I’m Cool — In My Own Mind

I have a reputation as cool. I dress cool, you know, torn jeans and crop tops. I listen to — and like — rap music, and when my husband asks, “Who’s that guy?” about the latest musical guest on Saturday Night Live, I always know. (Well, almost always know.) And my writing students at the local university journalism school give me rave reviews as “understanding,” “helpful,” and “fun.”

Now, admittedly, my “rep” as cool is one only I use to describe myself, but I think that counts. It beats a self-image of “old” and “cranky.”

I’m Cool No More

However, my self-image took a beating, make that a TKO Saturday night when I dragged Handsome Hubby to a concert by a musician I’ve long admired.

The musician is Father John Misty. Now, you probably haven’t heard of him. Before the show, I would have described their performance style as grounded in satiric folky, intimate lyrics. A soft, sensitive — not ear-shattering LOUD — sound.

Well, somewhere along the way, as Father John’s catalog grew through the years beyond the albums I’m most familiar with and fond of, I Love You, Honey Bear and Pure Comedy, their style, sound, and volume evolved. I sadly was not au courant. I missed the memo. Was behind the times. So uncool of me. The music has gone from folk to hard, shake the rafters rock.

Rock On?

So, not knowing this, I got really excited when I saw the announcement that Father J, as probably nobody calls him, was coming to my little hometown, Reno, the so-called “Biggest Little City in the World.”

Faster than you could say, “Charge it,” I did, and Handsome Hubby and I had primo seats to the show, which was booked into a great concert venue in a Reno casino, which seemed a strange location for a folky kind of singer.

The big day/night arrived, and we joined the crowd, the young crowd going in. We were probably the oldest rocker fans cramming into the hall, but hey, remember, we/I are cool! So, rock on, baby!

The opening act was LOUD! All electric guitars and amps amped wayyy up high. My right ear, which has nerve damage from an infection dating back to sixth grade, was vibrating, not in a good way, but such is the price of concert glory.

The opening act, as is the way of opening acts, played on way too long. Then, the break and set-up for Father John dragged on way too long, as the break between acts always does.

We were cool, but increasing our enthusiasm was cooling in a not cool way!

The Day My Music Died

Then, Father John Misty and his group of six or seven musicians came out. (Sorry, the stage fog played tricks with my aging eyes. So, I’m not sure how many musicians were in the band.)

Father J, again, as probably nobody calls him,  shouted out for us all to get to our feet.

After sitting for two hours already, it felt good to stretch. Who knew we were going to stand for the rest of the concert? Be still, my aching arches, back, and brittle old bones! Suddenly, I remembered the reason why I prefer going to the theater over concerts. You get to sit the whole time.

Not only did we stand, but we danced — or at least all the young’uns surrounding us did. They shimmed. They shook. They bounced. They bopped. I swayed a bit, but mostly I tried to stay standing and steady. Mostly, I dreamed of the concert’s end, so I could go home and go to bed.

I’m So Not Cool

Three songs into the set, I realized I am not cool.

And as I looked around at the energetic crowd, I felt positively geriatric. Forget this muddling through middle-age stuff! Hand me my walking cane and Geritol! And turn down the damn music!

Now, don’t get me wrong. The concert was great. Father John is a charming,  talented performer, but halfway-ish into his set, I called “Uncle” or “Father” or “Handsome Hubby,” but definitely, “I’m outta here.”

HH happily agreed. We limped to the car. Got home. Took headache/backache medication and parked our sorry butts on the couch.

I’m so not cool, but I am still a pretty good cuddler. Just ask my husband. That part of my rep is intact.