All the Old Dudes in My Tribe

Lately I've been seeing a lot of posts from people in my high school class about our upcoming 40th year reunion, which of course has underscored how old we are, how many years have passed, etc. They're planning what sounds like a lovely gathering: a Friday night meet and greet at probably the best place in the Chicago south suburbs to get pizza (not to mention not a bad hangout for us in those days -- back before the internet, if you wanted to know who won the high school basketball game on a Saturday night, you went to Aurelio's), and then a semi-formal ("dress nice casual") for about $100 at some banquet hall where there will be OK food, open bar, a pro photog, and "music." I'm sure it's going to be a very nice affair, and if I've got a spare c-note and want to give up a prime weekend in August, it might be fun. But, I'll probably blow it off.

I wasn't one of those people who hated my high school; in fact there were many great people we went to school with there that I keep in touch with via FB and other things. But they weren't the "greatest years of my life" and I'm not sure I'm that curious enough about "whatever happened to...." given that most of the people I'd wonder that about I'm already in touch with. Rich Central was a good high school, loaded with all the cliques (phrased in my yearbook as "the jocks, the brains, the burnouts and the normal people") you'd expect (and a lot more invisible people, too). It was also fairly diverse racially, economically, and politically, which you don't normally see in a suburban high school. There weren't any "mean girls" per se; this wasn't the Westerberg High School experience a la Heathers. I wasn't exactly Miss Popularity, but I'm not bitter about my high school experience, I'm just "meh" about driving two and a half hours to spend $100 to hob nob with people I didn't hang out with that much and can easily touch base with later on FB (although I might pop into Aurelio's that Friday night for excellent pizza and a situation I can just drive away from later and maybe go see a good band in Chicago that night -- anybody I'd want to see will likely be there, too).

The bottom line: this wasn't my tribe. Nice people, generally, but not my tribe. My tribe was at the Miller High Life Theatre this past April 1 at the Mott the Hoople show. I didn't even have to ask around "who's going" when I bought my single ticket (Brian didn't want to burn a PTO day off on a Monday night, so I went alone). I just knew I was going to know people there.  I could have just as confidently bought a ticket for the Chicago show three days later, and I know I would have run into another faction of my tribe there, as The Sandwich Life's Cynthia confirmed. All I had to do was find my 10th row center seat, look around, and wave "hi" to the dozen or so people I immediately saw. I didn't even have to wait until that point. I knew people in the parking lot. At the bar. At the merch table (where I dutifully picked up an old school tour t-shirt, with the band/tour logo on the front and a list of the tour dates on the back). And if I didn't know them (the people in line at all these places, the people I sat next to at the show), we still had plenty to talk and laugh about and remember.

The show was predictably wonderful. Predictable in that the local press (and FB comments) made sure to get in digs about the age of the band and its audience ("All the Old Dudes" "Walker with a Mountain"). I'll admit, I started a little game of audience scavenger hunt, ("five points if you spot someone under 40 here, ten points if they're under 30"). Everybody got in some comments about how old the band was as we made it out our seats.

But also predictable in that after all those "old" jokes, those 70+ geezers ambled onstage and proceeded to kick ass.

Ian Hunter's voice is still on point, Ariel Bender came our from the shadow of the ghost of Ronson, and every person in the audience knew every song. And they shined on every song. With all these years comes experience, professionalism, and yet they were fun, loose, and appeared to enjoy themselves as much as we enjoyed it. Being Milwaukee, and being glad they started the tour here, and truly appreciating when somebody like this comes to our town, the Mayor declared April 1 "Mott the Hoople Day" in the city, and this was no joke. By the time they got to the encore (need I tell you what it was), we were all signing along and waving our cell phones as though they were the lighters we held back in the 70s in a way hipper kumbaya moment. This was my tribe.

Across town at the Riverside theatre, another faction of the tribe was watching Nick Mason's Saucerful of Secrets. I saw the setlist on a friend's timeline ("They opened with Intestellar Overdrive?" I asked. "Yes! It was epic!" he confirmed) and wish I'd seen it, but was happy with my choice on a Monday night. For that matter, the Pixies were the other way across town the same night at the Rave (and by most accounts they were also great, and I would have known people there, too). All three, in town, same Monday night, what is this, New York? By the weekend I decided at the last minute to hit the Robyn Hitchcock show and was glad for that, too.

Robyn Hitchcock shows are also predictably wonderful. He'll do some of his hits, he'll ramble on between songs in some story that seems like he's going off on an irreversable tangent but he'll hilariously steer himself back on track. He's been doing the schtick on "I'm Only You" where he gets the sound man to throw him into a digital delay loop and then solo against himself. (It worked better this time at the Back Room at Colectivo than it did last year -- better sound man, but still aced it best at Shank Hall two years ago.) I need to give that room another chance. We were packed into rows of seats (only "reserved seating" got a table) and when I arrived my purse was searched deeply and completely, geez, I don't get searched that much at airport security.  What the hell were they looking for at a Robyn Hitchcock show? C'mon, this wasn't exactly Ozzfest. But still, I knew a bunch of people there, and the ones I didn't were still delightful to converse with as we chatted between sets. This time around, while Robyn autographed stuff, I realized all my Hitchcock and Softboys paraphrelia already has his signature; so I got an entry in my journal from him. While I was not able to go to Silk Torpedo the next night at the Circle A, I recommended that glam revival act to the folks I was sitting near (all of whom were at Mott a few nights earlier.) I thought I was going to be able to relax.

Beaker

The First Rule

But then another friend in my tribe, Annette, called me, and wanted to know if I wanted to join her, on a work night again, to see this band I'd never heard of (surprisingly), the Electric Six. Sure. I stopped by her house to get ready and told her, "I know nothing of these guys." "Watch this," she answered. OK. I'm there, this band will get the job done.  We got to Club Garibaldi in time to learn that there were four three bands that night, so unlike a Circle A gig, this wasn't going to be an early night like we'd hoped. Settled in to catch a great local opening act, Beaker, that served as the nudge to get me to go to New Wave Fest last weekend.

At first, we're thinking there's just a bunch of Milwaukee punks getting ready to play, but then they put on lab coats, and strap on their guitars, and they're kind of a Devo meets NiN kind of thing -- very nerdy synth, but banging it out with an almost metal like presence. Definitely a must see again band, and definitely should be on the bill for the next New Wave Fest. They were followed by a good, anthemic power punk band called The First Rule, out of Kenosha, home of great hardcore punk. The Size 5s T-shirt the lead singer wore hammered home what these guys were about -- if you like the Size 5s (and I do!) you'll like this band.  My regret from the night was not bringing my good camera and relying on my cell phone camera. The lighting at Club G emphasizes the red, and that's not good if you can't adjust capture settings like on my regular camera. But I was so freaked out by the TSA wannabe at Colectivo that I was worried that bringing a DSLR to a "national" show would be frowned upon (it wasn't, BTW) that I left it at home. Won't make that mistake again.

Finally, Electric Six took the stage and delivered on its promise to bring this all full circle to the glam that Mott the Hoople started not just April 1, but decades ago. The were loud, bombastic, full of showmanship and catchy sing along songs that made this old broad happy to see that Ian Hunter's (and Iggy Pop's, and David Bowie's and Sweet's) torch has not only been picked up by my contemporaries, but by the young un's as well. Remembering the past is great, but better when you see that the best parts are being passed on to the next generation -- and the generation after that. My tribe is full, and as will be detailed in the next post, fuller than I thought.