On Rock and Rolling with the Punches
My ears are still ringing from Tuesday night’s metal show at the PNC Arts Center in Holmdel, NJ. It’s a yearly summer ritual Joe and I have attended since I can recall us dating. What makes up the metal/hair band tours are bands I refer to as has-beens and which Joe might refer to as…amazing? They are the groups who ruled the early days of MTV with their debauchery and decadence as rockers with too much of everything: Too much make-up, too much hairspray, too much sex and too much alcohol. Back in the 80s you couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of these bands screeching about unrequited love, a lover’s spat or screwing love all together and just going for the good lay.
All it took for the reign of the hair band to end was one little word that came straight out of Seattle: grunge. Led by the now-deceased Kurt Cobain and his on-purpose misery-strewn band, Nirvana, grunge came to knock the pretty out of music and replace it with unwashed clothes, skin and hair and music with “a message.” Riiight!
The hair bands couldn’t keep the interest going and they fell like a house of cards. It is the ones that survived the epoch who go out on tour each summer to rehash the days gone by with their aging public and the newbies they pick up along the way.
From past years, I seem to recall a more abundant line-up for our summer hair band show, one worse than the other. Mercifully, this year’s fare was merely a three-band event. The band of Sebastian Bach, former front man of the hapless Skid Row, Dokken, a band whose appeal painfully escapes me, and Poison, fronted by Rock of Love reality star Brett Michaels. Truth be told, Poison is the reason I go and endure the rest every year. They’re a band I actually enjoy. Don’t get me wrong; there are rock bands that have gracefully endured the test of time that I really love to go see like Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones, Van Halen and Bon Jovi. Their mass appeal means that for whatever reason I don’t feel personally insulted by the crudeness and loudness of their sound. Plus, you’re more likely to find more regular folks at their concerts then you are at the summer metal shows.
One time, many years ago, I actually broke up with Joe over his love of this kind of “music.” Needless to say I am glad I reconsidered. We had driven all the way to Old Bridge, New Jersey to catch a compilation metal show. When we arrived to the place – a scary locale in the center of some woods – I remember feeling completely lost and out of place. It was like dropping a non-English speaking Asian kid in the center of Bumble F*ck, Iowa. Who were these scary looking people who look like they just got off death row? I looked at Joe and thought – this guy’s got to go. In my own defense, I already had reservations about dating a guy younger than I was. Adding insult to injury, I felt that our extreme differences in the music we like, the foods we enjoy and the kinds of people we deemed likeable would prove too prominent to forge ahead with an unlikely-to-survive marriage. As I wipe the egg off my face, I admit I was wrong and I am not afraid to say it. Still, Tuesday night’s gathering of the mindless made me revisit those feelings….just a little bit.
My husband, Joe Cool, had actually won the tickets by simply buying and sending in some labels off some promotional items, so our tickets were at the Will Call window. I actually enjoy going to the PNC because we get to lie on the grass and hear the music under a starry summer sky. Of course this would be all the more enjoyable if it was actually good music. For my own sanity, I always bring a book or magazine to these events to keep me from blowing my brains out (more on that later).
Upon arriving to the art center’s parking lot, I begin to see the same old signs of what makes me feel really, really Latina in a lily-white world. Throngs of people with their cars, trunks and doors flung open, exposing open coolers, small fires in hibachis and beer…lots and lots of beer. The prototypical tailgate parties. The women look like trashy rejects from the 80s who forgot to set their clocks and haven’t yet realized it is 2008. Most have let themselves go and look really sloppy and embarrassing in their attire and behavior. I am from the 80’s heyday, too, but I abandoned the micro minis, the slutty tops and the ozone-blowing hair spray long ago. Yet here they are in the acid wash denim and the bleached and streaked hair smoking their Marlboros thinking they’re still hot. I roll my eyes. What I want to say is grow the f--- up.
After we park and make the insanely long trek back to the center for our tickets, I begin to feel that familiar dread in me that questions my sanity in accepting this yearly excursion. All around me I am surrounded by people that – in any other normal setting – I would not be caught dead with. Bikers and their “old ladies” tattooed within an inch of their lives. Men deep into their 50s or early 60s sporting long, greasy, gray hair loose or in braids and one too many earrings. Most are proudly sporting dirty old rock t-shirts proving they “were there” for a band’s concert in 1974, 1982 or 1969.
I become sad suddenly because I am accepting that, even after all this time, I just plain don’t get this rock of ages culture to which I am merely an observer. A sense of unearned exhaustion seeps though me and I realize that the effort I am making to be here is rather daunting. Then I look at Joe and he is just so cute and he seems so excited to see his bands that I have to accept that they are to him what Carlos Vives and Shakira are to me – awesome!
