...I've never questioned my mortality in this way.
With great anticipation from the rumours about the newly re-opened and re-furbished Capitol Theater in Port Chester last night with little sis and a dear friend from high school days in Ahmonk. We had a great dinner at Fat Mario's Tarry Lodge and entered the theater that was so full of memories for me. I had seen so many groups from the late 60's early 70's there with sis, parents and assorted friends. The Dead, the Allman's, Ten Years After, Rick Derringer with Johnny & Edgar Winter et al.
It smelled squeaky clean, was well lit, bright and shiny when I entered the lobby--a far cry from the old days. No huge whiff of pot or haze of smoke hovering in the lobby. No throngs of wasted people holding up walls or staircases. No smiles either.
I hiked up two flights of stairs and entered the balcony with the show in progress. In the darkness, I looked down to the stage and saw a bent-over, frail old man hunched over a mike with a scratchy voice yelling out vocals for a tune I couldn't recognize. It took a moment but I was shocked when I realized that was the great Bob Dylan. I felt sad immediately. Sad for him shlepping his poor old self on stage 200 nights a year. More sad for me because I wasn't ready for it. Then to see all the grey and white haired, out of shape, poorly dressed people bobbing to the music that was practically inaudible to me in the last row of nosebleed. It was too much. Too overwhelming for my delicate sensibilities. Pathetic.
Now I can understand why most people won't attend a retro concert. I couldn't wait to leave. In fact I called for a car after about 20 minutes and had to wait an eternity, or it seemed, to get home. Where I am safe with Silly Lily and Mr. Zazoo. In my "I'm never getting old" world.
With great anticipation from the rumours about the newly re-opened and re-furbished Capitol Theater in Port Chester last night with little sis and a dear friend from high school days in Ahmonk. We had a great dinner at Fat Mario's Tarry Lodge and entered the theater that was so full of memories for me. I had seen so many groups from the late 60's early 70's there with sis, parents and assorted friends. The Dead, the Allman's, Ten Years After, Rick Derringer with Johnny & Edgar Winter et al.
It smelled squeaky clean, was well lit, bright and shiny when I entered the lobby--a far cry from the old days. No huge whiff of pot or haze of smoke hovering in the lobby. No throngs of wasted people holding up walls or staircases. No smiles either.
I hiked up two flights of stairs and entered the balcony with the show in progress. In the darkness, I looked down to the stage and saw a bent-over, frail old man hunched over a mike with a scratchy voice yelling out vocals for a tune I couldn't recognize. It took a moment but I was shocked when I realized that was the great Bob Dylan. I felt sad immediately. Sad for him shlepping his poor old self on stage 200 nights a year. More sad for me because I wasn't ready for it. Then to see all the grey and white haired, out of shape, poorly dressed people bobbing to the music that was practically inaudible to me in the last row of nosebleed. It was too much. Too overwhelming for my delicate sensibilities. Pathetic.
Now I can understand why most people won't attend a retro concert. I couldn't wait to leave. In fact I called for a car after about 20 minutes and had to wait an eternity, or it seemed, to get home. Where I am safe with Silly Lily and Mr. Zazoo. In my "I'm never getting old" world.