Hey kids,
I'll bet I was the only momma at the Helmet show last night wearing Dr. Scholl's Massaging Gel Insoles in her Skechers (I'm gellin'!). We'll never know for sure. But I'm quite positive that when the venue doors opened and the first of the many opening bands took the stage, I was the only one out in the parking lot cat-napping in my truck, sipping mineral water and nibbling on protein snacks.
I met up with a couple friends, drank moderately, didn't smoke, didn't fall into the mosh pit, and generally just had a great time. Funny how a great time nowadays means pain and exhaustion the next day, where 20 years ago, I could've rolled in at 2 a.m. and gotten up two hours later, refreshed and ready to take a final.
Helmet was one of those bands that the love of my life (he just didn't know it!) introduced me to back in senior year of college. They were hard, they were crunchy, and so unlike anything else that I was listening to back then. I still remember that spring day -- so close to graduation -- out on the steps of the Journalism building, when he asked me what I thought of the Helmet tape he had loaned me. I feigned indifference, cuz indifference was safe, but I was hooked.
A friend and I drove over the hill one night soon after to see Helmet perform at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz, but the show was sold out. That was the night that we wound up wandering aimlessly up and down Pacific Avenue, and met up with the homeless man that so memorably ushered the phrase "Jesus Gawd!" into my lexicon.
The man in question had roped us into conversation with him. He was an older man, black, and was trying to shake us down for some spare change. As we talked, a hipster, frat-boy type walked by, bopping artlessly up and down to the music he was listening to on his Walkman. The homeless man shouted after him:
"Jesus Gawd! The boy is hooked on phonics!"
My friend and I dissolved in laughter, and for years, the phrase, depending on its inflection or instance of usage, came to mean many things. Nowadays, shortened to just "Jesus Gawd!" I still use the term on a daily basis, nearly 15 years later.
Anyway. Last night. Helmet.
After a slew of opening bands of varying quality, they took the stage and rocked their asses off. I think Page Hamilton, lead singer and guitarist, is the only original member left. He and the band roared their way through a decade and a half's catalog, and my ears are still ringing tonight.
They closed the show with "Unsung," their big hit from that first album, and when that song's signature riff kicked in -- Duh duh dut. Duh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-na. Duh duh dut. -- I was 20-some years old again, whiling away my last days of formal education, with that proverbial too-bright future ahead of me. I danced, in my shuffly, head-boppy fashion, and all was well with the world.
After the show, we went up to the stage and "met the band," shook hands and thanked them for coming to Reno. Page has soft, buttery hands, and an easy-breezy demeanor completely at odds with the dark, industrial, buzz-saw nature of his music. What a cutie. I can only aspire to be half as cool as he is when I turn 47. Last night, Page honestly made me feel better about turning 40. And, Jesus Gawd, you gotta love *that*.
Love you! Hope you two are sleeping better than I am tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment