Play Guitar
Earlier this week, I caught a whiff of the familiar yet still distant smell of spring. I was walking to my car and there it was: the first notes of grass and last night’s rain overthrowing the last bit of melting snow and some of my own winter angst. I stopped and smiled. It’s almost here, I thought. It’s almost outdoor concert season.
Spring is a time of hope and a time of growth. It’s also a time of anticipation and a countdown to the final hurdle in my annual journey of dancing barefoot in a patch of dried grass while singing loudly and unapologetically among a sea of people doing the exact same thing.
Unlike winter concerts, summer concerts are filled with smiles, tanned skin, passable inebriation, messy hair, sandals, non-judgment, and light hoodies in case it gets a little cool at night. It’s friends and strangers enjoying their favorite music without worrying at all about the guy passed out on a nearby blanket. Good for him, you think. All that sun must have really worn him out.
In the winter though, summer concert behavior is somehow completely unacceptable. The winter equivalent to a free spirited summer concertgoer is an unkempt, wind-burned drunk in a pilly sweater who’s inexplicably wearing sandals in the snow. Also, that guy who’s passed out in nearby aisle double H is currently being escorted out by security.
Sure, there are the occasional standing room only shows that provide an indoor opportunity to shake your bones and a throw the snow off your shoulders, but in my neck of the woods these venues are few and far between. In South Bend, Indiana, we have the Morris Performing Arts Center, a gorgeous, historical spot good for plays and live book readings with absolutely nothing to offer concertgoers looking to let their freak flags fly.
About a month ago, I took Rod to the Morris to see his life-long hero and fellow Hoosier, John Mellencamp. This was a huge bucket list item for Rod. As a very proud Indiana boy (his words), Rod has wanted to see Mellencamp perform live for as long as I can remember. We’ve tried to make it work a few times, but for one reason or another, our plans have always fallen through. This time though we were going to make it work and my Indiana boy was as excited as a Hickory fan witnessing Jimmy Chitwood’s long awaited return to the court.
It was a cold evening in February and we were both feeling great after enjoying a few drinks at the South Bend Brew Werks before the show (fabulous beer and food, by the way). Inside the Morris, we made full use of the coat check so as not to let our stuffy jackets stifle us in our seats, and grabbed two more (surprisingly) affordable beers before making our way inside.
When we finally walked into the theatre, the show had already started. A film outlining John’s career was playing in the pitch-black auditorium as the too-busy-to-be-bothered “usher” who led us to our row carelessly pointed to seats somewhere in the middle of a seemingly impenetrable crowd. Scooching and shuffling past several sitting bodies, we quickly took two vacant seats to look at the numbers on our tickets.
“My husband is going to be back soon and he’s going to want his seat,” snarled the tight-lipped woman now sitting next to me.
“Yeah,” I said, fumbling with the flashlight on my phone. “I’m just trying to figure out where our seats are.”
Attempting to backtrack, she responded, “Well, can I hold your beer while you look?”
“No, I got it,” I said in a way that indicated she had already crossed a line and that I too was a white woman capable of being bitchy.
As it turns out, our seats were only about five people down, and we found our way to them as quickly as possible.
The performance was slow to start. Mellencamp did a few new tunes and a couple older, slower songs as well. Then he really started to play guitar. From “Lonely Ol’ Night” to “Paper in Fire” to a beautiful acoustic version of “Jack and Diane” and a charged “Blood on the Scarecrow,” Mellencamp and his band played loudly and they played well.
Going in, I must admit I had my doubts about how good his performance would be. Mellencamp is a musician whose success on stage is dependent entirely upon his mood. I know people who have raved about seeing him live and others who were completely disappointed walking out of the venue. At this show though, it was clear he was pleased to perform in his home state and that the only thing on his mind was proving how good he still is.
