Several years ago, my then boss asked me if I worry about hearing loss when I’m older due to my love of live music. I told him the only thing I worry about when it comes to getting older is not having a good story to tell… and also cancer; there’s always cancer… and not saving enough for retirement. You get it.
In the past week, I visited two venues to see two bands for a total of three shows. The week began on a Friday at Wrigley Field for a two-night set with Dead & Company and ended the next Friday at Soldier Field with The Rolling Stones. My ears are still ringing and my inner hope chest of stories is overflowing. I can see my former boss shaking his head now.
The Dead shows were special because they always are. Of course, there was the annual summer reunion with the Stone Jack Ballers and the sound of a band that, in many ways, just keeps getting better with age. It was also a reunion of people I don’t see very often. A packed 48 hours of hustling from one place to the next. A flurry of ponchos. A host of cocktails. A variety of bad food choices that have left my aging stomach in knots, and a collection of smiles, laughter, tears, joy, and love that have filled my heart with all the things that make it beat.
What was different and exciting this time around though was that for the first time, Rod came along for the ride.
While Rod and I have now seen everyone we’ve ever wanted to see live in concert (more on that in a minute), The Grateful Dead is my band. Truth be told, Rod’s not a big fan of their music; they’re just not his bag. Still, every time the Dead are brought up, everyone automatically assumes he’s the Deadhead. I look like I work in an office (I do) and Rod looks like he makes a living selling hand-sewn patches on the lot (he does not). It’s his beard, I think, and also his love of T-shirts. But this time around, with Wrigley as one of the band’s tour stops, Rod said he wanted to experience the scene with me and attend one of the shows – but only one. He’s still a Dead neophyte after all. Let’s not to push it too far – at least not yet.
The first night, Melissa and I sat third row while Rod hung out at nearby Murphy’s, met a few bros who fed him Jagerbombs, and eventually made his way to the Red Line where he worried about being on it too long, got off six stops too early, and walked approximately three miles back to our hotel. Meanwhile, Melissa and I laughed with strangers, met up with friends, danced in the rain, and sang our favorite songs.
The next day, our crew herded approximately 15 cats from this place to that until we finally landed in Wrigley again for night two: Rod’s show. There were no Jagerbombs that day, yet Rod was in rare form. I’ve never seen him so happy, so ready to commune with people so unlike him. He was downright giddy in a sea of humans who would otherwise make him anxious and scream things like, “Why’s everyone only in it for themselves!” But the Deadheads resonated with him. The people in our section were more than happy to greet Rod with a hug and a smile and generate a collective joy that only comes from watching someone experience a show for the first time.
Rod met a lot of good people; a lot of old heads. People who talked with him about the music and sang along with him to songs he actually knew. Toward the end, just as we were heading out, a teenage foreign exchange student who was also attending his first show and who Rod had been talking to all night, reached out and slid a bracelet from his wrist onto Rod’s. He held onto Rod’s hand as he blessed the bracelet. Then they hugged and Rod told him to go change the world. That’s the kind of stuff that happens at Dead shows.
Now while I’ve seen various iterations of the Dead many times and experienced the many wonders they can bring, I’ve never seen the Stones, a band that moves me more than any other.
The Rolling Stones are my favorite band of all time and the last band to see on my bucket list. For years, I was terrified I would never get to see them play live, and I almost missed my shot this year when, after we bought our tickets, Mick Jagger announced plans for heart surgery, which would mean the postponement of their North American tour. Luckily, about a month ago, instead of rescheduling our show, the band opted to kick off their tour in Chicago. I will never be more grateful for not canceling a hotel room.
Rod was with me for this show too, as were Melissa and Rachel, two of my dearest friends who oddly enough had never met until the day of the concert. They got along famously just like I knew they would (fabulous women love other fabulous women) and together we again made our way to Chicago for another show: My show.
Unlike the Dead, Rod is all in on the Stones. Together, we worship at the altar of Exile on Main Street, have memorized Sticky Fingers, and are equally weirded out and intrigued by Their Satanic Majesties Request. Even after Mick’s heart surgery, I wasn’t worried about their performance; I had a feeling they would be ready to play. Rod, however, was deeply concerned.
Both the Stones and the Dead have been around since 1962 and 1965, respectively, but the Dead now include a few younger members, most notably John Mayer. I have no doubt the Dead would still be rocking without him, but Mayer certainly brings a fresher vibe that I’m quite sure has inspired 71-year-old Bob Weir to not only stay in shape (I mean seriously, those guns!) but up his game on stage too.
On the other hand, with the exception of 57-year-old bassist Darryl Jones, the Stones are old AF. Collectively, the five primary members are 357 years old.
Yet, despite their age, they came on stage and burned that place to the ground. Mick still moves like he’s 20, Charlie Watts still looks like he shouldn’t know how to drum, and Keith Richards still appears angry even though he gets to smoke freely indoors. Ronnie Wood is sober, which is different, but he still plays the same. Together, they were a force for good old fashioned, heart pounding, mind melting, blues slinging, rock n’ roll music. I screamed so loudly that Van questioned why my voice was “glitching” the next day. It was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen.
I come away from this last week with new set lists, a few ticket stubs, two exorbitantly priced hoodies, songs to fill the space in my head, and an array of memories I can reflect upon and laugh about with my comrades for years to come.
The memories I made in one week’s time are at least half the reason I plan concert trips like this every year. This time, it was the teenager who gifted Rod a bracelet. The guy in front of us on I-94 who wrecked through a toll gate. The friend who accidentally spent $188 on Chinese food and ended up feeding not just strangers, but our hotel desk clerk, a security guard, and us too. It was losing my phone and getting it back completely untouched from Wrigley Field security. It was the lead singer of the Stones’ opening act, St. Paul & the Broken Bones, rolling around on the stage in a black sequined cape while belting Otis Redding. It was singing Knocking on Heaven’s Door in the pouring rain and then witnessing a 20-minute version of Midnight Rambler.
It is these memories and more that make it easier to risk my hearing, maintain a concert fund, and use every last vacation day I have. I do it for the music, but I also do it for this.
Title Track: “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” The Rolling Stones. Listen here.
