In order to make it to the U2 concert in Salt Lake City on Friday,
my friend Pants (names have been changed) had to ride, freezing,
in the back of some guy's pickup all the way from Mesquite, Nev.
But he's not the only one who suffered. I had to sit around my
house all afternoon and wait for him!
But it was worth enduring these trials to see the world's greatest
living rock band. I am not usually much of a concert-goer, because
I dislike large crowds and loud noises. (Chronologically, I am not
yet 30, but mentally I'm well into my 70s. Also, I'm a cat.) Also, I
don't care much for the smell of marijuana, which is distributed
free at all concert venues. Also, most rock bands suck.
I never thought I would be one of those fusty old grown-ups who
complain about how music was better when they were young than
it is now, but here I am, old, grown up, covered in fust, and telling
you with great certainty that modern music is terrible and music in
the old days was awesome (also: tubular). In my day, we had the
great synth-pop bands of the '80s, as well as the more
straight-ahead rock 'n' roll of such masters as ... um, Laura
Branigan, I guess. OK, we didn't have much good rock in the '80s,
either, because it was all those hairy bands like Poison and Def
Leppard, but the pop was good. Even Michael Jackson, who is now
the least cool person on the planet, was cool then. (I know! If I
hadn't lived through it, I wouldn't believe it, either.)
But today's music -- awful. Just awful. When I want to shake my
head, roll my eyes and sigh deeply, I look at the names of the
artists on the Billboard Hot 100. On the current chart are these
people: Ja Rule, Ginuwine, Staind, Aaliyah, Bubba Sparxxx, Jay-Z,
Nate Dogg and Travis Tritt. Yes, Travis Tritt. They've even let
country singers in. Clearly, the state of modern music is a sad one
indeed.
U2 is another matter, though. Despite having been around for 25
years, U2 has not become a grotesque self-parody, like certain
bands with names like Rolling Stones I could name. And despite
being current, U2 still produces some solid rock 'n' roll music, and
performs it with an energy and dedication not generally achieved
without the aid of sorcery.
Pants shares my feelings about modern music, so you can see why
getting to the concert was so important to him. He wound up in
the back of a pickup because his car broke down in Mesquite,
which is not far from Las Vegas, which is where he started. The
car rental agency in Mesquite had nothing available, and the guy
who offered to give him a lift to Utah wandered off to "play the
slots" and was not heard from again. Pants' last available
opportunity, for which he was grateful, was to sit in the back of a
truck.
He reports that this was fine at first. They were in Mesquite, and
it was a pleasant, sunny afternoon. By the time they reached St.
George, Pants reported "chilliness" and put on a sweater. By Cedar
City, it was "cold," and he put his jacket on over his sweater. By
Fillmore, he was stuffing the spare clothes from his overnight bag
into his pant legs, then guzzling hot chocolate from the gas
station, then setting himself on fire. When he arrived at my house,
he was colder than a dead librarian.
The concert made it all worthwhile. The soulful singing of Bono
(not Sonny Bono) and the expert musicianship of the Three Guys in
U2 Besides Bono warmed us to the gills; indeed, my gills were
slightly singed. It was a thrilling, cathartic show. But why must
they play so loud? You kids today, with your rock 'n' roll.
