Howdy Horn Honkers.
A decade ago Boomtown Rats frontman and Live Aid co-founder Sir Bob Geldof declared that Rock ‘n’ Roll was dead.
It’s a funeral I refused to attend then and refuse to attend today.
However, he could be correct.
Geldof said that rock music was originally a social medium and with so many alternatives now, it has ceased to be culturally relevant.
In one fell swoop, a mouthy, messy-haired man I love with grand passion relegated me, an avowed rock chick, to an anachronism.
I love Rock ‘n’ Roll. I have since I was 6 years old, living in England and breathing the same air as the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Yardbirds, and the Hollies. Marc Bolan. David Bowie. Elton John.
My mother, who was from Mississippi, used to play records when I was a toddler and we were alone at the house. Johnny Cash. Hank Williams. Elvis Presley. My brothers played the Beatles. I played the Rolling Stones and the Hollies. Herman Hermits. Donovan. Cream.
Rock ‘n’ Roll gave me life and thus a rocker girl was born, grew, and found purpose.
Am I a relic now?
I started to consider it earlier this century when I had an elder rock chick meltdown at, of all places, a Poison concert.
I always trusted Rock ‘n’ Roll would keep me young. I was sure of it.
Then my bucket got a hole in it.
In the summer of 2007, a young friend invited me to N.C. to see Poison and Ratt. I said yes. Of course. Oh yes!
“You’re going to see rat poison?” my husband asked when I informed him.
“Sure,” I said, “I haven’t done this in a while, but you’re never too old to rock and roll, heh-heh-heh.”
First of all, once you finish any sentence with “heh-heh-heh” you’re too old.
Twenty-five years before this very show I was a cute young thing with bleached hair, bouncy breasts, and a bouncy attitude to match with nary a care in the world.
My best friend and I went to concerts in the days when tickets didn’t cost the same as a private island and the word “classic” wasn’t attached to rock music. The bands and tunes were so good we were sure they, and we, would last forever.
We would bat our eyes at the band to get backstage, make friends with everyone in the crew, and hang out all night, the whole while looking dewy, springy, and desirable.
We’d stay out r-r-r-r-really late, go to school in the morning AND get good grades. I was a fun person in those days. The memories are fine.
I looked forward to getting dressed up and rockin’ again, but that’s where the first brick in the wall started to crumble.
I put on my highest heels (which I hadn’t worn in years), layers of make-up (which I hadn’t worn in months), and my much-loved Betsey Johnson dress (which I shouldn’t be wearing at all).
Something horrible had happened. I didn’t look like I used to. I was older. Not as cool looking. The eight piercings in my ears were long gone. My hair was its natural color. I was….round.
Time had attacked me with no mercy for my formerly bouncy self.
I could no longer go bra-less. What the hell. Even my boobs retired.
I remedied this growing disaster the only way I knew how -- by putting on a black dress that was several sizes too small. Satisfied, I soldiered on. I was now ready to rock. I was sure of it.
However, I had not counted on my fancy high-heeled feet starting to rebel early, during the aforementioned Ratt’s opening set.
For those who don’t remember, Ratt had one driving hit in the 1980s and, I noticed, aged far worse than me. They were terrible. They were lackluster. I’ve seen back hair with more energy. I decided to ignore them.
My friend looked at me pointedly and sighed her displeasure at what we were being forced to witness.
“Honey,” I said with a forced charity born of decades of seeing musicians both raise the artistic bar to heavenly heights and sink to the depths of artistic hell, “They might just be having an off night. It happens.”
“They suck donkey balls,” she replied.
Poison, another band that had survived the last 20 years to rock again, fared much better.
They had energy. They were fun. I stood up for the entire show. When I noticed my feet again, my toes were asking for the last rites.
But the evening wasn’t done even if my feet were.
It was time to go backstage.
It was getting late, but I didn’t say anything. None of the younger, hipper, crowd seemed to notice the hour. And no one seemed to be having any trouble with their feet.
