When you wake up feeling old

I feel old today. It might have something to do with the sinus/migraine headache I've been battling for the past 36 hours. I might also have to do with the concert I attended last night, where the average age of ticket holders had to be around 15.

Yes, I went to a concert while my head throbbed. Kind of stupid, I know. But, the sinus medication I am taking takes the edge off enough to function. Plus, the tickets were a gift from the Professor for my birthday.

Still, I realize how silly it was to go to a chest-rattling concert when one's head was already sore.

Feeling old at a concert is always a bit odd, especially the first time it happens. This, of course, is the peril of the entertainment known as the "all ages show." My introduction to this phenomenon, or, "The Old," was about a year ago. It took the form of a M.I.A. performance in Worcester, MA. Not only did I feel twice the age of most of the attendants as I waited with my friend Seth outside the venue for the doors to open, I also felt really, really un-hip in the wardrobe department. There were clothes there that I had never seen before. So, this is what is sold at all those stores in the mall, I thought. Neons. Crazy stripes. Odd fittings. Intricate hairdos. Headbands. Headbands? Yup, headbands. They were all on display.

My Levi jeans and polo shirt didn't seem very cool that night. Especially when I saw the few parents who tagged along wearing the same clothes.

The event brought me back to being a 15-year-old myself, looking at the 30-somethings in the crowd at whatever rock show I had gotten to go to and wondering, Why are they here? Are they someone's chaperone or something?

It's sad to feel old.

Last night, seeing M83 play at Pearl Street in Northampton (which, by the way, was a great show), I didn't feel quite as lame in my polo shirt and jeans, as most of the kids were t-shirt and jeans wearers. No, what made me feel old last night, besides the fact that I kept looking at kids on the floor in slack-jawed wonder at the oddities on display (like, why are you wrapping your head in your scarf, fake-ID 18-year-old? Or, wow, you're really into this music, long-haired, 75-minute-long fist-pumping death metal kid!) was the practically visible line that separated the children from the adults. 

The basement club section of Pearl Street has two levels, separated by a handrail and two short stairs. On the bottom level there is a small dance floor and the stage. Behind the rail, up the stairs, one finds the bar and breathing room. Needless to say, the kids were up front, while us old folks stood a safe distance away and drank our $5 Harpoons.

It made me remember my last visit to Pearl Street. It was over a decade ago. I was out visiting the Professor, then just a undergrad at Mount Holyoke. We made our way to Pearl Street to see a show with a couple of friends. And we fought to be against the stage that night. What was the point of a concert if you weren't in the thick of the action? we thought. In our minds, if you couldn't read the set list taped the the monitor, then you weren't really part of the show.

Boy, does time change a person. Last night, standing above the crowd, my medicine wearing off as the final encore was being performed, the right side of my head beginning to pound, I wasn't thinking about being part of the show. All I was thinking was, Why didn't I bring more medication? Man, I hope this is almost over!

Then, I hopped on my Rascal scooter, ate a Werther's Original, complained about kids some more, mentioned how cold it was, and rode home just in time to catch the 1 a.m. Matlock on the Hallmark Channel.  

What a night!