Posts
For Thursday, March 2, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 786 words
The old and the rested
I learned something about myself last weekend. I’m old. I hate to admit it, and relatively speaking at 52, I’m not that doggone old, but still, I’m old.
We went to a blues concert last Friday, the legendary Buddy Guy at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Susan was there, as was Gino and his date for the evening, Gloria. Thousands showed up. Together we filled the cavernous venue to the back walls. Buddy ran out, shiny bald in bib overalls, celebrating his upcoming 70th birthday, and tore up the night air with guitar riffs and old favorites.
At the Fillmore there are no chairs in the audience arena. It’s just a gigantic room with eight chandeliers and a stage. People must stand all night, huddled tightly together in a musical elevator to the stars.
The music started at 10 p.m. and by 11:30 p.m. I needed to sit myself down. I loved every song. I enjoyed Buddy’s stories about growing up without electricity and flipping his first light switch at the age of 17, but my feet ached. My knees ached. Buddy wasn’t playing dancehall music. If I were dancing, I’d have been all right. Buddy was playing mostly slow, contemplative numbers, and we were packed in like overseas chicken.
Finally, the music became no longer pleasurable. I took Susan by the hand and said, “I’m done.” I nodded toward the door and she nodded back. We told Gino and Gloria good-bye, figuring they would stay to the last song, but they followed us.
Upstairs we found chairs and fell into them. “Thank God somebody said something,” sighed Gloria. “My feet are killing me. I thought I was the only one suffering, so I kept my mouth shut.” She peeled off her shoes and put her feet on Gino. Everyone’s feet hurt. We listened to two more songs and left. We walked down the street, passing the Boom Boom Room without even going in, and drove home. I slept in the car.
Then Saturday night came – Emily’s party. Gino and I were invited to his 25-year-old niece’s birthday party at Eli’s Mile High Club in North Oakland on MLK Way. Eli’s is a tiny blues club with chairs and tables, so we accepted the invitation. Susan stayed home on the couch.
The first hour went fine. We arrived early, grabbed front seats, and ordered cocktails. A young, very young Paul Delucca Blues Band from Santa Cruz was setting up to play. “Now, this is more like it,” I said. Gino agreed. We clinked our glasses.
Then the music started. It was good, good and loud, extremely loud, and faster than a rugby player’s heartbeat. “What kind of blues is this?” asked Gino. Paul had apparently confused blues with hard rock. He was so good at playing guitar with swift intensity, that that’s what Paul did, song after song after song, and yelled the lyrics over the noise. “I’m too old for this, too,” I said.
We had to get up and move to the farthest corner of the nightclub, back around the corner behind the bar near the Mrs. Pacman machine.
Emily and two dozen friends showed up. Gino and I mingled and met everyone, Stephanie, Eric, Anabelle, Gina, Christina, Maggie, Ahmet, Mike, Joe, Bill, and on. We traded stories. Talked about careers, hometowns, life in California. More friends kept pouring in. Beautiful, smart, gregarious Emily has a lot of friends.
Apparently, no one called Eli’s in advance with a head count because the crowd overwhelmed the solo bartender. She couldn’t keep up with the three-thick throng of customers.
Gino and I tried for a half-hour to buy drinks with no luck. We gave up. We found ourselves standing on the fringe of the young crowd with our glasses completely empty. The kids were chattering up a storm, flirting, joshing, making new friends, establishing future contacts, emerging into life. Then there was Gino and me, two old guys who just wanted a cocktail, a chair, and some easy listening. “Let’s go somewhere else,” said Gino. We slipped out unnoticed. The night was young.
We drove up Shattuck to the Thalassa bar with its 21 pool tables. It too was jam packed with young people, five thick at the bar like suckling pups.
“We don’t belong here,” said Gino. “We have nothing to offer.” We left and drove to Club Mallard in Albany. It was packed with younguns. Younguns were everywhere.
“Where are the old-people bars?” asked Gino.
“Eh. I don’t know. I’ve never gone to them. I was young when I lived in Berkeley.”
“Well, we better start going to them, because we’re old. Now, let’s go home and watch the news.”
