Mac and I love going to concerts. Recently we went to a Devil Makes Three show (a sort of bluegrass/Americana band who you can listen to here) at a relatively small venue in northern California. It was amazing. While there, I had a good time observing the myriad dancers at the joint, all special in their very own way…since I’m sober, I get to watch with a clear sharp mind (well, as sharp as it ever gets) the antics of these dancers.
And I realized that it isn’t just Devil Makes Three shows…these characters are everywhere. I’ve been going to rock-and-roll concerts with my parents, then friends, and now my own family since I was a little girl, and there have always been some staples. Some old-reliables. From Dead shows to punk shows to bluegrass. To Saturday afternoons in Golden Gate Park. Oh wait. That’s not a concert. But it should be.
Anyway, here’s a shout-out to you, my dancing friends. You know who you are.
- Middle-aged hippie snake-arm lady – You are always one of my favorites. You are 50-ish, at a concert with all kinds of young-uns…your hair is to your waist, frizzy…your clothes are loose and flowing, probably involving hemp and/or patchwork. You smell faintly of patchouli and beer. You don’t care that your pits aren’t shaved! You’re free! And you are so deep. Man you’re just feeling that shit. Your eyes are closed. You lean back slightly and wave your arms up like eclectic enlightened snakes, criss-crossing in front of you toward the sky – or out by your sides like a Hindu god of motion – you just flow, don’t you? The 60s aren’t dead! They are YOU. Well done, middle-aged hippie snake-arm lady…we’re loving the one we’re with when you’re around.
- Interpretive jumping dude – You’re a big guy, with big feet. You don’t give a shit what you’re wearing – you’re laid back. You’re kind of a hippie. Kind of just a weirdo. But either way, you’re excited. So excited, actually, that you jump. You jump and you jump. You jump here and you jump there. In place and around in circles. You’re a jumper! And you’re great! [But if you step on my toes again you asshat, I’ll level you.]
- Blonde super-skinny hip mover chick – Oh YEAH. You’re turning the whole room on, aren’t ya? You know you’re hot (we may or may not know you’re hot)….but that don’t matter none, does it? Cause you are SMOKIN’ and you just gotta share it. You’ve got your mini skirt and stilettos on (so what if it’s a bluegrass show?), and your skin-tight nipple shirt…how do you stand not doing yourself?…and you’ve got that SWAY. You know. That hip perambulation driving those men WILD. Your lock of blond falling over your face, those deep naughty sultry eyes, your pursed lips peeking out at your dance partner…(you know, Steve, the guy you’ll be #*&-ing in approximately 4 hours, after he’s consumed enough Bud Lights to blur the sight of your oddly unpleasant face (I mean with that body, it’s a damn SHAME), who thinks your name is Stacey even though it’s Candy and will promptly BOLT from your bed as soon as that first pass-out is over (you know the 3-4am one)…where he’ll tip-toe the walk of shame back to his car…talking it up to his friends the next night (with all the appropriate exaggerations (his penis) and omissions (your face)), on his way back to the same bar, looking for you. In another chick’s body.) We love you, blonde super skinny hip mover chick! We do. Just use protection, snowflake, or those flat abs will leave you just like Steve! (I know. You thought he was The One. Sorry.)
- The mosher – You are 16 to 20 years old, male, and so endlessly misguided, spiritually and mentally decapitated you think it’s appropriate to MOSH at a goddam bluegrass show. You crash into people. You hurt people. You destroy the dance floor and all positive vibes. Then, you take your shirt off and sweat and strut around like some sort of tough guy. You cause bands to shorten encore sets because you won’t behave and they’re sick of you. You are the bane of my concert-going existence. I hope you die a miserable painful death, preferably by somebody moshing on your worthless little pin head, at a very early age.
- Crazy country stomper flailing guy – Oh shit, wait. That’s my husband. Moving on.
- Super cool bearded hipster barely-discernible-movement guy – You. YOU are cool. Let’s break this down. Fitted (dare we say skinny?) jeans. Fitted plaid flannel. Chuck Taylor’s. Sleeves rolled up to display stunning forearm tattoos. Large beard. Fedora. Really beautiful woman with black hair and severe bangs standing at your side, also heavily tattooed. Wearing red lipstick. And you’re dancing. Well, wait. Are you? Yes. You are. Your head bobs slightly. Perhaps a foot tap. You’re very serious, though. Probably because you know the band. Because you’re That. Fucking.Cool.
And then there’s me. I’m just a geek.
Scowling at the moshers.
Swaying in love with my super hot flailing husband.
“Tired mother of three judgmental shitty dancer lady.”
Yep, that’s me.