On the weekend, me and the most beautiful man in the entire universe went to a Rock Concert and it was awesome!! (I use that word advisedly)
So, it’s in this little park in a small town on the south coast of Oz, and we get there, and about half the crowd are over sixty and fat as marshmallows, but that doesn’t stop them from rocking out, no it does NOT! I see leopard print leggings, busting black bikini tops, black leather over arms with more tattoos than Angry Anderson, pink hair, blue hair, white hair cascading to cut-off clad buttocks, and a guy wandering round looking very serious with a roller cane trundling along in front of him! Oh yeah!
And the bands come out and it’s like, these guys are old…are these guys OLD? NO. They shout and they jump in the air and they belt out the lyrics to songs they wrote thirty years ago and songs they wrote six months ago, and they grin at the crowd and the crowd waves its arms (crowds are just one thing, you understand) and if it hadn’t been for my beautiful river god I would’ve been backstage like a flash seeking groupie privileges after the show (not really, but they were hot!).
And we go right up the front and we get our eardrums blasted off, I still haven’t found my left one yet, and we hug and we kiss and we go in the ‘misting tent’ – cause it’s about 35 degrees celsius and sunny as – and stand with all the other oldies and some youngies going ‘ahhh, that’s great, that’s amazing!’ as cold water comes down on our heads and I wish I’d decided to wear a white tee-shirt instead of a yellow one, because, you know, I’m (still) an exhibitionist at heart.
Then I drive home with my hero at the wheel, who handles a car like a pro (actually he is a pro) and we play our favourite songs, and he nearly dumps me because I accidentally hit something on my ipod while the Stones are on and it skips right in the middle to Shakira – but I get the Stones on again and am forgiven.
So for the record, here’s what we went to hear…for my money Joe Camilleri was the BEST……………
but the Angels were pretty damn good too (though a bit loud)- naturally we shouted NO WAY GET F’CKED F’CK OFF! at the top of our voices…
and you would not believe Suzi Quatro was a day over eighty.