One of the benefits of living in Southern California is that many of the casinos book bands for smaller venues in hopes of bringing people in to gamble. The tickets are usually priced well, and the crowds are small-ish. Sure the bands are often older, but I'm older so it works out great.
Tonight, in an effort to prove our stupidity, we left our home where the thermometer read 99 degrees and drove out to Palm Desert area (Hi Katz!). It was kinda similar in temperature to driving into the mouth of hell. I'm thinking it was over 110 in Indio today. But anything for Collective Soul, a band I have been listening to rather incessantly for at least 6 months now.
Because I can dance to them. But not when anyone I know is here. Not to worry. I know my limits. In fact, someone with the initials JS who likes to mess with my teeth but shall remain anonymous recently told me I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld.
I like them because they do really interesting things with their guitar lines. Except in the song Hollywood. I really don't care for the recorded version or that one. In concert though, he added a little AC/DC (I think. I'm not a huge AC/DC fan, so it's hard to be sure) in the middle and perked it right up. Ed Roland, lead singer, was also not shy about paying a little tribute to The Killers, which made me feel all sorts of better about my guilty addiction to them. It was great to hear Collective Soul live because it was obvious that not only do they have genuinely interesting music, Roland has a great voice, unmixed, and they seemed to be having a lot of fun entertaining the crowd.
On the way to the concert, Dave asked me what type of people I thought would be there. I confidently said, age group 25-40, guys in button down shirts with collars and light denim, girls showing lots of cleavage, mid-height heels, and lots of alcohol. And other than a few funky old people getting down in the bleacher type seats, I was pretty much right on. I'm gonna say the anomalies were comped by the casino. Dave was impressed by the accuracy of my prediction. I was disturbed by the 60-year old guy who danced like a big-bellied white boy, but he knew all the words. Clearly a fan. And, we fit right in, sans the cleavage and the alcohol. Dave wore the dark denim rather than the light. I boycotted fashion and wore a dirty T-shirt (because as it happens, I am also boycotting laundry), frayed jeans, and Rebi's shoes. Which were not mid-height heels and were not well received. One drunk bimbo actually eyed them derisively. Or maybe she was just grumpy that I was laughing because she looked like she had sprained both ankles on her cute shoes, and yet continued to hobble around in them.
Sadly, this is the first concert of my life where there was no mosh pit. And frankly, I really missed it. I felt old, standing there in my row, dutifully in front of my seat, trapped behind 3 people swaying with their arms locked, essentially forming a wall between me and the stage. I know I have to come to terms with my mortality at some point, but I wasn't ready to do that in the smokey haze of drums and guitar rifts. And I'm secretly afraid that I might dance like the old big bellied white guy- infinitely worse than dancing like Elaine from Seinfeld.
Always too short, I was pretty bummed when the concert ended. So Dave took pity on me and bought me a T-shirt. Rock on. I can continue to boycott laundry until Monday.