This started to make me really mad.
I scowled and sighed, hoping it would get mistaken for youthful angst and not the true agony my feet were feeling. I wanted to crawl through that backstage door and beg for first aid.
Instead, I held my head high and hoped for a quick death, one where my dress wouldn’t ride up.
The first thing I noticed when we were ushered backstage was that nothing had changed since my Rock ‘n’ Roll youth. Never mind that the band was my age or beyond. The girls were young and pretty, with perky smiles and strategically placed strips of fabric that passed for clothing. They looked great. They were vivacious and had, yes, bouncy breasts, bouncy attitudes, and nary a care in the world.
And that, my friends, was when my Rock ‘n’ Roll dreamsicle melted.
I suddenly realized with abject horror that I was the oldest girl in the room.
Notice I said “girl.” I just couldn’t say “human closest to menopause.”
I started to panic. Was I too old to be here? What if someone mistook me for the band’s mother?
Or what if some surly security guard thought to card me, like when you buy beer, only in reverse, because old people are not allowed here due to medical and visual reasons?
“I.D. please ma’am” some hulking tattooed giant with strategic hair and a lip ring might ask.
“I’m not a ma’am,” I would haughtily inform him.
“I.D. please.”
“Why? I’m young enough to be here.”
“It’s my job, lady. How old are you anyway?”
“How old do you think I am?” I would ask, coquettishly twirling my hair around the end of my fingers.
“Old enough to ask for your I.D., ” Lip ring would scowl at me.
“Well, I don’t have it with me,” I’d breezily insist, “I left it in… my parent’s car. That my friend drove. Who just got her license. And snuck out of the house with me. To come to this concert.”
“…to rock.” I might add.
This bizarre scenario was playing out in my head, sending my blood pressure soaring, when, just before I was ready to stroke, I had a pre-embolism epiphany.
No one was looking at me suspiciously. Not security. Not anyone.
In fact, no one was looking at me at all.
Not one single person there cared how old I was. They weren’t even thinking about me. They were thinking about themselves. Whaaat. Piggy youth! How very dare they.
Self-involved children! Don’t they know what I went through to get into this dress?! To stand in these shoes all night?
I suddenly wanted to challenge them all.
“Hey!” I felt like yelling, “Who in this room was alive at the same time as Elvis?! I’ll tell ya who! ME. That’s right!”
If that didn’t impress, I was ready: “And I’ll tell you something else, kids! I REMEMBER WHEN THE DRUMMER IN DEF LEPPARD HAD TWO ARMS!”
I wouldn’t stop early, either.
“Guess who remembers when 8-track was a thing? Right again! It’s me! ME! And you can all go to hell!”
For my finale, I’d drop the big bomb on these sweet young things: “I AM YOUR FUTURE! You will wrinkle! Oh, it’s coming sisters. I hope you get cellulite on your forehead! I hope your tattoos go out of style and leg-warmers make a comeback because I look great in them! I’m going to sleep!”
I would stagger out of the room, in my too-high heels and too-small Betsey dress and not look back.
But a middle-aged meltdown would’ve embarrassed my nice young friend. So of course I didn’t do any such thing.
In reality I was tired. Very tired. I was living with John in an RV in the mountains for the summer. It was less than two years after Hurricane Katrina. I had vastly underestimated how long it would take me to rest and recover from that world-ender.
I did have fun that night. The fun was almost in direct proportion to the massive pain my feet were in. The minute we walked out that backstage door I took my shoes off in the parking lot, preferring to walk on gravel in my stockings than keep those heels on another minute.
When I got back to the hotel, I put my bare feet under hot running water and screamed with happiness.
Barefoot hotel screaming. That’s Rock ‘n’ Roll my friends.
Oh yeah it is.
I've reached the age when the younger men I lust after are in their fifties. What the hell happened?
I so identify with this story!
Laughing With you all the way on this one.