Rock concerts and bad dancing

So Thursday night Doug comes home at about 9:30 after going out with the missionaries and says, "You wanna go to a concert tomorrow night?"  So I ask who's playing and he say's, "Bob Dylan.  And Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp."

How can I not?

Wonderful to be without all three of our kids twice in one month.  The last time we were completely kid-free twice in the same month was more than two years ago.  Savor those moments.  Feel like husband and wife for a little while, not just mom and dad.  Sweethearts.  Oh yeah, look at that handsome, hilarious guy over there that I married.  Mmmmmm. . . .

I digress. 

Quick concert review:

Willie: stage cluttered.  Willie and band in jeans and tshirts (sleeveless, in the case of Mr. Nelson, of course).  Crowd wandering around Chukchansi Park almost too casually.  Felt like an afternoon jam session with a few thousand good friends.  Very low-key and delightful.

Mellencamp: Generic sounding rock songs sung by generic rock start, but with a really preachy socialist twist.  Fist pumping and camping for the crowd and lots of dramatic movement so that you know every second he is PLAYING.  THE.  GUITAR.   Not the worst time I've ever had, but 90 minutes of my life I wouldn't mind having back.

Dylan: everything you'd expect.  Great "show".  Dylan and band all in suits.  Dylan distinguishable by ridiculously awesome big white hat. (Plus, he's the one usually behind the keyboard, anyway).  Lots of new stuff, and a few old songs reworked so thoroughly that most of the crowd didn't recognize them til the chorus.  Obviously works to retain that Dylan mystique and was, of course, unintelligible for half the show.  Awesome.

Well worth the ticket price.  Fortunately, we didn't have to pay the ticket price.

You know what I love about concerts, though?  No where else do you get such a large collection of people who can't dance, but keep trying anyway, either unaware of how stupid they look or simply apathetic about it because it just feels so good to dance.  I was looking around and I couldn't help but smile--not in a derisively amused way, but in a joyful, appreciative way.  I was thinking to myself:

Go on and fly, half buzzed college guys doing "the airplane" on the grass.

Skip roll your way to ecstasy, super hairy overweight guy in oversized khaki shorts and bowling shirt.

Hop off beat til you can't hop any more, chick in micro mini and cowboy boots (who obviously isn't wearing an appropriate bra for hopping).

And middle-aged woman in peasant blouse and khaki capris, you go on and do that myoclonic twitch thing that seems to make you so happy.

As long as its a good crowd, I love concerts--the music, the atmosphere, the whole package.  It'd been a while since we'd been, and I almost forgot how much I loved it.

Never at any point, however, did I forget how much I hate the smell of weed.