Mosh Mom

I have never been much of a concert devotee. I remember in high school a guy asked me if I wanted to go to Kansas. I had no idea what was enticing about a road trip north of the Okie border. Maybe 6.2 beer instead of 3.2? I finally figured it out. “Oh Kansas! As in Carry on my Wayward Son. Got it!” I never went; my parents put the brakes on that one. I nixed the idea of going to a KISS concert after mom said that she would have to go with me. Oh, the humiliation! No way. Looking back I should have taken her up on it. Knowing my mom she would have made herself up like Paul Stanley.
Perhaps it was the memory of that missed opportunity that led me to entertain my 14 year old son’s request to attend Edgefest. This all day, outdoor concert is the equivalent of Woodstock for the alternative rock fan.
It did sound like a must see to me ten years ago when Sarah McLaughlin and the Toadies played. Now that I’m in my forties going to Edgefest sounds more like a ring of hell instead on heaven on earth. But hey – it is defiantly one for the List.
At this point I should give you a bit of background on my kid. At the age of ten he presented me with a contract outlining the conditions for the purchase of a game cube gaming system. He would only play games I approved of, he would shut it off when I requested and he would buy it with his own money. Impressed with his negotiating skill, he must have been hanging around with attorney offspring; I agreed, thinking he could never come up with the cash. We both signed our legal document and I filed it away. Damned if that kid didn’t rake some leaves, take care of a vacationing neighbor’s cat and got a used system at a deep discount. Not being the type to go back on my word the system sits dormant during the school week and still gets major usage on the weekends.
So I wasn’t surprised when he approached me with the proposition of attending his first concert with his cousin and me.
“Edgefest huh? Hmm. Here are my conditions. #1 you buy my ticket. #2 we will follow the rules set by me and the concert venue. #3 I will keep you both hydrated and sunscreened. #4 I will waive my chaperone fee.”
That last rule came about during the development of another one of my crazy ideas. Last year a neighborhood kid called me and said, “Hey Mrs. F, will you take me to see The Polyphonic Spree? My Mom doesn’t want to go.” What a business that would be – “Don’t want to destroy your hearing while chaperoning your kid? Call me- Mosh Pit Mom. The higher the decibel level, the higher my fee. Dial 1-800 TAKE HIM today. Operators are standing by.” I’ve got to get on that idea. Ooooh, I hope someone wants to take me to the Police reunion tour.
Finally the big day arrives. There is the possibility of being out in the blazing sun from 9:30am when the gates open until 10:30 pm when this thing is scheduled to end. Who couldn’t resist thirteen hours of head-banging fun? Uh, me. After explaining to my son and nephew that rock concerts, unlike the theater, do not start promptly we agree on a reasonable time to leave and off we go.
After we listen to the first band and while the next sets up we wander down to the arena floor and check out the stuff for sale. There’s cheap jewelry, hats and, my personal favorite, the Hawaiian lei made out of silk marijuana leaves. Too funny. Full disclosure here: I have never inhaled. Seriously. Why? Because I know myself and I would LIKE IT. Anyway I am roasting in the sun because I’m wearing long jeans and see a vender selling skirts and the like that must have fallen off some truck somewhere. I ask her for the biggest size she’s got and $20 dollars later I have a slip of denim in hand. Score! My nephew is mortified to learn that his Aunt Linda can pull a skirt on over her jeans and then shuck off the jeans – IN PUBLIC! Oh please, what did I care? In my estimation being able to wardrobe shift in the company of strangers is a life skill.
The boys then go off to check out the scene promising to stay together, keep the cell phones at the ready and check in every half hour. Off they go and now…I’m bored.
I knew going in that this was a ‘no in/no out’ concert. Once you have that ticket scanned you are in for the duration. I walk to the front gate and find a nice ticket taker and try to explain my situation to her. “Look. I’m 42 years old, here with my nephew and kid and I am bored out of my skull. Can I please, please, please go back to my car, get my book and come back in?” She has mercy on me and I make the half mile hike back to the car. I dump my jeans, sweatshirt and then trudge back. I thank the ticket taker profusely and gift her with my extra pair of earplugs.
Back in my seat I am quite the sight. Surrounded by tattooed teens, with my day glo orange ear plugs in I read my Pulitzer Prize winning novel (Middlesex by XXX. Check it out.) and look up and scream ‘YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! YOU GUYS ROCK!!!!!!!!” at the appropriate times.
At one point the front man for whoever yells, “Let me fuckin’ hear you out there! This is a fuckin’ rock concert. Not church!” He’s right, I was at Mass pre-concert.
In between book chapters I watch people. I see a girl in the mosh pit get tossed over the crowd like a rag doll. As fun as it looks my inner Mom comes out when I involuntarily yell, “Quit that! You’ll get a head injury!” Again it rears its responsible head as I insist that the girls sitting in front of me partake in sunscreen. “You’ll thank me when you’re 40,” I quip.
Since the singers look like little ants from our fabulous seats I watch the two big jumbotrons. The image is a second or two behind the live action making the singers look like the dubbed Japanese actors in the Godzilla movies. There are video screens that flank the jumbos with revolving advertisements. I think the onestating “Randy’s Steakhouse – Dine in Historic Elegance” is wasted on this crowd.
By late afternoon it is official. I am a human ATM. Every time the boys check in there is a plea for money for $5 cokes, $7 corndogs and $25 for a t-shirt. How did I go from cool mom to cash cow? I put my boot clad foot down. “Food first, shirts second. No, wait, no shirts. The only reason to get one is to wear it the next day at school and look incredibly cool. You guys wear uniforms everyday. With the two shirts you already have you can impress away on the weekends.” Off they go again.
I continue to people watch. A trio in front of me has choreographed their head banging. Two bounces forward, three complete turns to the left, one nod backwards, repeat. As I watch I make a mental note to schedule my chiropractor appointment.
A girl goes by with the most impressive tattoo of the night. A huge quote sprawling across her upper back. In Goth letters it states, “Don’t judge me by my failures. Judge me by my dreams.” Interesting, but I think that when she is 80 and the script has morphed to mush she may think that her now fulfilled dream of the tattoo may, in retrospect, prove to be judged a failure. At least it is on her back so she can’t see it all the time.
Finally the headliners take the stage. The crowd has thinned out considerably, probably due to heatstroke or drunkenness I surmise, so the boys and I move forward and are now just behind the security fence that separates the good tickets from the bad. We dance, we sing, it is bliss. Finally the lights come up and the day’s extravaganza is at an end.
As we head to the exit I hope I didn’t cramp the boy’s style too much. I’m proud of them for not balking at my mandate that I go with them. As we trudge up the stairs to the exit I see a man my age wearing a KISS t-shirt with, guess who, Paul Stanley on it. I think of mom and smile.
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