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| {Not me} |
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| {Me} |
After wasting an afternoon playing fatter, wrinkly Barbie doll attempting to find something hip yet age appropriate to wear to the Florence + the Machine concert (then embarrassing myself by posting my options online) I did what women usually do when suffering from a wardrobe crisis: I went shopping. I kicked all the outfits back into the dark recesses of my over-stuffed closet. I bought new dress. It was inexpensive. It was pretty. I didn’t have to pick out accessories. It made me feel good. Perfect.
The Hubby and I slogged through rush hour traffic in the rain and eventually made it to the tourist side of town. As we ran through Universal CityWalk we placated ourselves with dreams of a fabulous show and cold beer. Yes, I said beer. Wine is for home appreciation, good food, the Opera, and upscale bars. Beer is for concerts, NASCAR, and our English Pub.
Once inside the Hard Rock we slithered our way through the crowd to find the perfect best available floor space. I needed a clear view of the stage. I needed to have room to dance. And I needed to have no assholes in my direct vicinity.
Hubby claims I am an asshole magnet at concerts. There is almost always some jerk who feels it is necessary to completely invade my personal space, yell over the music to his asshat buddy or into his phone, spill beer down my back, and accidentally grope me repeatedly. Though I am shy and timid in everyday life, don’t f@ck with me at a concert. I simply will not put up with that sh$t.
Until very recently, I never though much about what I wore to shows. Standard uniform was black tank (velvet, sparkly, or vintage rock band), jeans and big black boots. Beer + big black boots = bravery. Get into my space and I would stomp you like fine grapes in a barrel. If someone dared to get pushy I would bum a cigarette and use it as a prop; a few burns and they would scurry away. Worked every time.
But now I wear heels or occasionally flip flops if it’s raining or an outdoor show. Stomping doesn’t work nearly as well. No one can light anything in doors anymore (which is nice because I hated coming home smelling like an ashtray). And I am with my Hubby who wants to be The Man standing up for his woman, but can’t really get involved. He’d be fired in a heartbeat if he was ever arrested for fighting. So I am on the lookout to avoid assholes and trouble. We stood five feet from security. I felt like such a grown-up.
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| {not Me, buy MY hair} |
I did get a couple of “nice hair” comments and stares on the way to the bar and bathroom. Florence Welch, the lead chanteuse/siren, has my hair. I’m older, therefore it was mine first. I thank her everyday for making my I’m too lazy to straiten my waves in this humidity hairdo stylish.
The audience for Florence was mixed: emo teens, hipster adults sporting glasses and flannels, and a profusion of women. Many holding hands. Many whom I first thought were flannel-shirted hipster guys (sorry). Hubby surveyed the crowd and informed me point blank, “You are NOT allowed to get in a fight with a dyke tonight.” Nothing against lesbians whatsoever; most of them could have chewed me up and spit me out without blinking a mascara-free eye. Would not have made a fun night.
An Amazon stood in front of us with a child about Kiddo’s size. He was falling asleep at her feet. I don’t mind kids at concerts (we took Kiddo to see Paul McCartney last year) but not when it’s a sold out, standing room only venue. The poor thing was hugging his lovey and fighting to keep his eyes open. I feared he would be mashed into rock show road-kill.
As the floor filled around us, a perky, pig-tailed and bejeweled 40-something bumped into me. When I whipped around she hugged me and shoved her ten-year-old between us, raving about how he just looovveed Florence + the Machine.
Our one night out and we were surrounded by kids. Not funny, Karma.
Once the the band took the stage everything around us was forgotten. Florence Welch enchanted the crowds with her powerful pipes, haunting lyrics, and sheer Gucci-goes-goth get-up (see hot pants). Her gauzy costume floated across the stage as she whirled and danced like an ethereal pagan goddess while belting out tunes such as The Dog Days Are Over, Rabbit Heart (Raise it Up), and Howl. The band was tight; her vocals pounded through the venue and mesmerized the awe-struck audience.
Florence + the Machine is one of the few bands who truly sound great live. Florence proved how the award-winning debut album Lungs earned its title: she has one hell of a set of them. Beautiful. Ethereal. Utterly fabulous.
Hubby left with a huge crush on Florence Welch. Which I suppose I can deal with; when we looked up the YouTube videos of the show Kiddo raved how she looks just like me. Well, maybe if I was ten years younger, taller, thinner, had legs up to my armpits, and could carry a tune anywhere besides the shower. It’s nice to dream…
If you haven’t listened to them, give them a try.
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