – distracting, all right.

Little girls shouldn't be reading Tiger Beat and '16' for that sort of distraction. I just read Nikki Sixx's autobiographical The Heroin Diaries. Little girls DEFINITELY shouldn't have been looking for THAT sort of distraction. Nope. As a twenty-something, Van Halen and the Crue were perfectly acceptable fantasy fodder. Early teens needed 'N Sync. They needed NKOTB.

They need Justin Bieber.

Rock on with your not-so-bad-little self, Justin.

If you make scores of little girls happy, I don't think you suck.

The Bon Jovi Mom

I've already regaled you with the Bo Bice incident, it may be time to share the tale of Bon Jovi Mom.

Picture it: Smalltown, Pennsylvania. 1986.

My hair was big and permed on top and shaved tight up the back, save one gloriously long rat tail. My jeans were acid washed with a paper bag waist. They were separated from my brassiere - I mean - my crop top - by about an inch and a half. My boots were white, leather, and fringed. They matched my jacket. And there was a life-sized poster of one Jon Bon Jovi on the back of my bedroom door. Oh yeah, and I was 24. Arrested Development wasn't only a canceled before its time sitcom on Fox.

Fast forward.

Picture it: Stupid Suburbs, Ohio. October 7, 2006

My eldest daughter is in fifth grade. She has decided that she is too old for a lunch box. She has also rejected the love notes that I like to stuff into said lunch box. So we compromise. She gets to brown bag, and I can write lyrics on the lunch bag. Awesome. Every morning I go to Today in Rock and Roll History and find a relevant band or song - then I quote her some lyrics (dude). On this particular day, Tico Torres' birthday in case you were wondering, I quoted her some old school Bon Jovi.

And the silly child forgot her lunch.

I realized this well before lunchtime and took it to the school. I left it for her at the office. The next time I visited the middle school office (and it wasn't much later - she forgot things a lot...) I was greeted by the whole office staff with variations of: "Hey! It's the Bon Jovi Mom!!! Hey Bon Jovi Mom!" It was the same thing every time I visited the office. Every freakin' time. "There's the one I told you about!" they'd say, one to the other. "She's the one that writes Bon Jovi lyrics on her daughters lunch bag every day!"

"I don't..."

"Hey Bon Jovi Mom!"

"I'm not..."

And they would stop me for conversation if there was Bon Jovi news. And between the two girls, I had almost four more years at that school. Luckily my youngest doesn't forget much...

Rewind just a little.

Picture it: Stupid Suburbs, Ohio. Approximately 2002.

A Bon Jovi video comes on the TV and I am busted paying attention to it. "That's your mom's boyfriend...Mommy loves him."

"But, if Mommy loves him, why did she marry you?"

"Because, sweetheart, Daddy was the first long-haired guitar player from New Jersey who looked back at her."

"Oh."

Fast forward.

Stupid Suburbs, Ohio. November 23, 2009. Dentist's office.

The whole family had dentist appointments. Lea is with the dentist, I am with Liv and Tom in the waiting room. Ellen is on the TV and, you guessed it, Bon Jovi is on Ellen. Tom and Liv both put down their books to look at me. The hygenist comes out to make sure I saw it. Because Lea spilled all my stories. Bon Jovi Mom rides again.

On a steel horse...

Sigh.

He is very good looking...

Icons: Pat Benatar and Blondie

The local DJ introducing the show said, "Can you smell that smell in the air tonight? It smells like flowers and sweat. That's the smell of an estrogen heavy hard rock show, man! Breathe deep!"

We breathed deep.

Pat Benatar and Spyder Giraldo started playing together the year The Donnas were born. They haven't stopped since. Stepping once again into the shallow end of the pool (I always like it there. The water's warmer. You can say that's because the little kids pee there, but I won't hear you. LALALALALALALA!) Pat looks amazing. The years have been kind to her. Uber kind. Dude. I'm certain that there is a portrait of her somewhere that is aging normally. That's really the only explanation I can come up with.


She didn't hit all the high notes, but that was ok. Our minds filled in the blanks. She and her band knew what the crowd wanted and they delivered it. I felt like I was in college again.

That's a real, real good thing.


Blondie was up next. Debbie Harry took the stage like she owned it. Girlfriend is 64. I looked it up. Sixty-four and dancing, strutting, posing, and generally just rocking the house.


The stage set and the band took me back to 1982. Ms. Harry herself is timeless.


