Rock and Roll Will Never Die (and Neither Will I)

Where were we? Oh yes.

To recap:

Dear old people of Facebook. I know you think a personal milestone that I reached recently stamps me as one of you, but it ain’t necessarily so and I can prove it. Guess what I’m doing tonight. Give up? 

I’ve accepted an invitation from my very own eldest son, Daddy's Big Boy, Aaron J. a/k/a/ The A-Man, to accompany him to a rock and roll concert in Kenmore Square. No, not the Mercifully Deceased or whatever The Other One calls those relics these days. I’ve slept through enough of their bass solos for this lifetime, thank you. (Memo to Deadheads: Yeah, I know they have a special vibe. What they’re missing is a discernible beat). Instead, I’m going to see … well, I can’t remember the name of the band but I know they’re great because no one in it is older than 30. That’s really important because, WE CAN’T TRUST ANYONE OVER 30! I think that’s a law or something. 

Anyway, the coolest part is that the show doesn’t start until midnight! Imagine that! Who knew people actually stayed up that late? I’m even skipping tonight’s episode of Johnny Carson for the occasion. 

I’ve got my best concert threads all laid out to wow those hep cats and chickadees. Lessee … blue sports jacket, madras shorts, black knee high athletic socks, PF Flyers … check, check and check. Wait till they get a look at me! I have to take my nap now but then I’m off to take back the night! ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE! PS If any of you have an extra bottle of Geritol lying around, I could really use it. Danke Scheon. Darlings, Danke Sheon.

The Coda:  

I’m sure you folks have been on the edge of your seats all week waiting for the necessary coda to this tale of no false notes. Well, here’s how it played out. No brag, just fact.

Accustomed as I am to being shown to my seat and addressed as “sir”, it was quite a jolt to be waved in and told, “sit anywhere you can find a seat, dude.” I looked around for the dude but didn’t see Mr. Bridges so I took a deep breath and deep dived into the Seat Hunt for the nearest chair, from whence I commenced to observe the festivities.

The band, with the enticing (although surely misleading) name of Dopapod, was comprised of Berklee School of Music grads. As such, they could play all the notes even if they can’t spell the name of their own alma matter. They were quite groovy, weaving a bodily stew of rock, rhythm and blues and jazz fused with a back beat so I couldn’t lose it.

I managed to incorporate the proper body positions of the new dance form called, “Doin’ the Boogie” into my own unique posturing, all the while ignoring the baleful gaze of Daddy's Big Boy, a/k/a/, The A-Man, who was trying to study chord progressions by explaining that my less than graceful flailing was merely an attempt to loosen up formerly agile limbs in anticipation of the forthcoming limbo contest which lamentably never came to pass, remaining a mere fragment of my imagination.

Things went on this way for quite until somewhere around 2:00 a.m. as we were reelin’ and rockin’, rollin’ till we finally broke that do’ , and it was time for these birds to take wing.

We stepped out onto the Boulevard of Broken Deadhead Dreams to a sight few should ever have to endure. Fans of the remnants of the “Aren’t You All Dead Yet?” band littered the avenue, wasted, wounded bodies of gassed and flaccid kids mooning the stars as far as the eye could wander.

I ventured forth uncertainly over the littered landscape, searching for a clear path to the other side when Oliver Sudden! I felt a large five fingered paw envelope my trembling hand while another gently gripped me at the elbow. 

I looked up and realized that it was my own very own, Daddy’s Big Boy, the Big Galoot, himself,leading me, Magoo-like over the cobblestones as if I was some ancient, wizened crone without the sense to avoid a puddle of curbside vomit.   

Determined not to cause my own son public embarrassment, I exclaimed loud enough for only the powers that be to hear, “Unhand me, you knave!” and took off at a dog trot that-a-way. 

Seven steps into my jaunt, the Galoot came skipping alongside and challenged me to a foot race to our motor vehicle which stood 1/8 of a mile distant. I accepted fully confidence I could trudge faster than he could ever hope to lope.

Uhhh …

He beat me to the car by 20 minutes. (In the interest of maintaining my reputation for truth in reporting and keeping in mind that every word of this ridiculous tale is no more than half true), I admit I exaggerated the facts ever so slightly to spare myself public embarrassment. His true lead time was 23 minutes. But it was a really long 1/8 of a mile, I tell ya!

In the end, we made it home by the crack of 3. 

The galoot went right to sleep while I spent another hour awake trying to shake the thunderous tones from my ear drums.

In the morning, that guy had to sleep until noon. I, the old guy, on the other hand, was up and nearly spry by the break of 8, downed a heaping bowl of Sugar Pops (they’re tops!) mowed the lawn, weeded the garden, shoveled the side walk and took a trip to the gym )just to be sure the building was still standing) and was back home by the eve of 8:15.

What a trip it was!

To prove my behavior was truly exemplary, The Galoot and his brother in crime, Jack the Lad, invited me to yet another Rock Fest, this one featuring their faves, Slightly Stoopid (it seems you can’t be in a rock band if you were in the first spelling group in grammar school) and Soja, which, I am told, stands for Soldiers of Jah, whoever he is, this very Sunday in the home town of my sister’s off spring, a place known to them as SimsBORING this very Sunday!

Hand me down my rock and roll shoes and let’s Boogie on!  

PS I hope I passed the audition. 

July 22, 2016