The old and the rested
I learned something about myself last weekend. I’m old. I hate to admit it, and relatively speaking at 52, I’m not that doggone old, but still, I’m old.
We went to a blues concert last Friday, the legendary Buddy Guy at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Susan was there, as was Gino and his date for the evening, Gloria. Thousands showed up. Together we filled the cavernous venue to the back walls. Buddy ran out, shiny bald in bib overalls, celebrating his upcoming 70th birthday, and tore up the night air with guitar riffs and old favorites.
At the Fillmore there are no chairs in the audience arena. It’s just a gigantic room with eight chandeliers and a stage. People must stand all night, huddled tightly together in a musical elevator to the stars.
The music started at 10 p.m. and by 11:30 p.m. I needed to sit myself down. I loved every song. I enjoyed Buddy’s stories about growing up without electricity and flipping his first light switch at the age of 17, but my feet ached. My knees ached. Buddy wasn’t playing dancehall music. If I were dancing, I’d have been all right. Buddy was playing mostly slow, contemplative numbers, and we were packed in like overseas chicken.
Finally, the music became no longer pleasurable. I took Susan by the hand and said, “I’m done.” I nodded toward the door and she nodded back. We told Gino and Gloria good-bye, figuring they would stay to the last song, but they followed us.
Upstairs we found chairs and fell into them. “Thank God somebody said something,” sighed Gloria. “My feet are killing me. I thought I was the only one suffering, so I kept my mouth shut.” She peeled off her shoes and put her feet on Gino. Everyone’s feet hurt. We listened to two more songs and left. We walked down the street, passing the Boom Boom Room without even going in, and drove home. I slept in the car.
Then Saturday night came – Emily’s party. Gino and I were invited to his 25-year-old niece’s birthday party at Eli’s Mile High Club in North Oakland on MLK Way. Eli’s is a tiny blues club with chairs and tables, so we accepted the invitation. Susan stayed home on the couch.
The first hour went fine. We arrived early, grabbed front seats, and ordered cocktails. A young, very young Paul Delucca Blues Band from Santa Cruz was setting up to play. “Now, this is more like it,” I said. Gino agreed. We clinked our glasses.
Then the music started. It was good, good and loud, extremely loud, and faster than a rugby player’s heartbeat. “What kind of blues is this?” asked Gino. Paul had apparently confused blues with hard rock. He was so good at playing guitar with swift intensity, that that’s what Paul did, song after song after song, and yelled the lyrics over the noise. “I’m too old for this, too,” I said.
We had to get up and move to the farthest corner of the nightclub, back around the corner behind the bar near the Mrs. Pacman machine.
Emily and two dozen friends showed up. Gino and I mingled and met everyone, Stephanie, Eric, Anabelle, Gina, Christina, Maggie, Ahmet, Mike, Joe, Bill, and on. We traded stories. Talked about careers, hometowns, life in California. More friends kept pouring in. Beautiful, smart, gregarious Emily has a lot of friends.
Apparently, no one called Eli’s in advance with a head count because the crowd overwhelmed the solo bartender. She couldn’t keep up with the three-thick throng of customers.
Gino and I tried for a half-hour to buy drinks with no luck. We gave up. We found ourselves standing on the fringe of the young crowd with our glasses completely empty. The kids were chattering up a storm, flirting, joshing, making new friends, establishing future contacts, emerging into life. Then there was Gino and me, two old guys who just wanted a cocktail, a chair, and some easy listening. “Let’s go somewhere else,” said Gino. We slipped out unnoticed. The night was young.
We drove up Shattuck to the Thalassa bar with its 21 pool tables. It too was jam packed with young people, five thick at the bar like suckling pups.
“We don’t belong here,” said Gino. “We have nothing to offer.” We left and drove to Club Mallard in Albany. It was packed with younguns. Younguns were everywhere.
“Where are the old-people bars?” asked Gino.
“Eh. I don’t know. I’ve never gone to them. I was young when I lived in Berkeley.”
“Well, we better start going to them, because we’re old. Now, let’s go home and watch the news.”
No comments:
Post a Comment