Their first callback song was a punkified cover of the ridiculously inane 'My Heart Will Go On". They made THAT cool. THAT, my fine friends, is no small feat.

THAT, my fine friends, is Blondie.


And THAT, my fine friends, concludes the week of a thousand bands. Or, you know, eight. To recap:

The Prodigals

Blue Oyster Cult and Alice Cooper

Joan Jett and the B-52's

The Donnas, Pat Benatar and Blondie

You can hold up your iPhones with their lighter applications as long as you want, but there won't be an encore from me anytime soon.

Unless, you know, an opportunity knocks and I score some tickets.

Will blog for tix.

(The more observant among you might notice that there are only two tix for The Donnas, Pat Benatar and Blondie. We didn't ditch the kids that night, but we did leave them in the cheap seats. My cousin got us two sweet seats, but couldn't manage five. When I visited with the girls after The Donnas' set, I said - "It was so cool! We could see the pink bass strings! We could see the little sparkle thingy on the singer's face!" They responded, "We could tell the singer had a head." Meh, they're young. Their opportunities for sweet seats will come...)

Warming Up (That's Hot)

The Donnas - every single Donna (none of whom are named Donna) were all born in 1979. I know this because Tom looked it up. Tom could tell you their whole history. I know, 'cause he told me. When the squealy fanboy bug bit him, it bit hard. My first reaction to hearing this was, "Holy crap! I'm old enough to have been their unwed teenaged mother!" (You know, because having a child at seventeen is feasible, but marrying the boy I was dating when I was seventeen? I shudder.) My second and more prevalent reaction was, "They're THIRTY?" Because from the sixth row not one of them looked old enough to drink a legal beer. Third thought? Thank God they're thirty, because the thought of Tom getting so hot and bothered over teenagers was a little unnerving.

How cool are her pink bass strings? How cool is it that we were close enough to see her pink bass strings?

Our introduction to The Donnas came when we watched the special features included on the Detroit Rock City DVD. If you're waiting for me to apologize for or justify liking Detroit Rock City, I sure hope you're comfortable, 'cause that's not going to happen any time soon. Anyway. Here was this cute, young, girl band in KISS face make-up singing 'Strutter', rocking hard, and clearly having a ball. Not one thing wrong with that.

When The Donnas took the stage (For a mere four songs. That's how it goes when you're the warm-up band for not one but two icons.) Tom was on his feet for the whole short set. Most folks were not. MOST folks had not even showed up yet. When the set was over, he was all smiles. "I KNOW she saw me, Tam. SHE saw me and APPRECIATED me."

"She liked you, stud. Ain't no doubt."

They would've been great opening for Joan Jett. But then Tom's head might have exploded.

Next up? Pat Benatar and Blondie. And I'm still in the sixth row, center. Yeah.

Birth of a Squealy Fanboy: Joan Jett and the B-52's

Midway through the Joan Jett concert Tom turned to me and said, "I get it now."

"Get what?"

"That full body visceral reaction you have when Steven Tyler makes that noise. I think Joan Jett is my Steven Tyler."

He said something like that, anyway. It was pretty loud.

My husband had just discovered his inner squealy fanboy.

Nice.

But I got it, too. Joan Jett has replaced Dave Navarro as my favorite pocket rock star. How does so much sound come out of such a wee tiny thing? And how does a chick who represents as such a badass (one might even be tempted to say she had a bad reputation about which she didn't give a damn) present with such a contagious smile? Seriously, ya'll, her smile was brighter than the stage lights. When she went into her cover of the theme from the Mary Tyler Moore show (I KNOW! Right?) asking "Who can turn the world on with her smile?" I just wanted to say, "well it's you girl, and you should know it."


She rocks it as hard as she did when I was in college.

Also she's really hot. If you're into that sort of thing.

I think I'm gonna get a shag haircut.

I LOVE rock and roll!

so put another dime in the juke box, baby

so hurry up, and bring your juke box money

See how smoothly I segued between Joan Jett and the B-52's? My transition was considerably smoother than the actual one, which was sort of jarring. I like both bands, but I don't know whose idea it was to book them together.

It was not a great idea.

When we tried to decide who SHOULD'VE opened for the B-52's, though, we came up blank. They're sort of in a genre all their own. Lots of acts could've opened for Joan, though. Just sayin'.

Ack! Pictures were a lot more challenging after dark when flashes were prohibited!

