Rock ’n’ Roll

I live in a world where people my age play golf on weekends and go someplace warm for vacation. What do Ter and I do for fun?

We go to rock concerts. Even now, in our fifties, we’re doomed fools for arena shows headlined by the artists/bands who figure prominently in our CD libraries. We have averaged one to two shows a year over the course of our adventure, starting with The Jacksons’ Victory tour in 1985. Actually, I started in 1979 with April Wine and Ter saw the Osmonds in Seattle before we knew each other, but since we became a team, yikes, have we set ourselves up for hearing aids in the nursing home.

Some bands we’ve seen more than once. Some more than twice, three times, do I hear six? That would be Sting … or Def Leppard … or is it Duran Duran, and do we count the Power Station show in their tally? Between the clusters, we’ve seen any number of acts but once, including some as opening acts—the Cranberries, for instance, when they opened for DD on their Wedding Album tour, kd lang ahead of Sting in 1998, and Hedley when they warmed up the crowd for Bon Jovi in 2007. (Okay, we heard Hedley from the concourse ’cause a Canucks/Oilers game was on and the show was at then-GM Place, but still.)

There was David Bowie, and Aerosmith, and Heart, and Rob Thomas, and Sheryl Crow. Then the PBS shows like Celtic Thunder, Andrea Bocelli, and Sarah Brightman—easier on the ears than the rock bands by far, and alarming evidence that we are becoming our parents. Back in the 80s, we caught Can-con acts like Glass Tiger, Kim Mitchell, and Corey Hart, but missed Platinum Blonde and Strange Advance. Corey retired from performing this year, but hey, if we really want, we can catch the retro-tour on just about everyone else.

Er, no, thanks.

Truly, a lot of the live arena shows are too loud and attended by really annoying individuals who invariably get tickets close to where we are positioned, but who make for dandy Darwinian reminiscing. The cokehead who somersaulted down the stairs at Def Leppard in 1992. The cokehead who nearly flipped over the railing at Aerosmith in 1993. The little dancing man at Sting in 1998. More shenanigans at Leppard and Duran gigs because we’ve seen them more than once—flailing arms and boogying butts in our faces, not to mention the rank stench of marijuana wafting over from somewhere we’re not. Oh, and the guy who was so smashed at yet another Lep concert that he lost his glasses and Security had to help him find them. That was rich. Ter has been beaned by bags at the swag stall and boots from the row behind, I’ve been elbowed aside and done some sharp elbowing back, and for what, you ask? Well, for the memories, of course.

We have also been privileged. Peter Frampton played guitar when he still had his hair (with Bowie in 1986). Roland Orzabal of Tears For Fears sang, and his voice was as deep and resonant live as on tape. Stewart Copeland stole The Police show from Sting by drumming like a madman with absolutely surgical precision. Discovering guitarist Dominic Miller when he joined der Stingle’s band. Sarah Brightman … geez, angels weep for lacking her purity of pitch. Most recently, Heart’s Ann Wilson loosed a kickass vocal on a bunch of Led Zeppelin tunes and my skin still hasn’t stopped prickling from the sonic waves. Later this year, we’ve got tickets for Sarah McLachlan when she comes to town.

Next year, who knows? We each have a David yet on our wannasee list—Garrett for Ter, Usher for me, and both acts are going strong so there’s a good chance we’ll check the boxes on them before we’re completely deaf. On the last Duran tour, I asked Ter how much longer she thought we could keep this going. She shook the sweat from her eyes and said something like, “When they stop, we’ll stop.”

That pretty well says it all.