Now I remember why I don’t go to rock concerts!





Well, when they told me I should go, it’ll be fun (why do they always say that! No one ever says come, it might not even be remotely entertaining… but are you into leather?) I explained to them that my idea of a concert is when people a) sit in numbered seats designated for the occasion, b) don’t talk, and c) most definitely don’t consume alcoholic beverages from plastic cups (the bartender informed me after I screamed at her why she’s giving me a draft when I asked for a bottle that she has to pour my Heineken into a plastic cup because I am not “allowed” to have the bottle in case during the evening I was tempted to “throw” it; I was about to ask her for some clarification about the throwing thing when a big uproar shook the building – the first band is on – I ducked, she laughed, I managed a thank you, and have a good evening, she answered with a shrug, and I wanted to explain to her what she could do with the empty bottles…).

We get to the club, and surprise of surprises Mr. Bouncer wants to see an ID. Now I am not against this concept, but do people here actually think I am under age? I mean the bouncer himself looks almost 10 years younger than I am. We go in, and they have to “stamp” us. Now this concept I am very much against. First I believe the act itself is demeaning (and honestly it doesn’t shower off very well and stays there for 2 days), and second it means that the crowd is kind of mixed, because some people did not get stamped and must be… (gasp) under 21!! Then they also put a tag – yes a plastic tag like the ones they use on in-patients in hospitals – around my wrist (as if the stamp was not enough!), now at that point I was wondering if they’d also like to paint my face purple, or probably put a ring around my nose (I think people at the door enjoy this!)

For me the night had two important elements. First the crowd, which I amused myself all evening by observing, until I felt like an anthropologist, and stopped myself short from going up to someone, pock them and study their reaction. It was a room full of pseudo-intellectual-look-at-me-I-am-one-with-the-proletariat sort of people. I mean it’s a rock concert (a hard rock concert no less) and I spotted only 1 mohawk and 1 pink hair, come on! The second element was of course the music. Well, when we first arrived, a friend suggested that I get earplugs, of course I sneered at her not wanting to sound like a wimp, and because I went through 15 years of civil war (sometimes living in the middle of a combat zone) without earplugs; I have trained ears! Well, I was wrong. But let me tell you it’s not just the music… the loud uproar that seeped into my brain, but the vibrations from the floor! I tried to stand on one foot, on the carpet, on the linoleum, no escape! And what only worked was jumping… like them. And there and then, I understood what’s meant by if you can’t beat them, join them. And I did. It was fun, except that I couldn’t get my mind of the pain in my back. Excruciating pain, going down my legs… and I realized that I am old now, middle aged before my time.

Last night was about turning the last page of my youth…