Growing up in a religiously addicted family, we were not allowed to go to the movies, the theater, or to dance – to be tempted by worldly pleasures. Concerts are out of the question, unless they are of classical music, which I do enjoy. But none of them are outstanding in memory like those I attend in my seventies. My present husband has widened my world by buying tickets to see the band, Chicago, music I had loved only on vinyl.
2021, at Buffalo, New York’s Art Park outdoors, chairs on the lawn, is where I dance in the aisles. Dave is new to dancing, needing me to beg him to dance, not believing me when I say he is a natural-born dancer. Let’s have fun!
After a few beers and others dancing near the stage, Dave joins me as we dance closely, slowly, and sensually to You Are the Inspiration – my tears blinking in the moonlight, our huge smiles lifting to the trombonist, saxophonist, trumpeter, drummer, and guitarist. I am in heaven.
Unlike, a hell of a John Fogerty concert at Woodstock’s Memorial Park a month later. Under a roofed open amphitheater, the extreme loudness blurs the lyrics, hurts my eardrums, beating my chest as if I am the drum. So, we walk out under the stars where the music does not batter our bodies while I dance alone, until a slow dance, until raindrops force us back under the roofed arena. I dance in the aisles until an usher directs me and other dancers to sit down. Our fun is ruined like my mother’s outlandish rules.
I tell Dave, “I am so glad we went to hear Chicago first, otherwise maybe I would have made a concerted effort not to attend anymore concerts.