I learned last Monday night that basically all of my fuddy-duddy propensities have coalesced and refined themselves into something way more fuddy-duddy than they used to be. Brian and I went to an Aurora concert at the Troubadour. I tried to enjoy myself, I really did. And parts of the evening were perfect. But, oh man, I’m definitely not their audience anymore.
I used to love a good concert. It felt edgy and cool to put on all my black clothes, smear some gloss on my lips, and go dance with the other gals at the Ivy Walls concert, wherever they happened to play; the Troubadour with the odd burger stand at the back of the bar; the Silverlake Lounge with the massive lamé curtain that shimmers just right in the lights; the red, red Viper Room. We’d dance until the show was over and even my bones were tired, and then Brian and I would speed home over the empty California freeways in the darkness. I’d wake up for work the next morning tired, but with the conviction that it was all worth it.
We got there an hour early last night to wait in line for good seats. The cue wrapped around the corner of an old brick building, and I leaned my back against it as I waited with Brian. There was a group of kids in tight colored pants, high pompadours, and shirts with rolled up sleeves behind us. I rolled my eyes when one of them said “yeah, I don’t care about Aurora. I’m here for the opening band.” And then they lit up a joint. In line. On a public street.
I expect a little pot in those places. I do. But seriously? On a public street! (I told you – such a fuddy-duddy).
“How was work?” Brian asked me, and I also realized that most of the people in this line also probably didn’t have stories about their epic fight with the printer to get labels done so the student workers could send the invitation to the fundraiser.
Inside was only slightly better. The cruddy railings and beat up seats no longer seemed edgy. They just seemed gross. I wondered what sort of botulism I was exposing myself to by only bringing my tiny clutch, instead of the purse with the hand sanitizer in one of the vast pockets. (Hand sanitizer, self. SMH).
The first band was really good, but had a bit too much of an R&B influence to be my favorite. And then it was 9:30 and I realized, without even checking my phone, that it was past my bed time. If I thought I could have slept on the bench in the back of the Troubadour I might have tried it.
It all faded away and became the perfect evening once Aurora stepped onto the stage. All my crankiness and all the tired vanished. She’s such a funny, elfin lady with a tiny voice. She dances along to her songs as if she was seaweed in a current, waving here and there. She started crying when she heard us all singing along, and let us finish the lyrics to the last verse. I had that “at one with the crowd” feeling. Brian rocked out beside me so hard it made wonder if I wanted to admit to knowing him, which was basically the only goal for this evening. Aurora is Brian’s favorite.
And then Brian drove home while I slept. I have been logy and cranky most of the week, with the conviction that we were lucky it was worth it, but that next time I don’t know that I would say yes to that evening.
I mean, I don’t know who I’m kidding. I would say yes if Brian wanted to go. But still. I am way too much of a fuddy-duddy for LA clubs these days. I missed the kitten last night like you wouldn’t believe. All I want is 18 hours of sleep (Who have I become?).
Casey E. Hamilton 