In spite of threatening storms on the horizon, SuperHubby, his brother, Giggles, her friend, and I, went off to a concert last night. The rock menu was: Cheap Trick, Poison and Def Leppard. Two years ago we saw Styx and Def Leppard at the same venue, because I really wanted to see Styx, mostly for my deeply and abiding lust for Tommy Shaw, and was pleasantly amazed at how much we enjoyed Def Leppard. I liked their music, yes but never felt a desire to see them in concert Now Tommy Shaw? Oh Yes, Yes, Yes.
That show was a little mellower than last nights. The crowd not so rowdy, nor so weird. Maybe the mix of bands brought out the stranger element last night, one never knows, but there were some odd balls in the house last night.
My daughter guzzled a large root beer down within a half hour, and since the volume of liquid in the cup amounted to almost the same volume of her whole body, we made several trips to the bathroom. Concert bathrooms? One of the truly most disgusting places to be, no question. On returning from one of those trips we caught the tail end of a major catfight. Can’t say what started it but there was hair pulling, fists flying, eye scratching, kicking, obscenities spewing, and beer sploshing. Until big burly guys in bright yellow shirts that screamed SECURITY, dove in and began hauling these 80’s rock-groupie clad, hair teased, drunken women away from each other. It took a few tries to settle it all down because it is most difficult to contain and subdue some wasted pissed off big hair Jersey shore cheesebo with a grudge against another wasted pissed off big hair Jersey Shore cheesebo. High entertainment value, actually. Giggles and her friend were suitably horrified, fascinated and impressed by such a show. SuperHubby wisely moved the girls a little farther away from the melee, in case it spilled over into our section of seating, because it was that close. It’s good we’re given them exposure to all aspects of Jersey life, right?
SuperHubby came back from his own potty break and whispered in my ear that he just passed some guy in a wheelchair being pleasured by some girl, in open view. People were standing around watching, he said. Part of me was all like, Oh YEAH? Where? because, Oh my god, I can so blog about that. But then I got distracted by The guy dancing up and down the aisles, playing the air guitar. Because someone has to be the air guitar hero at a concert such as this? Clearly plowed beyond comprehension, as evidenced by the glassy eyes, stumbling steps and slight drool, he was more fun to watch. I think he scared the girls more than the fight. It was probably the drool. But he was such a happy fool; it was hard not to smile.
The family of four sitting in front of us, they needed to keep a closer eye on their kids. The young boy, around 7, was not a happy concertgoer. Holding his hands over his ears, pushing his head into his Mom’s shoulder, he so did not want to be there but tried to be game. His slightly older sister was standing on her seat, bopping away to the music, so he decided to climb up on his, but him? Not so good with the balance and he started to topple over backwards. It’s a good thing SuperHubby has excellent reflexes or that boy was emergency room bound. Not the best for my guys back, this hero action, but he’s such a good guy.
When Poison was finishing up their last song and I was checking in with the girls, some woman leaned over their heads and yelled ARE YOU THEIR MOTHER? At my nod, because the volume? it was deafening and words were swallowed by it, unless someone was yelling in your face with beer breath, as she was, she flipped me a thumbs up sign and yelled CONGRATULATIONS. She responded to my quizzical look by leaning closer to my face, Dear GOD woman have a breath mint with your Heineken! to yell IT’S NEVER TO EARLY TO INTRODUCE THEM TO GOOD MUSIC! ROCK ON! And with that she stumbled away with her equally unsteady friends. Giggles’ face had contorted into some grotesque mask of horror when she leaned in close to my ear to say, “She stinks like beer.” I had to agree. Her friend just giggled at the silly woman.
I kept staring at this one guy two rows up, because no one, no one, could possible dress like that any longer. He had a puffy Mullet and sideburns with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead. A Def Leppard concert tank with cut fringe up to his sternum and bandanna’s wrapped around his biceps, his big wallet attached to his frayed ripped jeans with a chain. My eyes were constantly drawn to this dude, because holy fucknuts, it was mesmerizing to see such incredibly bad taste, pounding one fist into the air to the music and swilling beer with the other.
Cheap Trick, they were eh. A short set, a sound system not really optimized for their music, did not make for inspiring music. We got to the show after they had started their set and it was hard to focus and the noise of the crowd was not on their side. Maybe they’d be better in a more intimate venue.
Poison, they were better. Rocked out a little harder, played the standards, got the crowd motivated, especially with Something to Believe In. Exploding flame on the stage usually gets people’s attention and Brett Michaels? he’s a little media whore these days, isn’t he? Having never seen them in concert, it was fun. I know my daughter might never recover from the embarrassment of me dancing so uninhibitedly terrible in front of her and her friend, but hey, Mama’s got to get a little groove on for some Unskinny Bop, now doesn’t she? My dancing? It is the worst. When I think about it, I wince. There is no rhythm in my body, none. So I’m sure I resembled that robot from Lost in Space when he was warning Danger! Danger! with my flailing arms as my body jerked around in halting robotic moves.
Def Leppard? Oh yes, they rocked the fucking house. Hard, Hot, and Furious. Even better than the last time we saw them, I swear. They called it the Sparkle Lounge and the stage layout was bright and set for great visuals. Joe Elliot has a great voice still and the guitars were smoking. They went acoustic for 2 Steps Behind and another song, of which my tired brain cannot remember the name. A sweaty bare-chested Phil Collen kept flashing on the big screen and while he never gave me warm fuzzies, I wanted to wipe the sweat from his chest, with my tongue. Purely an atmospheric response, I’m sure, to the hot music and sexy guitar solos.
(photo's courtesy of Google, by way of someone else. I thank whoever made them available to share)
But, you see what I mean? Anyway, Def Leppard was so worth getting my “I don’t want to go” ass to the concert and I sang so loud and often I lost my voice, I danced so much my aging knees ache today and I’m still tired from the late night.
As for the weather, we have a history of attending outdoor concerts in near monsoon conditions, so why not keep up the tradition. A little rain is good for the soul, I say, and the weather Gods were kind to us last night and the few raindrops that we did feel might actually have been beer spray from lawn crowd behind us, who wanted to be generous with their libations and clouds of pot smoke that kept drifting our way from the throng of aging metal heads. All well and good for a raucous Wednesday night concert but I think my daughter and her friend may have gotten a contact high from just being in the audience. They were both rather sleepy not long after Def Leppard took the stage.
