As we perused and compared our vinyl and cassette collections (and a few new-fangled CDs), we each found mostly loving ways to describe the other’s preferred music genre.
I quickly deemed Rob to be a fan of “Dinosaur Rock” -- bands he called Classic Rock but bands I knew pretty much nobody in their early 20s to be listening to. Styx? Rush? Supertramp? Who were these people?
Rob sized up my ‘80s Modern Rock collection and generalized it as “Four Gay Brits with a Synthesizer.” While he might have been off on the number of band members, I sort of had to admit he had a point. Hello, Erasure, Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark, and New Order.
Over the years, Rob and I have each proven our love for the other by gamely listening to “that other stuff” and occasionally attending concerts of mostly unfamiliar songs. Sometimes more than once (hello Steely Dan. Which one of you is Dan again?).
Until Saturday night, I think I had more points in the “I love you this much to listen to your music” column. And now, after a rather noisy and annoying evening spent with a high school favorite, I am woefully in Rob’s debt.
I wouldn’t say I’m a super duper fan of The Cure. All of their songs that I “owned” as a teen were songs I recorded off the radio and put on my own scratchy, commercial-laden mix tape. And I never saw the band in concert despite that being one of the key ways I spent the money I made tutoring and taking orders at Straw Hat Pizza. But I definitely liked The Cure and had a good working knowledge of their discography from the mid-late 1980s.
For those unfamiliar with the band, they are five Brits with some synthesizers (I suppose I could Google their sexual orientation but eh). Even if you haven’t heard of them, you’ve heard a few of their songs, trust me. If you know “The Lovecats” you know The Cure. And if you know Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons, you know Robert Smith, the lead singer.
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| Bob on the left, Robert on the right |
Having purchased the tickets nearly two months ago, optimistic that my month old post-op knee could handle the outing, we (ok, I) excitedly arrived at the concert venue on Saturday evening to see this favorite from long ago.
Along with our arrival came with two never-before concert occasions.
First, we arrived while the opening act was playing. Never in my life have I purposely arrived at a concert late. Never. But I had no idea who the Twilight Sad opening band was and upon YouTubing some of their songs, I had no interest in hearing their melancholy moaning live and in person. So we timed it just right that the sadness was ending while I was in the merch line deciding which t-shirt to buy.
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| This one. I debated getting the requisite black tee but then decided I was much more likely to wear this '80s pink and green one to the gym without getting overheated. #gettingold |
Second, we both showed our IDs (hahaha) to get drink wristbands. While I have certainly done that before, it was news to me that Rob had never thought to have an adult beverage at a concert. Whaat?? I actually made him clarify twice before I believed him. Sadly, we didn’t make use of our alcohol passes on Saturday night. But we should have.
Oh, and third: I’m pretty sure never in The Cure’s late century heyday was Huey Lewis and the News blasted from cars tailgating in the parking lot without shame or ridicule. But in 2016, I guess all ‘80s music at a Cure concert is rad and acceptable.
Once we found them, I was pleased with our seats. We had carefully chosen them about a month prior to my knee surgery trying best to anticipate what my hobbly needs might be. We nailed it with the easy access, lack of stairs, and minimal traffic.
What we didn’t anticipate was the 0.9 mile walk (according to my step tracker - #gettingold) from the parking lot. Including some hills that pre-op I wouldn’t have registered but 5 weeks post-op were gentle mountains. By the time I had consumed an awful corn dog and snagged my commemorative t-shirt, I could feel my knee swelling up under my appropriately selected black jeans.
When The Cure finally started, I didn’t recognize the song but I stood up with everyone else to cheer them on. I then realized that I might be standing for the entire concert. In recent years, I have stayed mostly seated like a civilized (#gettingold) adult for Chicago and Katy Perry and both of the Steely Dan concerts.
But with Robert Smith quivering along, I suddenly had flashbacks of teen years spent on my feet in mosh pits by the stage and then later, in front of expensive plastic chairs purchased mostly to hold my jacket.
I knew my knee was not going to be happy with all that walking and then a couple hours of standing, so I had to make the mature “what’s with her??” decision to sit down during songs I didn’t recognize.
I sat for a long time.
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| My view most of the concert |
Somewhere about 30 minutes in, they finally played a song I knew. YIPPEE!! I hopped up and sang along to “In Between Days.” I did my best ‘80s Boy George dance sway and basked in FINALLY being at the concert I had been so excited about and had even given myself a silver and black manicure for.
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| About as goth as I get |
Note the unsteady hand, due to my bitchin' '80s dance moves
"Just Like Heaven" was up next. I took a short video and then put my phone in my pocket so I could thoroughly be in the moment. I heard someone behind me say to her friend, “I AM SO GLAD WE CAME!” I almost turned around to give her a commiserating nod.
