So. Last night I saw Little Steven's "Rolling Rock and Roll Show Tour":http://www.rollingrockandrollshow.com/, which featured Frantic, The Charms, The Chesterfield Kings, Supersucker, and, of course, the Dolls. And they had go-go dancers.I think every show should have go-go dancers.This was the first show in many years where I made my way towards the front of the stage. I've seen seated shows, I've opted for seats when general admission was available, whathaveyou. I had this impression that being close made me "feel" the artists performing - note the use of quotation makes, and reference to artists rather than the music itself - and thought it was about time that I really "felt" the concert experience again.(Also, with the smoking ban in effect, I wouldn't get socked with a migraine and spinning head from mingling among the crowd.)I suppose I wasn't really there in the first place. I wasn't in a rocked-out mood when I left the apartment; I ended up circling around South Street for an hour to find a parking space, thanks to a block of Bainbridge being closed; I dropped $25 to park; I slid into a comfortable place after a few pints of Yards and some pierogies at "Tattooed Mom's":http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=1774086. I was feeling like a bit of brat, not being too pleased that, with the number of opening acts, the Dolls likely wouldn't take the stage until well after 11PM. Even with a nap that day, I still preferred being in bed at one in the morning. Call me silly.But unless I'm sitting on my arse at the show, I get too easily distracted: by my body temperature ("Did I have enough fluids? God, I always fuck that up the day of a show. Shit, I'm gonna faint, I'm a fucking idiot."), by my aching calf muscles ("Not even dancing, and I'm sore from bopping on one leg or another."), by the mush of amps ("Made the mental note to bring the plugs this time, that was my lesson from seeing The Secret Machines, and forgot them anyway."). I was ticking off those indefinable mental minutes - anyone that has tried not to have a sense of time knows what I'm talking about - and thinking, yes, I just may last here on the floor until the Dolls come.As an aside that technically shouldn't be an aside: I missed Frantic cos of my pierogies, but loved the chick power of "The Charms":http://www.thecharms.net/ and will definitely pick up their album. (At Best Buy, so she said.) The lead singer looked like a hotter, more self-confident Patricia Arquette. The lead guitarist for "The Chesterfield Kings":http://www.chesterfieldkings.com/ looked like Napoleon Dynamite's darker-haired, less socially-adept older brother. The "Supersuckers":http://www.supersuckers.com/ weren't extraordinary, but it's definitely good - obviously, not clean - rocking fun and a great image.And, again, every show should have go-go dancers. Could do wonders for Dylan.Aah, and there he came, it was Johansen, an oddly-glorious aging glam beanpole that doesn't look ridiculous in rings and rings and bracelets and a black-and-gold lace shirt.

This, people, is what happens when you see a god.And what command he had of us. And what a smile as we sang along. Or at least I think there were enough of us singing along. I couldn't hear. I had to have faith in our god's smile that we were.But here comes Bob Saget charging his way to the front, his slightly punk-ish haired friend just straggling behind, bemused, and some dozen worshipers had to crane their necks around his courderoy-jacketed pathetic self. He turned back to his friend, arm still, inexplicably, in the air: "Lookatme!"Yeah, yeah, trust me, no one is missing it.Of course, since I was being especially self-aware that night, I knew the concert-going experience could only get better.Of course he then came back to his friend and stood right in front of me.And leaned back...and leaned back...and of course looked at me funny when I pushed him away from my nose."Trust me, I'm harmless."But we all know even idiots can be deadly.That's it! Enough! That mythical, BS "connection" wasn't going to happen, and I wasn't about to let this yutz be anywhere in my immediate vicinity, nor would my annoyance towards him wreck the rest of the night. I surrender! The gig is up! Off I went to the upstairs bar, and whaddya know, one of the couches was completely open.PLOP.I've gotten older, my friends, and I now have a more intimate relationship with my music through the headphones than through the ritual of concertgoing. Standing on a concrete floor for over three hours is not transcendent. Being blasted with undiscernible noise is not inherently thrilling. (Unless, of course, that's what you paid for.) And a lack of manners is simply intolerable. I could forgive most things but not an absence of civility.How are you supposed to "share" the music when people are out for their own, private fifteen minutes of fame-by-association with who's on stage? How loosely are we supposed to define "community" when we talk about performance?Hell, you know I'm going to try this again. I have to eliminate the variables. Measure out the ounces of fluids to be consumed, make sure the three squares are taken care of, not leave the apartment without the ear plugs.And bring a friend.Share it with someone.To build my own music community.


Now, to build that shrine...(Oh, and no, to be clear, it really wasn't Bob Saget. Saget's too cool.)