Once we pass through the gate’s security detail, a young woman informs us that they’re giving free seat upgrades, so we quickly trade in our lawn seat tickets and opt for the more “comfortable” seats in the arena down near the stage. Yippee! I suspect that sales were not as great this summer and discover later during the night that I am right. A mostly empty arena and an even emptier lawn reflect a sign of the times. At first, when the upgraded tickets are given to us, I am excited. It’s merely the excitement of getting something for nothing, but then I think, “Wait. We’re going to be that much closer to the noise. What exactly is good about this?”
Joe and I make our way, zig zagging through people who’ve already picked a piece of the hill on which to start their night, to our own newly acquired seats. It’s a lot more of the same folks looking like they are ready to whip out their joints and prepare to make a really different experience out of the night. We settle into our seats just as Sebastian Bach is ending his first song. He looks exactly the same as when we saw him on Broadway in the title role of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His bottle blonde stringy long hair hangs loosely all around. He is like a replica of most of his fan base: The 80s throwback who refuses to act his age. But hey, at least he’s got a stage on which to play that role. What excuse does the audience have?
Within seconds the blaring, screeching painful noise is streaming up to my ears from the stage. My eyes are saucer-sized as I attempt to find the appeal in this cursing, screaming mess. My husband justifies the noise by claiming it’s the crappy equipment that is making the sound so awful. I beg to differ. I start to kick myself for forgetting the earplugs Joe so lovingly brought along for me back at the car. Had it been a shorter trip back, I might have considered going to get them.
As Bach comes to the welcome end of his repertoire, I start to feel around my ears to make sure blood is not seeping out of them. I welcome the nice intermission where actual music (at a decent decibel level) is played, while images of upcoming concerts plays on large screens around the domed arena. I start to look around again watching the masses walk about carrying tons of artery clogging foods to be washed down with humongous beer glasses. I see groups of people laughing and carrying on. I see parents who should have their parenting licenses revoked for subjecting their spawn to this and potentially damaging those kids forever more.
With nothing more to do until the next noisemakers hit the stage, I whip out my book and start to read. Next to me two “blondes” snicker and laugh, not so casually peeking over and wondering why I am at a rock concert reading. I think: “Look, bitches, just because you haven’t seen the inside of a book since you had legs up in the back seat of your high school boyfriend’s car doesn’t mean reading went out of style. I ignore them and get into my book.
Dokken, whom I can’t for the life of me remember hearing in the 80s or 90s, shows up next. I am not sure what triggers my near breakdown, but in minutes, as they jaggedly go through the first song, I actually feel crazed with rage. I am offended so profoundly by their noise that I feel as if I will definitely blow out those brains I mentioned earlier. I realize that, while I can usually muster the strength to read (or sleep) through these concerts, this time the clanking, clinking, smashing, sputtering and screeching noise is such I decided I absolutely must run away.
I know Joe is disappointed when I tell him I have to escape. I know he is probably hurt that I don’t get what he is saying sounds great. I know this, but I also know that if I don’t get the hell out of here fast I will become that very unpleasant Marilyn he never wants to have to deal with. I grab my book, my bag, my ticket and I am out. I head for the hills – literally and figuratively. I zig- zag back through all of the people sitting on the lawn. The putrid scent of marijuana is now so powerful in the area that it enters my nostrils and makes them sting. There is a choice by the food concession stands – I can either go to the ladies’ room right on street level, or I can take some stairs down to the underground bathrooms. I opted for the underground hoping to put lots of ground between my ears and the noise of Dokken. I find the long, narrow bathroom practically empty. The two women who are there are busy at the mirrors making themselves to look like the teenagers they no longer are. I find an empty stall in the way back, sit with my book and tune out the world. I am only in there a few minutes and then I start to wonder if I am as pathetic as I think I am. I head out and sit just outside the bathrooms on a long yellow bench. There I get lost in the chapters of my book, which, at the moment, is taking place in the desert of New Mexico. I become immersed in the storyline and the characters, who are old friends from a previous book with the same cast. Time seems to pass quickly there and before I know it, the area is filled with bodies and the expected line forms outside the ladies’ bathroom. The faces are starting to look drunk and the voices and laughter are loud and over the top because they still haven’t readjusted themselves to the post Dokken moment. I text Joe to ask if the band is done and if it is safe to come out of hiding. He texts me back yes. I make my way back up, out and down to our seats. I am again enjoying that in-between of normal volume sounds bracing myself for what comes next.
