“When I’m in college, or maybe even high school, I’m going to take you to every concert.”
That’s what I heard from the backseat of my car as I drove the kids home from an afternoon spent near the campus of ASU, getting henna tattoos, indulging in Italian ice and witnessing questionable college fashion choices.
My oldest said that to my youngest, as we drove home with all the windows down and the stereo as loud as our ears could handle – each of the kids making song requests as soon as the previous song was done.
And while I loved a lot of the day – like pretty much every minute – that sentence stood out for me. It was exchanged between sisters. It was about music. And it was a promise about an experience I absolutely love.
Now? I’m home in my pajamas, writing on my deck, while a bucket list concert is happening on the other side of town. Garth. He is on my list. But his stadium tour didn’t work with my life at the moment, so 70,000 folks are singing along with him while I’m home watching the latest Spider-Man movie.
I’m not complaining. Really. Like, I’m fine with it. Barring some tragedy, I’m thinking I’ll get a chance to see him. Somehow. Even though he never tours.
But not seeing him kind of goes against our mantra. See the show. See it if the music is important to you.
When Ron and I first met, he lamented not ever being able to see B.B. King live before he died. At the time, I couldn’t recall a musician I’d love to see live who had recently passed, although like a ton of people, I would have loved to have scored seats to see Freddie Mercury or Jimi Hendrix or Amy Winehouse or, like, Nirvana (even though my parents would never have allowed me to go at my age).
And then Tom Petty died. And near that same time, Ed Sheeran went on tour and I decided I’d see that show come hell or high water. And I did. And I PAID for it. I paid for shitty nosebleeds and I sang along with every word.
So when U2 came, we went. I waited by the computer to score pre-scalper tickets (which is a rarity these days) and got some. Far away, but in the building. And in our price range.
And we went. And it totally rocked. I mean, Bono. Live. Come on.
And when Incubus came, we went. And we watched as people lost their minds when Brandon Boyd unbuttoned his shirt (because it was August, in Arizona, obviously) and we loved every minute of getting drenched in a wicked electrical storm despite scoring covered seats.
And when an invite came my way to see Justin Timberlake, totally last minute, from the floor — there was no question.
And when Jack Johnson rolled through town, we landed seats to see him, too. We threw a bottle of wine and a bag of Tostitos in the back of the car, we had a little happy hour in the parking lot, and we let his totally chill music infuse our hungry little souls, under a canopy of bistro lights.
And when Dave Grohl came, I mean. We had to go. Ron had never seen the Foo live. I had, but I know I can never get enough of the Foo. There is never enough FOO. Ever. So, we went. Enjoyed a happy hour above Phoenix and rocked out like absolute pros as Dave tossed his sweaty hair all over the place and basically shook our insides.
It. Was. The. Best.
Oh, and we saw a drunk girl fall down the stairs. Like, hard. Not the reason we want to go to shows, but still.
I guess my point is, as I’m totally enjoying this night on my deck – go see the show. I don’t know when or if I would get a chance to see those shows again. And I loved every single note. Even though I was tired the next day. Even though my ears needed a minute to adjust to reality afterwards (especially after Foo – but my ear doctor told me to go and told me to just enjoy it). Even though some shows cost more than others.
Just go. If you’re a music fan, I mean. Those shows are moments. And you don’t know when they’ll come around again. Or if they will at all.