Ready for the next song that made The Cure famous, I was a little disappointed that I didn’t recognize it. No matter, my knee needed a rest anyway.
I sat there for another hour and a half.
I had plenty of time to observe and think about things. Among my observations:
- Attending a concert in a state where recreational cannabis is legal is a rather novel experience. Clove cigarettes were the aroma of the concerts of my youth. The smell of pot lingered here or there, but since it was totally illegal people were pretty sneaky about it. But here in 2016 in the very herby state of Washington, I sort of felt like my plastic chair was in Cheech and Chong’s van. I found this amusing...at first.
- Although smoking was supposedly not allowed, I didn’t see that deterring many people. Including the hipster rabbi guy behind us with the long beard and black hat who serenaded my head with his smoke pretty much the entire time we were there. Gotta admire his chutzpah.
- Smart phones are a major part of concert going nowadays (#gettingold). Not just to wave the flashlight feature around like lighters of the past, but also to video songs and social mediaize the experience. I played along a little bit but was nonetheless dumbfounded when a guy two rows in front of us started Facetiming with a couple of kids in their living room, apparently too cheap or too far away or too young to attend the concert in person.
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| Not fast enough to capture the Facetime |
- Being a fan of a band 30 years ago but not paying attention to their career in the interim leaves room for a LOT of unrecognizable songs to comprise a 3 hour play set.
- Robert Smith (Sideshow Bob) has absolutely no stage presence. He clung to his security blanket of a microphone stand most of the time I could see him. He walked around a little but it seemed it was mostly to get a sip of water. He didn’t engage the crowd and had very little to say, most of it difficult to understand because of his accented mumble. One thing I did clearly hear Bob, er Robert, say when introducing a song was that it was rarely played…ever. Yet more esoteric song selections! Super! The only performer I have ever seen who was less excited to be on stage was Annie Lenox of the Eurythmics. And trust me, that's saying something.
- The phrase “self-indulgent wailing” kept going through my head as a guitar player made a lot of noise during what I can only assume were songs. I could feel satisfaction and vindication oozing from Rob. I have so often complained about the senseless non-musicality of some of “his” music and yet here was an even more stunning example during one of "my" concerts. Awesome.
After a few minutes, the band returned and launched into another unrecognizable song. And then another and then another. What???
I found myself growing irritated. My knee was aching, I was coughing from all the smoke around me, I had been waiting for nearly 2 hours for any of about a dozen songs I knew, and there was Robert Smith and his band leaving the stage for yet another encore.
Seriously?? Have you ever been to a concert with TWO encores?? Unreal.
As people clapped and cheered and waved their phones around yet again, I started thinking about the concert in terms of sunk costs and time invested versus likely return (#thinkingold). I have never in my life left a concert early and yet I was considering it.
I sat through three songs of the second encore. Still no “Why Can’t I Be You” or “Let’s Go to Bed” or “Lovecats” or “Close to Me.” I was dumbfounded.
When the lightshow accompanying one song included the intense white lights slowly waving up and down to effectively blind the audience over and over, I decided I had had it. I was over it. I was done being in pain and reeking of pot and indulging the ego of a musician who seemed to be thumbing his nose at the commercial pop songs and fans that made him famous.
“Let’s go,” I said to a surprised but accommodating Rob.
I knew I had a long walk back to the car, not to mention a lengthy stay in the poorly designed parking lot if we left when everyone else did. I hobbled out of the amphitheater with resolve and disappointment.
About a quarter of the way to the parking lot, we heard it: the third…THIRD...encore began. Three encores?!? Sorry 17-year-old self, but The Cure is just not good enough to warrant three encores. Few bands are. Not Chicago, not Katy Perry, not Steely, not even Dan.
Looking online later, sure enough: everything I wanted to hear except “The Lovecats” was played in the last 15 minutes. It turns out I have a friend who was also at the concert. She stayed until the end and thought the concert was awesome. Perhaps I would have, too, if I had had the stamina to stick around for the finish line of what had become The Cure Musical Marathon.
As it was, I enjoyed the songs I really wanted to hear the next morning. I listened to them on my iPod while spinning on my recumbent bicycle, trying to get the swelling in my knee to work its way out (#gettingold).
As I spun and listened, I reflected on the fragility of trying to recapture one’s youth. Indeed, some things are better left in the past so that time’s reality doesn’t mar the cherished memories (#actuallyOKwithgettingold).
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| In addition to black and silver nails, please note the hipster specs and black leather jacket. |
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