True to their image and reputation, Poison hits the stage like bats out of hell. Loud, eardrum popping blasts go off, pyrotechnics are in effect, fire suddenly lines the back of the stage, then dies. The “boys” of Poison are back in their much-revered youth. Brett Michaels wears his trademark cowboy hat and the losers in the audience who’ve brought their own replica hats feel justified now. Back and forth and left and right across the stage he runs trying to encompass everyone into his brand of madness. The lights, sounds and spectacle of it are pure 80s excessiveness and his crowd eats it all up. Screens drop and images play that entertains the already hyped up crowd.
Without warning the previously empty lawn and arena seem overwhelmed with people, on their feet and cheering the band on. Michaels tugs at the heartstrings of his female fan base with his arm-baring outfit, his Elvis-like hip gyrations and his bad boy gone good appeal. The screaming is deafening, yet this is why I come to this event each year. I enjoy Poison. I can sing along to their music and I find their sound to be appealing and fun. Like everyone else, I am on my feet, clapping and singing and dancing. I am actually dancing because, even with the head-banger’s anthem on, I can actually find something in the music to add a bit of rhythm to it. The silly girls around us who’ve no rhythm to speak of and whose blunt, ungraceful moves are fun and funny to witness entertain me. Michaels asks the crowd to raise their hands and sway them in unison for a taping being done that night for VH1. Like obedient little schmucks we all follow through, a sea of swaying light-skinned arms likes tall flowering stems blowing in the wind. Afterwards he tells everyone that it is the best and most synchronized he has ever seen and everyone drinks in his compliment like a healing elixir.
Without warning I become part of the frenzy of the night. I too am swaying. I too am dancing and occasionally screaming. The music of this band, the only one of the night I cared to see, gets into me. The show goes from being a horrible experience to being an exciting one. I look at Joe who is enjoying himself with this night. I am happy I am here with him, even if I had to endure the previous bands. I wonder why we can’t just go see Poison and realize that they need these other bands to justify the cost of this summer tour each year. They are not the Poison of the 80s. They won’t easily sell out the Garden. I begin to wonder what it is about this kind of gathering. Why does it, and why has it always, incited such a frenzied hysteria. But then, just as the thought entered my head I let it go. It is fleeting. I don’t need or want it there now. I want only to sink myself into the music and enjoy the show. I want only to let go of the stress that brings the knots to my neck and shoulders. I want, before Joe and I start heading back to the car in the darkness of night, to be free from all things that trouble me. I want to feel alive.
All it took for the reign of the hair band to end was one little word that came straight out of Seattle: grunge. Led by the now-deceased Kurt Cobain and his on-purpose misery-strewn band, Nirvana, grunge came to knock the pretty out of music and replace it with unwashed clothes, skin and hair and music with “a message.” Riiight!
The hair bands couldn’t keep the interest going and they fell like a house of cards. It is the ones that survived the epoch who go out on tour each summer to rehash the days gone by with their aging public and the newbies they pick up along the way.
From past years, I seem to recall a more abundant line-up for our summer hair band show, one worse than the other. Mercifully, this year’s fare was merely a three-band event. The band of Sebastian Bach, former front man of the hapless Skid Row, Dokken, a band whose appeal painfully escapes me, and Poison, fronted by Rock of Love reality star Brett Michaels. Truth be told, Poison is the reason I go and endure the rest every year. They’re a band I actually enjoy. Don’t get me wrong; there are rock bands that have gracefully endured the test of time that I really love to go see like Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones, Van Halen and Bon Jovi. Their mass appeal means that for whatever reason I don’t feel personally insulted by the crudeness and loudness of their sound. Plus, you’re more likely to find more regular folks at their concerts then you are at the summer metal shows.
One time, many years ago, I actually broke up with Joe over his love of this kind of “music.” Needless to say I am glad I reconsidered. We had driven all the way to Old Bridge, New Jersey to catch a compilation metal show. When we arrived to the place – a scary locale in the center of some woods – I remember feeling completely lost and out of place. It was like dropping a non-English speaking Asian kid in the center of Bumble F*ck, Iowa. Who were these scary looking people who look like they just got off death row? I looked at Joe and thought – this guy’s got to go. In my own defense, I already had reservations about dating a guy younger than I was. Adding insult to injury, I felt that our extreme differences in the music we like, the foods we enjoy and the kinds of people we deemed likeable would prove too prominent to forge ahead with an unlikely-to-survive marriage. As I wipe the egg off my face, I admit I was wrong and I am not afraid to say it. Still, Tuesday night’s gathering of the mindless made me revisit those feelings….just a little bit.
