No Doubt I’m too old for this shit

While I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, I am a pretty good boyfriend.

For boqueen’s birthday, I bought tickets to see her favorite band, No Doubt, play in Tinley Park. boqueen was born in late May, so it was a gift of delayed gratification.  After weeks of anticipation, the show finally arrived on Saturday. 

As a bloke in my late 20s, concertgoing is not a regular experience for me.  When I was a younger lad, concerts were a regular part of my summertime experience.  As I grew older, I became farther removed from radio play and popular music.  I feel like an old man: I cannot recognize, nor enjoy, the vast majority of music that is played on the radio today. 

Pop in a Sublime, Michael Jackson, Ice Cube or even a Beatles record, and I am good.  Tune in to a Top 40 radio station, and I am lost.  This is precisely why boqueen, who is several years younger than me, refers to me as “Captain Greyballs.” 

By no means was a reluctant attendee of the concert.  I last saw No Doubt perform live in 2001 as they toured in support of their Return of Saturn record.  I paid $20 for admission and fully expected the typical mundane performance of 1990s alternative rock bands.  Instead, I was treated to an energetic and inspired performance that easily ranks in my top five of all-time concert experiences.

Nine years later, No Doubt again delivered an exceptional concert experience.  boqueen and I enjoyed every moment, and she was pleased with her birthday gift (read: epic sex afterwards.) 

Yet I was woefully unprepared for a concert-going experience in 2009.  In the past few years, I have attended small shows is tiny venues, so an outdoor concert in an amphitheater filled with 28,000 ticket-holders proved to be somewhat of a cultural shock.

::

A No Doubt show attracts a diverse group of individuals.

Several of boqueen’s friends also attended the show, so she suggested that we tailgate with two of her close friends.  Since boqueen is a black woman and I am a white male, I thought about all of the years of oppression and decided to throw her a bone: we arrived early to meet up with her chums.

Her friends had a SUV stocked with vodka, marijuana, cranberry juice, cups, water and more vodka.  boqueen partook in all of the aforementioned recreational substances, spare drinking water.  I declined all intoxicants, opting for water instead, due to the fact that I was the designated driver.  More importantly, I did not want to risk getting whiskey dick. 

We sat in the smoke-filled SUV, watching hundreds of concertgoers walk toward the mammoth amphitheater. 

“Concerts are a great place for people-watching,” boqueen remarked.

“Look at all these people,” I responded, “they are so fucking fat.”

::

“One!  ONE!” I shouted, pointing out of the windshield of the SUV.

“What?” boqueen and her friends simultaneously asked.

“I just spotted the first massively obese girl wearing way too much makeup.” I replied.

“Why don’t you just count the fat girls wearing clothes that are far too tight?” boqueen asked.

“Same thing,” I remarked.

As the night continued, I gave up on my effort to count fatties.  In the Midwest, counting fat girls is a futile effort, much like counting the grains of sand along Lake Michigan.

::

As the smoke cleared from the SUV, a group of individuals that appeared to be aged in their early 40s passed by.  The group consisted of four women and two men; each wore personalized tank tops.

The women wore ill-fitting, unflattering shirts that read something along the lines of “No Doubt is the bee’s knees.” The obese tattooed men sported tops that read, “I am only here because Gwen is hot” on the back. 

boqueen and I carefully ruminated the messages, carefully considering the philosophical implication of each statement.  We agreed that middle-aged people should not attend a concert wearing a custom-made band shirt, for it is bad form.

::

Moments before concert began, boqueen and I parted ways with her friends.  They had general admission lawn tickets, while we had seats that placed us in an excellent position to watch the show.  While we were situated about 200 feet from the stage, boqueen’s friends were located approximately seven miles from the band.   

We were fortunate enough to be sandwiched between two loud black women and flock of energetic preteen white girls.

::

When we took our seats, the black women were situated to my left.  They were obliviously impressed by boqueen; since she is black, I was in The Club and they were willing to converse with me.

“Oh, we should switch seats.  She gonna sing, and she sing out of key,” said one of the women, gesturing to her friend, who was sitting in the seat to mine.

“I don’t give a shit,” I replied.  “I might even sing along too.  And I suck at singing.  No worries.”

“Naw, she bad,” the woman exclaimed, hoping to engage me in conversation.

“Again, I don’t give a shit,” I repeated.  “Seriously, I could give a fuck less.”

“Naw, she really bad,” the woman continued.  “But I sing on key.”

“Again, I don’t give a shit,” I replied.  “Sit here, sit there – hell, sit on each other’s faces.  It makes no difference to me.”

::

While I had the chatty black girls to deal with, boqeen was situated next to a white teenage girl.  The gawky young creature was quite a spectacle to behold.   She had obviously entered the early stages of puberty, rendering her an awkwardly androgynous young mammal.

Her eyebrows were particularly notable.  It appeared that she had recently begun an eyebrow grooming regimen but had failed to master the craft.  Thick, fuzzy tufts of hair occupied the center of her face, hastily fading away directly above her irises; they were half eyebrows.  Actually, the hair more closely resembled a tiny mustache that was incorrectly positioned.

“Fret not, tiny moustache, for you are not far from home,” I whispered.  “You are merely a few inches north of the upper lip.” 

I would describe the girl’s fashion sense as “rock and roll meets hobo chic, with a strong dash of emo.”  She wore a pop art influenced t-shirt emblazoned with the name of the opening act, Paramore.  The back of the shirt was curiously tied in a ball with a hair tie, revealing a tight, black and white striped top underneath.  The high temperature on Saturday was 84 degrees, so such layering seemed somewhat unnecessary.