The B-52's were just what I expected them to be. They bring the party, they do. They bring the retro, trippy, psychedelic party. They bring the strobe lights and the go-go dancing and the weirdly staccato vocal stylings for which they are known.

I was glad I got to go to the party.

Not everyone gets to hang out on Planet Claire. It's a groovy scene, for sure.

But it was a weird scene to enter from the back alley, where I'd just spent time hanging out with the bad kids in their black leather.

"Do you think she saw me, Tam?" Tom asked as we were walking out of the venue.

"Who?"

"Joan Jett. Do you think she saw me? I got my hands up really high..."

"I think she winked at you, hon. I was way jealous of your obvious connection."

I've been at this squealy fangirl thing a lot longer than he has. It's so easy to make us happy and hopeful. His giant goofy smile confirmed it.

One of us. One of us. One of us. One of us. One of us.

We All Went Down to Woodstock

In keeping with the concert theme, and in celebration of the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, a short trip down Memory Lane - this time only going back to 1994.

Forty years ago this week, when the original Woodstock was held on Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel NY, I was six. Now I reckon there were indeed six year olds at Woodstock, but none of them were the children of my parents, who harbored a deep seeded fear of hippies, weirdos and freaks.

Fifteen years ago, however, when the 25th anniversary of 3 days of love and music was held, I was way older than six. And I considered hippies, weirdos and freaks to be my peeps. I was in.

Tom and I were not dating at the time, but we were friends. Really good friends. Best friends. We decided to go to Woodstock together. (mistake #1) We lived in South Jersey at the time, which is not exactly right around the corner from Saugerties NY. We decided to go on a sponsored bus trip rather than messing with the driving (mistake #2)

I bought a cheap two-man pop up tent, just big enough for us each to unroll a sleeping bag in (mistake #3 - see mistake #1) We packed as lightly as possible, knowing that we would have very little space and no shower facilities. (misfortune #1)

We were up well before the crack of dawn, waiting in the parking lot with lots of other tired but excited Boomers and X-ers.

The ride there was uneventful. We were corralled through extensive security and eventually were on the grounds and ready to find a place to set up camp. We settled on a spot, popped the tent up, unrolled our sleeping bags and set off to explore the grounds and plot our course.

Oh, we had big plans. We were gonna see it all. One stage to the next. (mistake #4) Long before the first scheduled band played it's first note we knew THAT wasn't going to happen. The stages were quite spread out and the crowd was thick. Ridiculously thick. Before the shows even started. There would be no hopping from stage to stage.

We took our blanket and walked to the main stage. We'd be sacrificing a few things we wanted to see, but it made the most sense.

The rain started before the sun went down. (misfortune #2)

The next day we set off for the main stage again, armed only with our blanket and our still quite sunny dispositions. (Sunny being a relative term, as Tom and I are both more Eeyore than Tigger.)

The weather over the course of the weekend fluctuated between rain and scorching heat. The mud was ubiquitous. (misfortune #3) But we'd secured a decent position on the lawn (high point #1) and were determined to make the most of it.

The Rollins Band performed (high point #2) and made the whole damn trip worthwhile, no lie. I'd ALMOST be willing to do it again, just for the opportunity to have another chance to see just. that. set. Oh, kids, I do love me some Henry Rollins. He makes me feel all tingly inside. (Oh, Plankton, that's the way you're supposed to feel!) He - and his music - are just so - POWERFUL. I'm trembling thinking about it.

Ahem.

There was a blanket full of teenagers spread out behind us. They provided a moment or two of amusement for us. To whit:

Overheard at Woodstock

"Who's coming on next?"

"It says Joe Cocker."

"Who's that?"

"I don't know. Some old dude."

"I think he sang the theme for 'The Wonder Years'"

~later that evening~

"I love Nine Inch Nails. I hope they play every song they've ever played. AND MORE."

(to us) "NIN is my favorite band. Could you guys just, sort of, sit down or something during their set so I can see them better? I mean, like, you can still dance around and stuff, but I really want to see them."

" God I love NIN. I can't wait, man, I can't wait."

~one half hour later~

(announcer) "Nine Inch Nails!"

(boy behind us, curled in a fetal position) ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Metallica came on after NIN. We were so tired and cramped and miserable at that point. Earlier in the day Tom had ventured out to find nourishment. It took him the better part of an hour to make his way through the crowd to the concession stand, pay a ridiculous sum of money for a lousy Dominoes pizza and a 2-liter bottle of warm Pepsi, and find his way back to our blanket. We were both, it turned out, a little bit afraid we'd never see each other again.

