Maybe I'm Amazed

I actually went to a rock concert the other night.   Oh, sure, I've been to similar performances at the Hollywood Bowl but that doesn't count.  I'm talking a full blown musical production at a rockin' 55,000 seat venue like Dodger Stadium.   Just like all the ones I went to in college or right after.  Yep, I was a-movin' and a-groovin' all over again.

Paul McCartney was the attraction and, while I saw him previously in the 90s at Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands, I was drawn again mainly because the guy is 72 and you never know if this is the last opportunity.  Hell, he hadn't been in Dodger Stadium since 1966.  That's 48 years ago for the mathematically impaired.

Truth be told, I had seen enough clips from his later year concerts to know that Sir Paul may be living more on past reputation than ability.   The voice is shot.  Bad plastic surgery made him look like artificial flowers left in a car on a 90 degree day.  But, people still flock to him as if he is Jesus on the mountainside because their ears are still hearing the old vinyl records and doing some sensory perception.

Yet, heck, he was at my ball park and I had several ins on getting tickets ahead of the public, which works in my book.    I mean, he is still a Beatle.  And I was dying to see what Chavez Ravine would look like converted to an open air concert hall.

I was surprised by it all.  Well, shut my mouth.

McCartney looked great.  He had cancelled some earlier concert tour stops due to ill health.  Never a good sign when you're getting older than dirt.  But, on Sunday, he looked better than I've seen.  Those plastic surgery touch-ups can work miracles if you go to the right guy on Wilshire Boulevard.  More importantly, he sounded wonderful.  Those sinus steroids can work miracles if you go to the right guy on Wilshire Boulevard.

Meanwhile, I was absorbed completely by the whole evening.  It was a virtual bookmark in my life.   Suddenly, I was 25 again and back in my day.  I was with friends from college and childhood chums who were with me when I first heard of the Beatles.  I had a time machine and Doc Brown was not needed for the journey to the past.

I also was totally consumed by what had been done to the stadium in order to turn this into a concert venue.  The screen behind home plate was down.  All the seats in fair territory, which were incredibly obstructed views, were canvassed off.  And, amazingly, the outfield wall was removed.  The Dodgers had played here last Tuesday.   They are due back this Friday.  The miraculous transformation literally took my breath away.

There was excitement and explosions and fireworks during the spectacular "Live and Let Die" number.  The glowing super moon of the evening allowed Sir Paul segue into tributes to the dead Beatles John and George.  There was no mention of Ringo.  I guess you have to die to get the acknowledgement.  Every time he referenced a dead Beatle, Sir Paul pointed to the super moon.   So, I suppose that, in his world, heaven and God reside in a crater? 

At the same time, it all was genuine and seemed to be spontaneous.  That said, I compared notes with my friend who has been to multiple McCartney concerts and he tells me that all the stories I heard are the same ones Paul uses over and over.  The tales about Jimi Hendrix and the USSR government and George Harrison's ukulele are not new.  They have told during Paul's concerts for years.

Hey, I've been involved with a company that used to produce concerts and I know a little bit about how the sausage is made.   I remember one show that featured Paul Simon in Central Park.   I saw the log for the night.  Not only was the set meticulously timed to the second, even applause and "ad libs" were also included with a specific allowance for time.  Spontaneity anywhere is a relic of the past.  

But, Sunday night, nobody cared.   They were all there for the same reason.  And it was to connect with musical memories from their lives.  Parents were there with children continuing their musical appreciation course.  There were old hippies and the hated one-percenters.  Yet, on this night, they were all completely unified.  This was #OccupyMcCartney.  For 31 songs, 3 hours, and zero intermission.

But, of course, this mixing bowl of human batter is not without some lumps.   As with most concerts, there are certain sets of lesser known tunes that are specifically included for patrons to have bathroom breaks.   I used one to do just that and then decided to take a walk across my loge level to see my Dodger ushers.  There were tables set up to promote being a vegan.  I did not feel guilty having a bacon wrapped Dodger Dog for my own dinner.  But, I also found a lot of folks who clearly have not been to Dodger Stadium any time in the last two decades.   They were here solely because it was the thing to do in Hollywood.  The wardrobe was a dead giveaway.  It was not ballpark attire.

These same folks were, in some cases, drunk and out of their element.  I also noted that a few of them were being quite belligerent to the Dodger Stadium concession workers.  Hey, I see a lot of these staff members all the time.  I'm very nice to them because, hey, I myself did what they did when I worked at Yankee Stadium centuries or decades earlier.  Some of the treatment was downright abusive. 

There was one blonde "see you next Tuesday" who asked a concession stand worker where she could get a bottle of red wine.   The lady behind the counter pointed her to the next stand.

"What???  I can't hear you!"

The worker repeated the direction.

"WILL YOU PLEASE SPEAK BETTER ENGLISH?!!!"

All of a sudden, I realized that this bitch was talking to the worker as if she was her pool cleaner or housekeeper.  The phoniness of the elite on total display around Loge Aisle 123.  I gave the scumbag a dirty look.  What I wanted to do was give her a hysterectomy with the front of my sneaker.

So, on a happy night like this with moonlight cascading down, I took a soupcon of ugliness back to my seat.  I relished the rest of the concert with my good friends.  Having a moment or really reliving a thousand others.  One jerk several rows behind started to bang incessantly on his seat.  Like any angry landlord, I called back a stern warning.  Hey, somebody has to sit there for baseball next weekend. 

As we endured the usual post-concert traffic jam and parking lot mayhem, I wondered if this, too, might be my last rock concert ever.  There are few performers that could get me out to such a venue.  They will soon disappear from our worlds forever.  And the current crop?  Well, let's just say that I haven't paid attention to modern music since 1990. 

Nope, I doubt I will.  But, at least, I had a Beatle one more time.  And you might as well go out on top.  Both him...and me.

Dinner last night:  Chicken cutlets, meatballs, and pasta at the home of good friends Connie and Leo.