Category Archives: Music

Why Moms Shouldn’t Start Mosh Pits

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A few weeks ago, I went to my first all-ages show in probably 20 years. My husband’s band, The Bishop, was playing in a battle of the bands at Reggie’s Music Joint in Chicago, and I, being his ever-faithful groupie, went along for the ride.

His band had played at Reggie’s before, and I fell in love with the place immediately. The bar and its patrons brought back fond memories of all the punk clubs I frequented in Detroit during my teen years (I mean, after I was 21, if my kids are reading this). Dyed black hair, tattoos, black leather, ripped denim, clove cigarettes. I felt right at home, although I’m sure I looked completely out of place. It’s not that I’m altogether uncool. I have my moments. But I’m a mom. And I’m 45. Enough said.

The good thing about being in your forties is you finally stop worrying about what other people think and let yourself go. The bad thing is when you let yourself go too far. And that is exactly what happened during our next visit to Reggie’s.

I was excited to go back to the bar and revel in nostalgia once again. What I didn’t know until a few days before the gig, however, was that it was an all-ages show. This rattled my nerves — and more than just a bit. It’s one thing to hang out in a dive rock joint with young adults, but teenagers? I have one of my own at home, and I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t want to be seen with his mother, or anyone her age, at such an establishment (thankfully he is only 13 and this is not yet an issue).

Do you know what it’s like to be a mom in a roomful of kids with blue hair, tattoos, mohawks and ear expanders? Unless your name is Courtney Love or Sharon Osborne, I’m guessing the answer is no. I immediately assumed the role of lunchroom monitor and found myself worrying about whether these kids would be up past their bedtimes. It was a Sunday after all, a school night.

Courtney Love, I am not. (Source: PacificCoastNews.com)

The good thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. The bad thing about being nervous in a bar: alcohol. Several craft beers and death metal bands into the show, I made what seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision: I started a mosh pit.

What, you may ask, was a suburban mom doing participating in a mosh pit, let alone starting one? I’m not exactly sure, honestly. My best answer is that my inner teenager took over. My worst answer is that I was experiencing a temporary midlife crisis. Either way, I ended up on my ass in the middle of the dance floor in a bar full of death metal kids.

I learned two things about myself that night. First, I’m far too old, and clumsy, to mosh. Second, I’m just old enough to be able to laugh at myself when I do something stupid. Believe me, I laughed my (very sore) ass off over this one for days.

Not for Just an Hour, Not for Just a Day

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I sat alone by the pool, listening to the mix tape he had handed me at Detroit Metro, right before I boarded the plane for Florida.

“They’re just some songs I like,” he had said, in his usual flippant tone. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I listened to the tape anyway. Belinda Carlisle sang, “Never-ending love is what we’ve found,” but The Pogues countered with, “You took my dreams from me when I first found you.”

He was right, I thought. It doesn’t mean anything.

I turned off the Walkman and headed back to my family’s mobile home. As I walked the path I had taken so many times as a child, the streets, homes and palm trees seemed smaller than I remembered, almost miniature.

They hadn’t changed. But I had.

I had just graduated from college and was about to start my first full-time job. The weight of responsibility loomed, and I wanted, needed, to relax with my aunt and uncle, my second parents, the people who loved me unconditionally.

It wasn’t a typical spring break for a 21-year-old. My aunt and uncle were Michigan snowbirds who spent the colder months at their mobile home in Lake Seminole Resort, a retirement community in Pinellas. Instead of keg parties on the beach, I visited the local flea market with my uncle, played bingo with my aunt at the community hall and caught early-bird dinner specials with their retiree friends.

After dinner we would sit on their screened-in porch, and my uncle would tell stories about their early years together. They met at the dime store where my aunt worked in downtown Detroit. My uncle, who managed a theater nearby, was immediately smitten and kept trying to get her to go on a date. She finally agreed.

“I found a million-dollar baby in a five and ten cent store,” he sang, with a big grin. They had been married 50 years, but it was as if they had just met.

Toward the end of my visit, my aunt and uncle surprised me with a trip to the Salvador Dali Museum. I was a big Dali fan and had no idea my 70-year-old aunt even knew who he was.

As we drove to St. Petersburg, I remembered the other tape in my purse, Patsy Cline’s “Always,” which I had brought to share with my aunt.