My husband, Joe Cool, had actually won the tickets by simply buying and sending in some labels off some promotional items, so our tickets were at the Will Call window. I actually enjoy going to the PNC because we get to lie on the grass and hear the music under a starry summer sky. Of course this would be all the more enjoyable if it was actually good music. For my own sanity, I always bring a book or magazine to these events to keep me from blowing my brains out (more on that later).
Upon arriving to the art center’s parking lot, I begin to see the same old signs of what makes me feel really, really Latina in a lily-white world. Throngs of people with their cars, trunks and doors flung open, exposing open coolers, small fires in hibachis and beer…lots and lots of beer. The prototypical tailgate parties. The women look like trashy rejects from the 80s who forgot to set their clocks and haven’t yet realized it is 2008. Most have let themselves go and look really sloppy and embarrassing in their attire and behavior. I am from the 80’s heyday, too, but I abandoned the micro minis, the slutty tops and the ozone-blowing hair spray long ago. Yet here they are in the acid wash denim and the bleached and streaked hair smoking their Marlboros thinking they’re still hot. I roll my eyes. What I want to say is grow the f--- up.
After we park and make the insanely long trek back to the center for our tickets, I begin to feel that familiar dread in me that questions my sanity in accepting this yearly excursion. All around me I am surrounded by people that – in any other normal setting – I would not be caught dead with. Bikers and their “old ladies” tattooed within an inch of their lives. Men deep into their 50s or early 60s sporting long, greasy, gray hair loose or in braids and one too many earrings. Most are proudly sporting dirty old rock t-shirts proving they “were there” for a band’s concert in 1974, 1982 or 1969.
I become sad suddenly because I am accepting that, even after all this time, I just plain don’t get this rock of ages culture to which I am merely an observer. A sense of unearned exhaustion seeps though me and I realize that the effort I am making to be here is rather daunting. Then I look at Joe and he is just so cute and he seems so excited to see his bands that I have to accept that they are to him what Carlos Vives and Shakira are to me – awesome!
Once we pass through the gate’s security detail, a young woman informs us that they’re giving free seat upgrades, so we quickly trade in our lawn seat tickets and opt for the more “comfortable” seats in the arena down near the stage. Yippee! I suspect that sales were not as great this summer and discover later during the night that I am right. A mostly empty arena and an even emptier lawn reflect a sign of the times. At first, when the upgraded tickets are given to us, I am excited. It’s merely the excitement of getting something for nothing, but then I think, “Wait. We’re going to be that much closer to the noise. What exactly is good about this?”
Joe and I make our way, zig zagging through people who’ve already picked a piece of the hill on which to start their night, to our own newly acquired seats. It’s a lot more of the same folks looking like they are ready to whip out their joints and prepare to make a really different experience out of the night. We settle into our seats just as Sebastian Bach is ending his first song. He looks exactly the same as when we saw him on Broadway in the title role of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. His bottle blonde stringy long hair hangs loosely all around. He is like a replica of most of his fan base: The 80s throwback who refuses to act his age. But hey, at least he’s got a stage on which to play that role. What excuse does the audience have?
Within seconds the blaring, screeching painful noise is streaming up to my ears from the stage. My eyes are saucer-sized as I attempt to find the appeal in this cursing, screaming mess. My husband justifies the noise by claiming it’s the crappy equipment that is making the sound so awful. I beg to differ. I start to kick myself for forgetting the earplugs Joe so lovingly brought along for me back at the car. Had it been a shorter trip back, I might have considered going to get them.
As Bach comes to the welcome end of his repertoire, I start to feel around my ears to make sure blood is not seeping out of them. I welcome the nice intermission where actual music (at a decent decibel level) is played, while images of upcoming concerts plays on large screens around the domed arena. I start to look around again watching the masses walk about carrying tons of artery clogging foods to be washed down with humongous beer glasses. I see groups of people laughing and carrying on. I see parents who should have their parenting licenses revoked for subjecting their spawn to this and potentially damaging those kids forever more.
With nothing more to do until the next noisemakers hit the stage, I whip out my book and start to read. Next to me two “blondes” snicker and laugh, not so casually peeking over and wondering why I am at a rock concert reading. I think: “Look, bitches, just because you haven’t seen the inside of a book since you had legs up in the back seat of your high school boyfriend’s car doesn’t mean reading went out of style. I ignore them and get into my book.