We watched a little bit of Metallica's set then decided we'd be able to hear them as we walked, so we'd start back to the tent. (mistake #5)

Tom and I are in agreement that the crush we got ourselves caught up in on the way back to our tent ranks in the top five scariest moments either of us have ever experienced. The crowd sort of became an entity of it's own which moved of it's own volition. (misfortune #3) We were merely carried along with it. If we had wavered or - God forbid - fallen, we would have been trampled and killed in the mud. We had no doubt about this.

Aerosmith closed that night. We were already in our tent (and shaking like leaves after the near-crushing incident) when they started. We could hear the whole set, but we couldn't see a thing. Tom figured it wouldn't matter since I'd seen them four times already on that tour alone. (mistake #6) Tom can be so silly sometimes.

The next day opened with us cranky, muddy and sore. We brushed our teeth, spit on the ground, and threw on bandannas and that completed our grooming regimens. We could barely stand ourselves, much less each other. We both wanted to go home, but since we'd come by bus we had no choice but to wait,

When we finally did make it through the muck and the mud to the bus the next morning, we left behind our tent, our blanket, and a ridiculous amount of money. The tent and blanket had soaked up so much mud that they were too heavy to reasonably carry back to the bus. (misfortune #4) The money? Oh, hell, you know where the money went. 'Twas a festival of Peace, Music, Mud and Commercialism. (mistake #7)

So the bus load of us had all survived the same ordeal. I mean - experienced the same great event. The ride home was a lot quieter than the ride there had been. When we stopped at a rest stop, I opted to stay on the bus. Tom got off the bus to use the facilities. When he returned, having been in polite company and fresh air for 5 minutes or so, he said, "You can't even imagine how bad we smell."

The weekend had been rough on our friendship. The close quarters, the mud, the near death experience - it all took it's toll. But when we got back to my apartment, there was no need for discussion. No one would need to wait for a shower. Besides, I didn't really want either of us sitting on my furniture while waiting for the other to shower. We took one together. (high point #3)

When they held the 30th anniversary concert, we watched it on our mutual TV with a toddler in my lap and a preschooler in his. Peace, music and love prevailed. We'll skip the mud and commercialism this time around, thanks.

The Department of Youth

When, in the song 'Department of Youth', 61 year old Alice Cooper asked "Who has the power?" and 44 and 46 year old Tom and I pumped our fists and screamed, "WE DO!" the irony was probably not lost on anyone. Discussing it in the car on the way home, though, Tom and I agreed that if Alice still felt qualified to head up that particular department, we might indeed still have a little power after all.

It was the same sort of grin I get every time Roger Daltry sings "Hope I die before I get old." Glad he didn't. My g-g-g-g-generation indeed.

My generation was out in full force at the Alice concert Saturday night and so was yours. I feel confident typing that, because no matter what your generation is, it was represented. I had told you some months ago about going to the MSI concert with the girls and how our family held down both ends of the age spectrum. Not so at Alice. There were folks younger than our girls and folks older than us and everything in between. Grandparents were there with their grandchildren. The show my mother deemed far too inappropriate for me when I was fourteen has now been deemed, apparently, quite family friendly. There was a little girl right in front of me who appeared to be about seven or eight. At one point she got tired and curled up in her seat to rest. The proximity of the chairs led to her little head resting right on my knee. I don't think she was aware of that, but I sure was. And I thought it was very sweet.

Blue Oyster Cult was a fine choice for an opening act. Their band was tight. Their bass player was beyond tight. Who's playing bass for BOC these days, you ask? Well, only Rudy Sarzo, that's who. Rudy has played with Quiet Riot, Whitesnake and the venerable Ozzy Osbourne. He owns the stage like the rock star that he is. For those of you who enjoy swimming in the shallow end of the pool, he has the sort of wiry muscular build I usually (rightly or wrongly) associate with drummers. He's not what you might want to call a bad looking fellow... For those of you with more tender hearts, there was an ASL interpreter stationed off to the right side of the stage interpreting the concert. At one point Mr. Sarzo made his way over to that side of the stage and signed something directly to the folks with hearing impairments. I don't sign, so I don't know what he said, but I thought it was a sweet - um - gesture. For those of you who would rather judge a musician by his musicianship rather than his looks, sweetness, or stage presence - well, you would have been the least disappointed of all. He kicked. Ass. As the wife of a bass player and the mother of another, I tend to appreciate the bass solo more than some, but I think even those who use it as an excuse to head for the restroom would've enjoyed this. It was pretty amazing.