My love for Patsy began when I was a young girl living with them. A family friend used to sing her songs at parties, and I knew my aunt would enjoy reminiscing to “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home” and “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

When she popped the cassette in the tape deck, my uncle took her hand in his and began to sing along to the title track:

“I’ll be loving you, always. With a love that’s true, always. When the things you plan, need a helping hand, I will understand, always…”

That’s what I want, I thought. I want it to mean something.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

From Barry to The Bishop: One Groupie’s Journey

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If this one sounds familiar, it originally ran March 30, 2012. I’ve edited and reposted it for this week’s Yeah Write Summer Challenge.

Ohhhhhh, Mandy!

My first concert was Barry Manilow. It was 1978 and my college-age babysitter, Mary, took me to see him at Pine Knob Music Theatre in Clarkston, Michigan. I was 10 years old, apparently too young to know or care how uncool Barry is by most people’s standards. Even worse, I had a huge crush on him. I distinctly remember running down the hill on the lawn at Pine Knob singing, “I am stuck on Barry Manilow, but he ain’t stuck on me” (to the tune of the “I am stuck on Band-Aid” jingle, which I later learned Barry wrote).

While my love for Barry waned, at least slightly, my love for music never did. Through my sister, the disco queen, I became a huge Donna Summer fan. My brother, the rock-and-roller, balanced things out with some Hendrix and Zeppelin.

My brother is also responsible for my love of The Doors, which reached its height in my 20s. Apparently, it began much earlier, however. I’m told that my aunt and uncle took preschool-age me to church with them one Sunday and got a big surprise. When everyone stood up to sing a hymn, I burst into a resounding version of the chorus of “Light My Fire.”

Since I believe in full disclosure, I must also admit that I had a brief obsession with Shaun Cassidy, the Justin Bieber of the late 1970s. His poster was on my wall, and I played his eponymous first album relentlessly while singing along to his picture on the cover. I may cringe at the sound of a Bieber song today, but I can’t judge too harshly given my love for Shaun. Thankfully, my 10-year-old daughter has far more discerning taste in music. Her iPod is loaded with Adele, The Beatles and Death Cab for Cutie.

The musical accompaniment to my junior high and high school years was predominantly punk rock, new wave and alternative in nature, and my angst was only outweighed by the ridiculousness of my haircuts. I have a shoebox full of concert stubs from all those late nights in smoky clubs. Echo and the Bunnymen was one of my favorites. I showed my adoration by sporting the same hairdo as the lead singer. There was a lot of teasing and Aqua Net involved.

Fast forward to age 44: I’m married to a guy who loves music almost as much as I do, and we have two talented musicians for children. My husband plays bass, my daughter plays trumpet and piano, and my son, the musical phenom, plays guitar, alto saxophone, piano and ukulele.

My husband’s band, The Bishop, plays gigs regularly in and around our small town and in Chicago. Even though I’m a working mom who’s expected to behave maturely on a daily basis, I still get to indulge my groupie side one or twice a month.

It’s been a long journey from Barry to The Bishop. Thank you, Mr. Manilow, for lighting my fire (sorry, Mr. Morrison).

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Life in the Suburbs: Same As It Ever Was?

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"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads

I grew up in a bedroom community in suburban Detroit. It was filled with blue-collar families, modest ranch homes, pristine yards and, my younger self assumed, a lot of broken dreams.

As a 20-something whose dreams were firmly intact, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and see the world. My plan was to go to Chicago, work for the Tribune (this almost happened) and somehow wind up a music columnist for Rolling Stone (I have a subscription; does that count?). And no matter where my dreams took me, it would never, ever be back to the suburbs.

As a musical side note, I thought the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime” was about someone waking up in the suburbs one day and wondering how he ended up there and if any of it really mattered. (For those unfamiliar, watch the video here.)

A few lines into the song, a bow-tied and bespectacled David Byrne asks, “Well, how did I get here?”

Well, Mr. Byrne, here I sit, pushing 45 and about to celebrate my 10th anniversary of suburban life, and sometimes I wonder the same thing.

Although I never did end up working for the Tribune (I was on a waitlist for an internship and got tired of waiting), I did find my way to Chicago. That’s where I met my husband — we’ll call him “the rock star” (he really is in a band, although you most likely have never heard of it). The rock star and I lived in apartments in Lincoln Park and then Bucktown in the early years of our relationship. We were married for about two years before thoughts of having children entered our heads, and life in the city suited us just fine.

When I got pregnant with our son — about five minutes after we decided to start trying and, yes, I realize how lucky we were — we decided to look for a house in the city. I was adamant about avoiding the suburbs and really wanted to give life in the city with kids a go.

