Knocking on the door of fifty years old, I can gauge my
concert history by the number of venues I’ll never see again. No more Cobo (Billy Joel), Olympia (Mitch
Ryder), Premier Center (Chuck Berry), Pontiac Silverdome (Elton John)…and that
doesn’t begin to list the many smaller venues that have turned into fern bars,
restaurants or parking lots where a younger version of myself shouted at the
top of his lungs for a musical hero.
I saw The Highwaymen (Cash, Nelson, Jennings and
Kristofferson) play a game of “top this” one night in 1989. I enjoyed an evening with B.B. King at Hill
Auditorium (when he could have sold out much larger arenas in the area) before
old age turned him into a nostalgia act.
The Eagles on a warm summer night at Tiger Stadium is an evening I’ll
never forget, as is a recent visit with Bob Seger, who I’d managed to miss
repeatedly during his (and my own) youth.
A couple of years back, Roger Daltrey put more energy into a forty-five
minute opening set than the headliner, Eric Clapton, put into two hours of slow
guitar jams. And while most of the
attendees knew it wasn’t really a “Farewell” tour for The Doobie Brothers, we
were pretty damn sure it was the last time we’d see them with lead singer Michael
McDonald. I would tell you about the first time I saw Jimmy Buffett, but I
think I remember more about the hangover than the concert.
That being said, my wife and I can still get excited about
going to a musical event. We have a
short list of people we want to see before they retire, stop touring or drop
dead. The opportunity to catch Paul
Simon and Sting on one bill was irresistible, so we motored out to Auburn Hills
last weekend to catch their show at The Palace. I would have to say we enjoyed it…but our criteria has changed.
We pulled into the parking lot an hour early, as is my bent,
and with the parking lot nearly empty we decided to plant ourselves four spaces
from the exit to the expressway. We
knew it would be a nasty walk into The Palace, facing the wind on a night where
the temperatures were in the single digits, but we congratulated ourselves for
our forward thinking while we enjoyed a pizza we’d picked up a mile from home
and a six-pack I’d grabbed at a party store.
Total cost of the tailgate party: Ten bucks and change. A half-hour before the show, we bundled up
and put our heads down, walking into a bracing wind to the nearest entrance.
When we gave our tickets to the attendant, she scanned them
and said, “Section 122. That’s,
uh…right behind me.” We looked twice to
be sure. So many times, we’d found the
perfect parking spot, only to find out we’d have to walk around the whole arena
to reach our seats. This was a boon, as
my wife and I have one good knee between us and she won’t share. Crossing the concourse, I looked up to see
the nearby amenities and discovered our section was flanked by restrooms, one
for women and one for men. There was a
beer depot, staffed but un-crowded, even closer. As we are persons of a certain age, we availed ourselves of the
sanitary facilities before entering the arena, knowing that any trip up the
long stairways for relief or a libation would be met with days worth of
patellar pain. Yeah, we bought beers,
too. I mean, we’re not Mormons.
We showed our tickets again to the guardian of the lower
bowl and were shown through the curtain.
Bracing myself for the long descent, I gripped the stair rail and hoped
for the best. Instantly, Kathy said,
“Oh, Row Q. This is us.” Two steps down and two seats over, the two
of us settled in. There would be no
quandaries as to whether or not the long trip up the stairs would be worth
it…we could zip out at any time, missing only our least favorite songs.
The folks around us were nice and no one drank too
much. People swept their legs out of
the way on the rare occasions we needed to reach the aisle over the following
three hours. Though we weren’t hungry in the least, we feasted
on a three-dollar giant Kit-Kat bar as a dessert.
When the show came to an end, we headed to the parking
lot. Having read the reviews of the
show as it crossed the country, we knew exactly which song would be the last of
the encores. While nearly eight
thousand music fans begged fruitlessly for another song, my wife and I settled into my truck,
took another slice of pizza and coasted onto the expressway toward home.
The next day, I detailed the evening’s adventure to my
teenaged son. He nodded as I spoke,
remaining uncharacteristically silent when I had finished. After a moment, he asked, “So…how was the
concert?”
