Just last week I was somewhere on an Indian reservation in New Mexico shaking my Money Maker at a Paul Revere and the Raiders concert, reliving the music of my youth. And as any Baby Boomer worth his/her salt knows: there is nothing like the music of your youth to make you feel young again…to transport you back to a time when the Realm of Possibilities was not yet a barren wasteland.
I tend to forget on a regular basis just how depleted my Realm has become. I forget I have more years behind me than ahead of me. And I seem to have a hard time remembering I am no longer thirty-something but am *gulp* Over Fifty. With all that forgetfulness, imagine the shock to my psyche whenever I pass by a mirror and catch a startling glimpse of someone older, heavier - yet vaguely familiar – who is wearing my clothes. Imagine how unsettling it is to open my mail and read notices about joint replacement recalls or discounts on burial plots. It’s traumatic enough that for the first time in my life I am older than the POTUS, but even worse…I no longer recognize a single performer on the MTV Music Awards.
Yet, I do not despair. Because I, Rockin Robin of the 70’s, have stumbled upon the secret to everlasting youth: Oldies Concerts.
That’s right. Cheaper than botox, less painful than a facelift and comes with an added bonus: at the innocent age of 54, I’m usually one of the youngest groupies at an Oldies Concert geared to Baby Boomers.
Ahh, Baby Boomers. No other generation has ever been so defined and thoroughly united by their music. Collectively, sometimes painfully, we’ve made the trip from Acid Rock to Acid Reflux (thanks for the line, Mr. Revere). These are my peeps, whose nostalgia for our music knows no bounds.
This was the seventh Oldies Concert I had attended this year…and I could barely contain my excitement. I settled in to my assigned seat and as always, the shock of sitting amid an auditorium full of old people smacked that thirty-something in me right upside the head. I looked around and saw men and women in various stages of aging…wearing thick glasses...sporting receding gray hairlines...sporting no hairlines. To get a better look, I dug into my purse (the Black Hole) for my glasses and caught a glimpse of the Dickman out of the corner of my eye. Reality clicked back into place as I remembered, oh yeah…WE are also gray-headed and WE also wear glasses. Therefore WE belong.
Just about the time the seat beside me filled with a noisy little old lady parking her squeaky walker in the aisle, the theatre lights dimmed, the stage curtain floated up and there they were...a bunch of...uhh...middle-aged guys dressed in spandex and top coats. Led by 73-year old Paul Revere standing tall front and center - masterfully in control of his musical mustang.
When I first heard the Raiders a few years ago, I had the same response I’ve had at every other Oldies Concert. Seeing the senior versions of the rock icons of my youth, the teenager inside my soul could not subdue the knee-jerk reaction of "How dare they get older?!”. But not so anymore. Now I just smile and drink in their beautiousness like a baby waiting to be soothed with a pacifier. I love these guys. They hold in their magically talented hands the very instruments that unleash the fountain of my youth. With the first note of the first chord I am instantly transported through time.
The backbeat of the drums pound through me like some kind of primordial déjà-vu. Almost four decades are peeled away and I swear – if anyone dared to tell me that I was anything but 16 again - I would demand nothing short of carbon dating for proof. As I look around, I realize I am not the only Boomer experiencing de-fossilization. I look at my fellow concert goers and no longer see the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines. Instead, I see a room filled with fellow time travelers enjoying revitalized bodies and kick-started hearts partying their socks off. Even the REALLY old ones wearing support socks! They may dance a bit slower – but with no less commitment.
We’re out of our seats, dancing in the aisles, singing at the top of our lungs to anthems that evoke memories of a simpler time. We’re singing the songs that once blared from the 8-track tape players in our Daddy’s gas-guzzling sedans as we dragged the streets of our hometowns. With the same brain that can’t remember my own cell phone number, I’m recalling every word of the decades-old songs. (Could it be that the reason I can’t remember the important stuff is because I have 54 years of rock lyrics stuck in my head?)
I count it nothing but honor to grow old alongside these proudly aging groupies. Even though we may not be so well preserved, thankfully our music has been. And the old musicians can still rock and roll with all the energy and conviction of their youth.