Our shoestring budget led us to a bungalow in the far northwest neighborhood of Portage Park. We took the terrifying first car ride home from the hospital after our son was born to that house. (The ride home with our newborn daughter 22 months later was far less stressful since we were, of course, seasoned veterans by then.) It was our first home, and in many ways it is where my heart will always be.

Excuse me if I am having another Talking Heads moment here, but have you ever had a dream where you’re at home, but you’re actually in a place you’ve previously lived? Well, I always dreamed of being at home in the house where I grew up — my aunt and uncle’s house in Southfield, Michigan — until I moved to the Portage Park house. It’s where my life with my own little family began.

At some point, my stubborn refusal to “go suburban,” to be a “708-er,” gave way to wanting the best for our children. Both the rock star and I went to public schools, and we wanted the same experience for our kids. That couldn’t happen in the city neighborhood where we lived. We felt safe and loved our neighbors, but the public schools there were downright awful.

So we up and moved to the South Suburbs — away from everything I knew. Although the only place I had lived in Illinois was Chicago, the suburbs are the suburbs. It was strange yet familiar. And once I adjusted to people making eye contact at the grocery store and even smiling or saying hello (no, they were not going to try to mug me), it wasn’t so bad. It was slightly easier for the rock star. He grew up out here and knew the scene…at least better than I did.

Ten years later, we have a solid circle of friends and we are firmly rooted in our community. Our dreams aren’t broken, they’ve just been sidetracked a bit, and we’ve added new ones to the mix. I never knew I wanted to be a mother, and yet I wouldn’t change it for anything — not even that job at Rolling Stone magazine. And I’m guessing the rock star is pretty happy that the band he started with a few other suburban dads now gets regular gigs in Chicago. I know I am.

Despite having achieved a relative comfort level here in the ’burbs, we have every intention of moving back to the city once the kids go to college. Chicago, New York, San Francisco — we haven’t decided yet. But I’m pretty sure the kids we’ve dragged all over the country (and soon to Italy), won’t mind visiting us there. And we won’t mind visiting them wherever their dreams do or don’t take them.

And so, my fellow suburbanites and you city dwellers, what made you decide on the place where you live? Did you opt for the suburbs or were you able to make city living work for your family? I’d love to hear your story.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

From Barry to The Bishop: One Groupie’s Journey

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Ohhhhhh, Mandy!

My first concert was Barry Manilow. It was 1978 and my college-age babysitter Mary took me to see him at Pine Knob Music Theatre in Clarkston, Michigan. I was 10 years old, apparently too young to know or care how utterly uncool Barry is by most people’s standards. To make matters worse, I had a huge crush on him. I distinctly remember running down the hill on the lawn at Pine Knob singing, “I am stuck on Barry Manilow, but he ain’t stuck on me,” (to the tune of the “I am stuck on Band-Aid” commercial, which some of you 40-something readers may recall).

While my love for Barry waned, at least slightly, my love for music never did. My sister was into disco, so I became a huge Donna Summer fan. My brother was a rock-and-roller, so he balanced things out with some Hendrix and Zeppelin. He is also responsible for my love of The Doors, which reached its height in my 20s, but apparently began much earlier. I’m told that my aunt and uncle took preschool-age me to church with them one Sunday and apparently got a big surprise. When everyone else stood up to sing a hymn, I burst into a resounding version of the chorus of “Light My Fire.”

Since I believe in full disclosure, I must also admit that I had a brief obsession with Shaun Cassidy in the late 1970s (as did pretty much every other tween-age girl at the time). His poster was on my wall and I played his eponymous first album relentlessly. I may cringe at the sound of a Justin Bieber song today, but I can’t judge too harshly given my love for Shaun. (I am happy to report that my 10-year-old daughter has an iPod full of Adele, The Beatles and Death Cab for Cutie.)

The musical accompaniment to my junior high and high school years was predominantly punk rock, new wave and alternative in nature, and my angst was only outweighed by the ridiculousness of my haircuts. I have a shoebox full of concert stubs and photos, but I’ll save those stories for another day.

Fast forward to age 44: I’m married to a guy who loves music almost as much as I do, and we have two talented musicians for children. My husband plays bass, my daughter plays trumpet, and my son, the musical phenom, plays guitar, alto saxophone, piano and ukulele. My husband’s band, The Bishop, plays gigs around town and in Chicago on a regular basis. So even though I’m a working mom who’s expected to behave maturely on a daily basis, I still get to indulge my groupie side every now and again.

It’s been a long journey from Barry to The Bishop. Thanks, Mr. Manilow, for lighting my fire (apologies to Mr. Morrison).