So far, my blogs have run the gamut in terms of topics. Often they are situational ponderances, observational musings, and sometimes they are reflections upon happenstance. I warn you now sweet readers, this post is of the self-indulgent variety.
This past Saturday was one that I had been looking forward to for quite some time. It started with some solitary afternoon shopping downtown, both of the window and credit card varieties. (Shoes from
Gravity Pope were most definitely involved!)
Then, dinner and drinks with the girlfriends at one of my fave spots,
Alloy. Scallops and calamari were savoured, the “tart and fruity surprise” bar concoctions kept coming, and the conversation flowed like, well, like the “tart and fruitys”. (And no offense or belittlement intended to all the able-bodied men out there, but there’s nothing quite like a night out with the girlfriends to reaffirm your womanhood. Thanks ladies!)
Then it was time for the part of the evening for which I had been waiting for since 1996. You see, that was the last time I saw this particular gentleman, although he was the front man of a band from the UK called
Bush at that time. I am referring to
Gavin Rossdale, with whom I have carried on a one-sided love affair for the last 15 years. (
Sixteen Stone will forever be a defining album for me. For those yet to be initiated, buy it. Now.)
Back then my husband was just a new boyfriend, music was everything, and waiting in line for hours to secure a front row spot to see one of my favourite bands was considered a day well spent.
That particular concert (replete with
Veruca Salt as the opening act!) was a dream, even if I passed out against the barricade in front row, and woke up at the medic station in the underbelly of the Saddledome.
Being able to experience an acoustic version of Glycerine (one of my favourite songs of all time by any band) made the subsequent bloody nose (by way of fellow moshers) seem more like a badge of honour.
In all honesty, not a lot has changed, and when I heard several months back that Gavin Rossdale (minus the rest of the band who broke up in 2002) was coming back to Calgary in support of his solo album Wanderlust, the Doc-boot-wearing teenager inside yelped with excitement.
Which brings me to around 10:00pm this past Saturday night, as Mr. Gavin Rossdale took the stage of Mac Hall (U of C). After my friend Mellissa and I wormed our way to the front of the stage (‘oh, look, there’s our non-existent friend waiting for us at the front…’), I cannot lie—my heart did skip several beats, and the weak-kneed girl with a penchant for gravelly-voiced rockers came out to play.
I drank, I screamed, I jumped, I danced, I sang, I rocked, I indulged in it all. A mixture of sex and raw energy, and as duplicitous as it sounds, the show was an exercise in both restrained intimacy
and rock n’ roll. (And my photography skills! A most ideal subject, which the picture above must confirm.)
Sounding as incredible as I had always remembered and dressed in alt-rocker black, his signature tousled locks, smoldering eyes and disarming smile made us consider the pros and cons of groupie-hood. (After all, he is on my “list”, and has not budged from his #2 status in 15 years…)
New tunes, older faves, and everything in-between, extremely poignant was a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide—(“time makes you bolder, children get older, I’m getting older too), which the crowd of about 1,000 eagerly belted (us girls included.)
And when those first couple chords of Glycerine were struck during his encore, the exhilaration was both ethereal and palpable.
By now some of you are most certainly rolling your eyes at my unadulterated fervor (my husband surely included), but for me, the concert experience has always been a big deal. I invest passionately in music, and when a song or band touches me, I’m in it for the long haul.
With that said, my dear Mr.Rossdale, do not wait another 13 years to rock my world.