Act my age? No Way. It’s: Damn the decades and full speed ahead! This wild and crazy hippie chick will keep right on rocking through the years…even when I’m in my rocking chair instead of dancing in the aisles.
I tend to forget on a regular basis just how depleted my Realm has become. I forget I have more years behind me than ahead of me. And I seem to have a hard time remembering I am no longer thirty-something but am *gulp* Over Fifty. With all that forgetfulness, imagine the shock to my psyche whenever I pass by a mirror and catch a startling glimpse of someone older, heavier - yet vaguely familiar – who is wearing my clothes. Imagine how unsettling it is to open my mail and read notices about joint replacement recalls or discounts on burial plots. It’s traumatic enough that for the first time in my life I am older than the POTUS, but even worse…I no longer recognize a single performer on the MTV Music Awards.
Yet, I do not despair. Because I, Rockin Robin of the 70’s, have stumbled upon the secret to everlasting youth: Oldies Concerts.
That’s right. Cheaper than botox, less painful than a facelift and comes with an added bonus: at the innocent age of 54, I’m usually one of the youngest groupies at an Oldies Concert geared to Baby Boomers.
Ahh, Baby Boomers. No other generation has ever been so defined and thoroughly united by their music. Collectively, sometimes painfully, we’ve made the trip from Acid Rock to Acid Reflux (thanks for the line, Mr. Revere). These are my peeps, whose nostalgia for our music knows no bounds.
This was the seventh Oldies Concert I had attended this year…and I could barely contain my excitement. I settled in to my assigned seat and as always, the shock of sitting amid an auditorium full of old people smacked that thirty-something in me right upside the head. I looked around and saw men and women in various stages of aging…wearing thick glasses...sporting receding gray hairlines...sporting no hairlines. To get a better look, I dug into my purse (the Black Hole) for my glasses and caught a glimpse of the Dickman out of the corner of my eye. Reality clicked back into place as I remembered, oh yeah…WE are also gray-headed and WE also wear glasses. Therefore WE belong.
Just about the time the seat beside me filled with a noisy little old lady parking her squeaky walker in the aisle, the theatre lights dimmed, the stage curtain floated up and there they were...a bunch of...uhh...middle-aged guys dressed in spandex and top coats. Led by 73-year old Paul Revere standing tall front and center - masterfully in control of his musical mustang.
When I first heard the Raiders a few years ago, I had the same response I’ve had at every other Oldies Concert. Seeing the senior versions of the rock icons of my youth, the teenager inside my soul could not subdue the knee-jerk reaction of "How dare they get older?!”. But not so anymore. Now I just smile and drink in their beautiousness like a baby waiting to be soothed with a pacifier. I love these guys. They hold in their magically talented hands the very instruments that unleash the fountain of my youth. With the first note of the first chord I am instantly transported through time.
The backbeat of the drums pound through me like some kind of primordial déjà-vu. Almost four decades are peeled away and I swear – if anyone dared to tell me that I was anything but 16 again - I would demand nothing short of carbon dating for proof. As I look around, I realize I am not the only Boomer experiencing de-fossilization. I look at my fellow concert goers and no longer see the receding hairlines and expanded waistlines. Instead, I see a room filled with fellow time travelers enjoying revitalized bodies and kick-started hearts partying their socks off. Even the REALLY old ones wearing support socks! They may dance a bit slower – but with no less commitment.
We’re out of our seats, dancing in the aisles, singing at the top of our lungs to anthems that evoke memories of a simpler time. We’re singing the songs that once blared from the 8-track tape players in our Daddy’s gas-guzzling sedans as we dragged the streets of our hometowns. With the same brain that can’t remember my own cell phone number, I’m recalling every word of the decades-old songs. (Could it be that the reason I can’t remember the important stuff is because I have 54 years of rock lyrics stuck in my head?)
I count it nothing but honor to grow old alongside these proudly aging groupies. Even though we may not be so well preserved, thankfully our music has been. And the old musicians can still rock and roll with all the energy and conviction of their youth.
Act my age? No Way. It’s: Damn the decades and full speed ahead! This wild and crazy hippie chick will keep right on rocking through the years…even when I’m in my rocking chair instead of dancing in the aisles.
Loved this... I too know that songs transport me back to a different place sometimes.
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