From now on, rock me gently

Six Degrees from Galesburg

Alison McGaughey

NEWS

Friday, August 11, 2006

It was my 21st birthday, and my parents gave me my gift: luggage. Instead of being grateful, I was utterly depressed.

Usually, my parents gave me CDs for my birthday. But they seemed to be sending me a message. I wanted a copy of "Sticky Fingers" but got Samsonite instead.

So I tried to defy my parents, and society, by continuing to pursue my teenage passion for rock 'n' roll.

I decided I would show them all by becoming that rare, rock-'n'-rolling adult who stays hip with the times - instead of becoming like my parents, whose interest in pop music seemed to have stopped somewhere circa Neil Diamond.

I went to concerts in Chicago as often as I could. My friends and I packed into clubs like the Metro and the Riviera to see our favorite bands. We returned home scarred and sweaty, but alive with the thrill of having "experienced" live music.

I'd look around at these concerts and wonder why there was never anyone there over the age of 30.

Then it hit me.

"It" being a wave of sweaty bodies that nearly squished me to death.

My friend and I were at a Radiohead concert in an enclosed section of Grant Park in Chicago. I wanted to be near the stage so I could really see the show rather than stand back and watch from a large screen.

But there were 40,000 other young hipsters there with the same intention.

The crowd surged forward when the band took the stage. I was smooshed up against a stranger. My chin rested on his sweaty back.

A girl in platform shoes was standing on my right foot.

As the band played its opening song, the crowd pushed forward more. My breathing felt constricted. Sweat ran down my back. I could taste the hair gel of the guy in front of me.

I tried to keep up with the crowd. Must! Hang! On! Must! Stay! Hip!

But the crowd surged forward again and I was squeezed between two guys who looked like they might be stars of their college wrestling teams.

I looked at my friend and admitted defeat.

"It's over," I said. "I'm officially too old to tolerate this."

So we gave up trying to jockey for position. We found a place with lots of personal space - back by the port-a-potties. We watched the show on the movie screens.

I couldn't see the lead singer, but I could breathe.

"So," I said to my friend, "how long do you think it'll be before we start going to shows wearing fanny packs and bringing portable lawn chairs?"

I felt like I'd already grown a pair of Bermuda shorts.

From that night on, I've been apprehensive, rather than excited, about going to concerts.

I'm reluctant to see a show unless I know I have a guaranteed place to sit down. When I hear the words "General Admission" I think "Generally Miserable Experience."

If I'm going to pay for a ticket, I want a seat and aisle number printed right next to my name.

As a teenager, I'd have viewed this decision as "selling out," choosing comfort and safety over the thrill of feeling so ALIVE.

But I guess that's what happens when you start to get older. You arrive at a club after a three-hour drive, take one look at the sea of sweaty bodies crammed in front of the stage, and think to yourself, "Actually, I'd rather be dead."

Alison McGaughey lives in Galesburg and works at Western Illinois University. Contact her at alison.sixdegrees@gmail.com.