I don’t know how, but I found myself at a concert on Saturday night. I started out at Poor Richards with a few Long Islands, picked up some onion rings from the cafeteria over at Marywood, and out of nowhere I was grooving along to some tunes at Battle of the Bands. It was the first time I’ve been to a concert since the turn of the century (this one) and it freaked me out.
Don’t get me wrong: I love music. Music is the only thing I can really remember for at least half of my life and I couldn’t live without it. Concerts, on the other hand, are like magnets for big dudes with hard fists. I had to swear them off — too many jagged bottle cuts will do that to you. Concerts make me feel like a warrior and sometimes that’s not a good thing. Especially in the eyes of the law.
The only band I saw was called “Yule Eric and the Danielles” and they played rocked-out Christmas songs. They sound like Deep Purple if Deep Purple ever cut a Christmas album. There was this real hot number singing back-up – one of the Danielles – and I could have sworn she was the reincarnation of the girl I took to my prom, except this one wasn’t pregnant. She had this whole Italian thing going on with a little bit of the princess from Aladdin thrown in for good measure. Trust me, she was a fox and I don’t mean the animal kind, although she did have a fox-like nose. I’d let her sing to me all night long, but I probably couldn’t afford it. Chicks like that don’t sing for free.
At around eleven, the band started playing a metal version of “Silent Night” and the whole place got kind of rowdy. Rowdy’s my specialty, so I jumped right in the middle of the pit and started bopping. Next thing I know, there’s a kid on the floor with a busted nose and I’m being hauled out onto the street by the security guards. Now I’m not one to complain, but that guy’s face really left a mark on my elbow. I’m no spring chicken anymore and my elbow can only take so much trauma. Spent some time on WebMD when I got home and it looks like I’ve got what they call menstrual cramps. Anyway, I got a bruise that looks like Mama Cass and I never got that Danielle’s number.
Now I wouldn’t say that my return to the concert scene was a bust, but it certainly could have gone better. Next time I go, I’m just going to sit in the back, nod my head, and stay away from the roughnecks. Also, I’m going to bring my brass knuckles. That’ll show those punks.