My Sights and Sounds - The Eagles at the Hollywood Bowl

There is something a little unsettling going to the Hollywood Bowl in April. Usually, I don't make my first foray into stacked parking and the trek up the long hill until the Fourth of July Spectacular. But, thanks to a wonderful Christmas gift, I got to start the summer early last Saturday night with the Eagles concert.

If I thought the early date was offputting, I wasn't prepared for the audience, which was clearly from a parallel universe I do not want to visit again. While I felt one step off, the folks around me were behind by several decades.

Okay, the Eagles are to Southern California what the Beatles are to the rest of the universe. Given their West Coast roots, they are truly a hometown band. And the audience, many of which were in their 50s and 60s, were there to journey back in time for one more look at the seventies. From what I could see, that might have been the last time some of them had been out of the house. Or even without a bag of Funyons on the couch in front of the 19 inch television set.

I could see the difference as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Usually, parking instructions are not hard to follow. Apparently, they were for most of this audience. I watched folks park willy nilly. One dope ignored the parking attendant and decided to make his own lanes. Another drove hopelessly around in a circle. I would have said he was getting dizzy, but I think he left the house that way.

Yes, this was not the champagne tasting crowd that normally frequents the Hollywood Bowl. This was the wine and Cheetos set. Lots and lots and lots of wine. The stuff from the bottom shelf of the super market. I was expecting to see bottles of Lancers or Mateus strewn across the picnic area. From what I could see, motorcycle clubs all over Southern California had closed for the weekend.

This was Woodstock for the arthritic. But, instead of the expected vile smell offered up by the Wacky Weed of Woe, the aroma that completely enveloped the Bowl was one of nicotine. Lots and lots and lots of nicotine. This was now the Hollywood Ashtray. If I ultimately die from lung cancer, I will assume the tumor began to form last weekend.

The pre-show parade of slobs was astounding. If you needed to get hold of a 70s burnout, this should have been the first place to look. Folks for whom Old Navy is high-end clothing apparel. And, naturally, I attracted them like a refrigerator magnet.

Take, for instance, the two dumbbells down the end of my row. He was fairly nondescript. But, the missus? Yeeech! Everytime she bent over to get a Slim Jim from her picnic basket, her clothing retreated in opposite directions. The blouse went up. The pants went down. And I got a front row view of her purple thong. Given she was about 275 pounds, I didn't think they made them in those sizes. My friend said the woman was obviously very comfortable with her body. Good for her. I sure as hell wasn't.

My slippery slope continued with the arrival of the two assholes who would sit directly next to me. A married couple that had dusted off their EST manual for the evening. They did what they wanted to do. They talked what they wanted to talk about. And didn't give a rat's ass who they were annoying in the process.

I knew this was trouble when the guy, clearly in his 50s, arrived wearing a T-shirt from a motorcycle shop in Redwood City, California. Never a good sign. His wife/woman kept throwing her arms around her husband/man. Everytime she did so, I got punched in the shoulder. If I wanted to be the victim of spousal abuse, there are countless people I would have married years ago. Within ten minutes, I was looking to see if the Bowl Gift Shop sold temporary restraining orders.

Meanwhile, these two chuckleheads decided to use the evening as a means to catch up on the last two decades. As soon as the show started, they began to chat. And chat. And chat. They would have stood out more for the incessant conversation, except I noticed most of the crowd was doing the same. As I surveyed the rows around me, I was looking at years of undiagnosed attention deficit disorders.

Of course, at the beginning of the second act, the Dynamic Duo unfortunately returned from wherever they had urinated during intermission. Now it was time to eat. And they had apparently cleaned out their refrigerator for the first time since 1979. Everything they pulled out of their cooler smelled like a science project conducted with sulphur. I guess somebody had told them to "eat shit," because that's precisely what they were doing.

Trust me, when I could concentrate, the musical portion of the evening was pitch perfect. These were the real Eagles, unlike several years ago when the Bowl pulled four clowns off a Compton street corner to "be" the Spinners. Yep, we got the authentic musicians. Glenn Frey, Don Henley, and Joe Walsh are a bit older and more grizzled, but still craftsmen when it comes to their tunes.

And Frey has a future as a stand-up comic. He announced that this was the Eagles' "Assisted Living Tour." He dedicated one song to his first wife, whom he now refers to as "Plaintiff." And, when he was discussing his hometown of Detroit, he remarked that this is a place where "mother" is only one half of a word.

At the same time, the Eagles used rear back projection to the max. There was always something interesting being shown behind them. Sometimes, it was the usual cacophony of colors designed to enhance your marijuana intake. But, mostly, it was scenery or old videos that simply added to the overall retro experience. You got to see the band in their younger, vodka-hazed days.

Well, you readers are the lucky ones. I'm including two numbers from the show for you to enjoy. And you can listen without enduring sloppy drunks, second-hand smoke, and rancid Brie cheese. Yep, I took the hit for you.

And I don't mean on a joint.

Dinner last night: Salisbury steak at the Cheesecake Factory.