Dokken, whom I can’t for the life of me remember hearing in the 80s or 90s, shows up next. I am not sure what triggers my near breakdown, but in minutes, as they jaggedly go through the first song, I actually feel crazed with rage. I am offended so profoundly by their noise that I feel as if I will definitely blow out those brains I mentioned earlier. I realize that, while I can usually muster the strength to read (or sleep) through these concerts, this time the clanking, clinking, smashing, sputtering and screeching noise is such I decided I absolutely must run away.
I know Joe is disappointed when I tell him I have to escape. I know he is probably hurt that I don’t get what he is saying sounds great. I know this, but I also know that if I don’t get the hell out of here fast I will become that very unpleasant Marilyn he never wants to have to deal with. I grab my book, my bag, my ticket and I am out. I head for the hills – literally and figuratively. I zig- zag back through all of the people sitting on the lawn. The putrid scent of marijuana is now so powerful in the area that it enters my nostrils and makes them sting. There is a choice by the food concession stands – I can either go to the ladies’ room right on street level, or I can take some stairs down to the underground bathrooms. I opted for the underground hoping to put lots of ground between my ears and the noise of Dokken. I find the long, narrow bathroom practically empty. The two women who are there are busy at the mirrors making themselves to look like the teenagers they no longer are. I find an empty stall in the way back, sit with my book and tune out the world. I am only in there a few minutes and then I start to wonder if I am as pathetic as I think I am. I head out and sit just outside the bathrooms on a long yellow bench. There I get lost in the chapters of my book, which, at the moment, is taking place in the desert of New Mexico. I become immersed in the storyline and the characters, who are old friends from a previous book with the same cast. Time seems to pass quickly there and before I know it, the area is filled with bodies and the expected line forms outside the ladies’ bathroom. The faces are starting to look drunk and the voices and laughter are loud and over the top because they still haven’t readjusted themselves to the post Dokken moment. I text Joe to ask if the band is done and if it is safe to come out of hiding. He texts me back yes. I make my way back up, out and down to our seats. I am again enjoying that in-between of normal volume sounds bracing myself for what comes next.
True to their image and reputation, Poison hits the stage like bats out of hell. Loud, eardrum popping blasts go off, pyrotechnics are in effect, fire suddenly lines the back of the stage, then dies. The “boys” of Poison are back in their much-revered youth. Brett Michaels wears his trademark cowboy hat and the losers in the audience who’ve brought their own replica hats feel justified now. Back and forth and left and right across the stage he runs trying to encompass everyone into his brand of madness. The lights, sounds and spectacle of it are pure 80s excessiveness and his crowd eats it all up. Screens drop and images play that entertains the already hyped up crowd.
Without warning the previously empty lawn and arena seem overwhelmed with people, on their feet and cheering the band on. Michaels tugs at the heartstrings of his female fan base with his arm-baring outfit, his Elvis-like hip gyrations and his bad boy gone good appeal. The screaming is deafening, yet this is why I come to this event each year. I enjoy Poison. I can sing along to their music and I find their sound to be appealing and fun. Like everyone else, I am on my feet, clapping and singing and dancing. I am actually dancing because, even with the head-banger’s anthem on, I can actually find something in the music to add a bit of rhythm to it. The silly girls around us who’ve no rhythm to speak of and whose blunt, ungraceful moves are fun and funny to witness entertain me. Michaels asks the crowd to raise their hands and sway them in unison for a taping being done that night for VH1. Like obedient little schmucks we all follow through, a sea of swaying light-skinned arms likes tall flowering stems blowing in the wind. Afterwards he tells everyone that it is the best and most synchronized he has ever seen and everyone drinks in his compliment like a healing elixir.
Without warning I become part of the frenzy of the night. I too am swaying. I too am dancing and occasionally screaming. The music of this band, the only one of the night I cared to see, gets into me. The show goes from being a horrible experience to being an exciting one. I look at Joe who is enjoying himself with this night. I am happy I am here with him, even if I had to endure the previous bands. I wonder why we can’t just go see Poison and realize that they need these other bands to justify the cost of this summer tour each year. They are not the Poison of the 80s. They won’t easily sell out the Garden. I begin to wonder what it is about this kind of gathering. Why does it, and why has it always, incited such a frenzied hysteria. But then, just as the thought entered my head I let it go. It is fleeting. I don’t need or want it there now. I want only to sink myself into the music and enjoy the show. I want only to let go of the stress that brings the knots to my neck and shoulders. I want, before Joe and I start heading back to the car in the darkness of night, to be free from all things that trouble me. I want to feel alive.
Comments