Back in the day, I whiled away many a New England weekend at the Elks Club, or the German Club, or some VFW hall, watching bands play, smoking cigarettes and drinking beers. (Mom, if you are reading this, everyone knows it was all That Boy’s fault. And I turned out Just Fine regardless.) Anyway, my point is, I would arrive home almost completely deaf, but elated and covered with a film of smoke, breath freshened with peppermint schnapps, safely delivered just before curfew. That was a long time ago, but I remember those nights fondly.
Fast forward to now. These days, I am an old married lady, happiest at home with the kids, stretched out on the couch, maybe reading a magazine and sipping some herbal tea. On a particularly wild night, you might find me grocery shopping after dark, clutching a cup of coffee and wearing bedroom slippers, checking the dates on the milk and muttering my shopping list to myself under my breath like a crazy person. Some of my friends still go out and do the late night party/bar scene from time to time — this is Maui after all, and we are supposed to be on a permanent vacation, right? But I just don’t really have it me anymore. It’s not that I am technically “old” — rather, I love my sleep too much to give it up, and one beer leaves me tipsy. The nightlife on the island is a complete mystery to me. I don’t know the names of the bands, or the locations of the best happy hours and ladies nights. Information I would have deemed critically important 15 years ago is just completely off my radar now.
With that said, the past month has found me out until 1 or 2 a.m. on several occasions, at several of our fine local establishments that offer live music, drinking and solemnly nodding my head along with the throbbing beat from the band onstage. I have experienced a renaissance of sorts. I am in the strange situation of being a middle-aged groupie, partying like it’s 1992-ish. Why this sudden change in lifestyle, you ask?
Good Question.
I blame it entirely on my husband — another boy just out to get me in trouble with my mom, apparently. He recently joined a band after an eight-year hiatus from playing “out,” and this band has “gigs” — late night gigs (note my appropriate use of the music biz lingo). And of course, as the supportive spouse that I am, I go to the shows — whoops, sorry, GIGS — and whoop and holler and clap loudly. It costs more to hire a baby-sitter than he makes playing, but I go nonetheless to show my support and undying devotion to this man of mine. The music is loud rock. Originals. When they are onstage, they wear black. They look angry, and they play their instruments hard — as though maybe they are relieving a little stress... or something.
Recently, one of their gigs was at Charley’s — the legendary club in Paia — and I was NOT missing the opportunity to see my husband performing on that venerable stage. The night they played, the crowd was mostly young guys, with different colored (but primarily dyed black) hair. Lots of piercings and black eyeliner. Not a lot of smiling and chit chat. And I was the oldest woman in the room. By a lot. The other members of the audience were standing in place, nodding their heads to the beat, sipping their plastic cups of beer and looking gloomy. Pretty much what you would expect for a rock show.
As I looked around me trying to be discreet, I had an experience that I hope never to repeat in this lifetime. Let me just say that there is nothing more humbling then looking around a bar and realizing you are the oldest girl in the room…. My skirt was not short enough, my nail polish wasn’t dark enough, and I didn’t have a single body piercing or a smidgen of eye makeup. And, was that GRAY HAIR?! I was truly a disgrace to humanity, if this crowd had anything to say about it. They sent each other text messages — eye contact with the old lady was to be avoided at All Costs. They were embarrassed for me, to be out in public looking like that.
And so, I stood there, nodding along and feeling more and more awkward and out of place. And old. Oh, I felt old. But because my husband was up there throwing around his long hair and thudding away on the bass, I remained in the audience, proudly cheering, holding my lighter aloft until I burned my fingers. (Apparently, my fingertips are not as tough as they used to be. Just another sign of my advanced age, I guess.) I had friends with me — one of my girlfriends was wearing the only white shirt in the entire bar, and she stood out like an angel in a sea of black-clad angst, a halo of sun-kissed blonde hair and possibly the only person in the bar to have seen daylight recently. We were there to Support The Band — taking pictures, texting friends, drinking beers and whistling and hollering between songs. Gloom be damned, we were having FUN.
When their set was over, I gave him a quick kiss and headed home, leaving him to bond with the guys, drink some beer, and see the next band’s performance. We piled into an SUV, rolling down the windows to hoot at my poor husband in the parking lot, who kept his gaze straight ahead, avoiding groupie eye contact as instructed, until he realized I was in the car with them. Then and only then did he look up, smile and wave. I was so glad I had gone, and wouldn’t have missed seeing him playing at Charley’s for anything. But I have to admit, I was relieved to get home, my hearing entirely intact. The baby-sitter was waiting, sipping tea in my recliner and wondering just what exactly I thought I was doing staying out until all hours. Before she had pulled away from the curb, I was in my robe with the kettle on and my teeth brushed, cracking open the new Maui No Ka Oi magazine and breathing a sigh of relief.
Just another day as the wife of a rocker. Who’d have thunk it?