(a side note to the small handful of my college buddies who read this blog: When they played 'Godzilla', I tried very hard to keep my feet from touching the floor. I did. But the seats were small and my ass is large and it just didn't work out. But I did try. There was intent. And you were all remembered fondly. So that has to count for something. History shows again and again how nature points out the folly of men...)

Alice was everything I needed him to be, from his opening number ('School's Out') to his last encore (um, 'School's Out'. But with a costume change and different props - it really worked in a full circle sort of way). There was no between song banter, it was just song, song, song. When he needed to take a little break, the band played (they were pretty kickass in their own right! No divas in Alice's band, though - he OWNS that show!) All of the showmanship and theatrics were there. It was just the show I'd expected to see thirty-odd years ago. There were crazy costume changes and macabre props and almost non-stop camp.

This tour has been dubbed the 'Theater of Death' tour, with the subtitle "they keep killing him, but he keeps coming back". Alice himself was killed by guillotine, hangmans noose, poison hypodermic and iron maiden (excellent! execute him - bogus!). 'Cold Ethel' was thrown around the stage in a most cavalier fashion. 'Billion Dollar Babies' were presented and promptly beheaded (causing my children to giggle, "Memaw was right! He kills babies!"). And can I just say, that it is my sincere wish that if I ever need to be confined to a straight jacket, I would like for it to be purple and embellished and contain a hole so my hand can still hold the mike. Ya'll will see to that, right?

A personal highlight was singing 'No More Mr. Nice Guy' to Liv and having her sing it right back to me, despite the fact that she knew few if any of the actual words. It was a gist thing. It so totally rocked. My girls are total Alice fans. 'Welcome to My Nightmare'.

Tom and I agreed that we were left wanting for nothing. We had been totally entertained. If Mick still can't get no satisfaction, maybe he ought to check out an Alice show. Just sayin'.

The Bo Bice Incident

I've alluded to The Bo Bice Incident on a few occasions. I have never told the story here before, but perhaps it's time. With the Week of a Thousand Bands looming before me, I've been thinking about concerts past at the venues I'll be visiting. Saturday, when I FINALLY get to see Alice Cooper, I'll be doing so at the Ohio State Fair. The last time I saw a concert at the fair...

But wait.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

A little back story is in order.

I don't watch reality TV.

(What never? No never. Never ever? Well - hardly ever!)

I've never seen 'Survivor' or 'The Bachelor' or 'Big Brother' or even 'The Amazing Race'. I did watch the first go 'round of 'Joe Millionaire'. I am not proud of that. I am really really really not proud of that. But I'm being honest here, and I didn't want "I don't watch reality TV" to come off as high-falutin' in any way. It's just not my cup of tea. (I did watch celebreality on VH-1 for a couple seasons - not terribly proud of that, either). I didn't watch 'American Idol', though I did enjoy both seasons of 'Rock Star'.

Let me amend that.

I didn't watch season 1 of 'American Idol'. Or 2. Or 3. But for some reason, I watched season 4. I guess the planets were aligned just right or something, I don't know. Maybe it's because it was around the same time as 'Rock Star: INXS' was ending and I'd been addicted to that and needed to fill the void. I don't really remember the whys, but I watched season 4 from day 1.

And I liked Bo Bice. He was my vehicle, baby.

Flash forward to the following summer. 'Saving Jane' was warming up for Bo Bice at the State Fair. My girls loved 'Saving Jane' and wanted to go to see them. My girls were pre-adolescent at the time and the song Girl Next Door spoke to them. Heck, it spoke to me, too. But they didn't want to stay for Bo Bice.

That was ok. I was pretty much over him and was a little bit embarrassed about having been as obsessed with 'American Idol' as I had been. It wasn't the first time I'd bought tickets for a show because I liked the opening band more than the headliner.

'Saving Jane' was great, and the girls were so happy. They were also so DONE. We had had a long day at the fair before the concert. Both girls were tired ALMOST to the point of tears. It was time to go. As we made out way out, the lights went down and Bo took the stage. We were in the hallway leading out of the venue, but could still see in. He opened with Vehicle. And my knees went weak.