She wore tight, low-slung jeans to highlight her curveless, undeveloped body.  An entire inch (2.54 cm) of her furry butt crack peered out of the top of her Underoos.  Her outfit was accessorized with a series of colorful bracelets, along with a teal and purple streak running through her greasy hair.

The girl sat next to two of her friends, one of which appeared to be about the same age.  The other girl was clearly the youngest; boqueen estimated her age to be about 10, while I believed that she was an overgrown fetus. 

Both girls embraced the chaotic fashion sense of their bushy-browed friend.  In fact, as I glanced around the venue, there were countless other prepubescent girls dressed in a similar manner.  I was absolutely stunned.  When I was a teenager, shopping at thrift stores was in vogue.  Clearly, the young ladies of today have eschewed thrift stores and retail outlets in favor of a dumpster diving. 

::

boqueen and I returned to the concourse for a brief cigarette break.  As I watched the youthful crowd passed by, I felt like Clint Eastwood’s character in Gran Turino.

“Goddamn fucking kids,” I sneered, chomping on my cigarette. 

Like a grizzled old man, I reminisced about my teenage years.  Fashion seemed so much simpler in the early 1990s. 

“You know, if I was 14 today, I probably wouldn’t even try to get laid,” I said to boqueen as another girl with colorful hair passed by.  “These broads look like trash.  If I was in high school now, I probably would never even take up masturbation.” 

::

We returned to our seats in time for the opening act, Paramore.  I was somewhat familiar with the band. I knew that the band blends elements of rock, emo and poppy punk, and that the lead singer is a chick.  Prior to the concert, I had heard a handful of their songs and formed a relatively favorable opinion of the group.

When the band began to play, the girls sitting next to boqueen responded by screaming and jumping in an erratic manner.  I was convinced that they were experiencing epileptic seizures and attempted to summon a medic.  However, boqueen assured me that the girls were simply enjoying the music, and that medical attention was unnecessary.

After three songs, we again became bored.  While it may seem like a trite, pedestrian criticism of the band, I felt that each song sounded similar, blending together into an indistinguishable sonic mess.  Days later, I have no recollection of a single song, but of a long, drawn-out performance. 

boqueen and I ventured off into the lawn to meet up with her friends so that she could indulge in even more cannabis.  During our journey, I noticed that the most enthusiastic response to Paramore’s routine came primarily from the same oddly-dressed teenage young girls that I had noticed earlier.  14-year-olds shrieked and clapped after every song, while the adults in the crowd were clearly unmoved by the performance. 

At that moment, I began to understand the popularity of the band.

“So when young girls get too old for Hannah Montana, they graduate to Paramore?” I asked boqueen.

Her eyes shifted towards me and her eyebrows lowered in the manner that typically precedes a sarcastic remark.  “What did you think?” she responded.  “You’ve heard them before.”

“Yes,” I snapped back. “I didn’t realize they were pandering to children.  They should be playing the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards rather than opening up for No Doubt.” 

::

We retreated to our seats after Paramore finally decided to vacate the stage, sparing the audience from further torture.  The audiences erupted during No Doubts’ introduction, and the audience members flanking boqueen and I began to behave like complete fools. 

The black women to my left repeatedly switched seats, taking turns shooting pictures of the stage.  After each switch, they were certain to elbow me in the arm and announce the change. 

“We switched,” one of the women would announce, her words virtually inaudible over the loud music, “now you don’t have to hear her sing.”

“I don’t give a shit,” I’d yell back, vigorously shaking my head and shrugging. 

While the boisterous black ladies were a minor nuisance, the flat-chested white girls to the right of boqueen were far more annoying.

The moment lead singer Gwen Stefani appeared on the Jumbotron, the girl with the massive eyebrows lost all control of her bodily functions.  She simultaneously urinated, defecated, vomited and sneezed as Gwen sang the opening verse of Spiderwebs. 

While I realize that white people are known for their lack of rhythm, I was convinced that the girl was hearing impaired, following the songs through the vibrations that she felt through her feet.  When Gwen implored the audience to clap along with the song, the girl was unable to follow along, even with visual cues from the massive Jumbotron.  As the bumbling girl attempted to follow the beat of the song, she closely resembled a drunken, autistic seal with head trauma attempting to perform for an expectant audience. 

::

After about five songs, boqueen and I returned to the concourse to watch the rest of the show.  Our seats were about 50 feet (15.42 meters) from our vantage point, so we were able to enjoy the show without the disturbances from our fellow concert attendees.

Despite the distractions, we both thoroughly enjoyed the show.  In addition, I learned several helpful lessons from the experience:

No Doubt still puts on a highly entertaining show.

Gwen’s abs are absolutely stunning, especially for a woman with two children who is rapidly approaching 40.

Teenage girls dress like they are homeless. 

Female butt cracks are disgusting, especially when they are underage and furry. 

The sterotype of black people yelling at the screen during movies is well-deserved.

Paramore’s music is garbage made for teenage girls. 

All concerts should be “21 and over.” 

3 responses to 'No Doubt I’m too old for this shit'

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1. I take umbrage with the “years of oppression” and “throwing me a bone” lines. I’m from Zambia!

   boqueen

   07.15.09 12:27 PM

    

2. Zambia? Did you mean “suburbia?”

   bokeen

   07.17.09 01:04 AM

    

3. Ok. This is THE BEST review of any concert i ever read. “Teenage girls dress like they are homeless.” hahaha!!

   And yup, Gwen’s abs are absolutely stunning! She’s one sexy mommy! I like the way she was wearing her white capri pants on the 2009 tour. I wonder if she went commando??

   socrates

   05.10.10 07:29 AM

    

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