I stopped in my tracks and, if my family is to be believed, pulled my hair and screamed, "I LOVE YOU BO!" then mumbled repeatedly, "So much pretty. So so pretty." The kids were no longer on the verge of tears, but I guess I was. Squealy fangirl tears. What Frankie referred to in 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show' as an orgasmic rush of lust. Now they just didn't know what the hell to do. They were stunned silent. They looked back and forth between Tom and I.

"Do we need to - stay?" my husband inquired. He knew that look, and I think he might've been hoping the after effects would still be in effect when we got home, nudge nudge, wink wink. "Do YOU need to stay? I could take the kids to the car..."

He was looking quite bewildered at his point.

He expected this sort of behavior with Joe Perry.

He expected this sort of behavior with Roger Daltry.

But Bo Bice? Really?

I didn't understand it, either.

I shook my head in the negative and we headed for the car. Both girls opted to hold hands with him. I think I freaked them out pretty badly. No child should have to see their momma in the throes of squealy fangirl bliss. I followed with my head bowed in shame, feeling a little numb.

After that, any time we heard a Bo Bice song, or saw him on TV, or even heard his name mentioned I could count on at least one of my beloved family members to pull their own hair and say "so much pretty!" Luckily for me, Bo never became what you might want to call omnipresent.

They've probably forgotten it by now.

I haven't.

Crap, two out of three of 'em read this blog.

I'm screwed.

See what I do to entertain you people?

It's probably not too early to start reminding myself: Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man. Alice Cooper is just a man...

ETA: Lea wanted to clarify her tears - I figured that was her story to tell, so I glossed over it. She wanted to tell it and did so here.

It's a Small World After All

No - this isn't another post about Disney. I didn't drink the water from the ride and trip. That was Lisa Simpson.

No, mine is a story that sort of begins with my friend Kevin.


That's him in the black hat and the plaid shirt.

Kevin works at the music store where Liv takes drum lessons. He thinks she's awesome, so I think he's awesome. We talk every Thursday while she takes her lesson. He has played with a lot of big name folks and he always has a story to tell me, usually backed up by pictures or a CD or an article in a magazine. Talking to him is surreal sometimes. I am very used to him mentioning names that are familiar to me, because he's played with a lot of REALLY big names. One day, a couple months ago, he did just that. We were a few sentences past it in conversation when I realized - hey! I didn't recognize that name because he was famous! I recognize that name because I knew a guy by that name - a musician by that name - in my hometown! I made him rewind to see if I'd heard him right. Indeed I had. The bass player in Kevin's band was the guy I knew from Youth Fellowship in high school. I didn't know this guy well, but we had mutual acquaintances, most notably his brother, who I ran around with a little bit back home.

Small world.

It turns out these brothers are both now living where I now live. I looked up the one I knew on Facebook. (I do love me some Facebook.)

Tonight I was reintroduced to the other. (That's him in the plaid shorts and the white shirt, in case you were wondering.)

What a fun night.

Of course seeing someone you knew thirty odd years ago unexpectedly is a trip. (Not a 'drinking the water from the Small World ride' trip, but a trip all the same).

That was fun.

But it was a fun night all around. If it's not clear from the picture, this was a little community free concert. People came out with their lawn chairs and their blankets and hung out and listened to music in the park. I was not the only person there who kicked off my sandals. Well, technically, I was the only person who kicked off MY sandals. Other people kicked off their own sandals. Other people kicking off my sandals would've been silly. And weirdly less sanitary than going barefoot.


The wee ones put on a show of their own. They danced, they ran, they rolled down the hill. Is that not an excellent hill for rolling? Slightly older kids practiced their cartwheels and somersaults. Older kids still climbed trees and talked in the woods.

A toddler with the sweetest curls brought Tom and I into her ball game. Well, she started with me, but when she realized Tom would play, I disappeared. She was an eye-batter, that one.

I have never gone to one of these concerts before. Expect that to be rectified.

It was a perfect evening - temperate with a warm summer breeze. (Which did, indeed, make me feel fine. Thank you so much for asking.)

The band was so good. There was just so much talent - Tom and I recognized the keyboard player as the bass player in a jazz combo we used to see a lot. One of the guys had written an Emmy award winning jingle. He has an Emmy on his mantle. There was so much diversity - both in the genres they played and the talents they exhibited. Several people played different instruments. Most of them sang at least once. Crazy talent.

To the best of my knowledge they all have day jobs.

And Nickleback are millionaires.

Sigh.