When I was in college I loved music. The more melodramatic the better. My favorite albums? Bat Out of Hell, Phantom of the Opera, and one of the Mannheim Steamroller Christmas albums. Notice I didn’t say I had any taste.
After college, when I lived on the mainland, I went to concerts all the time. I would like to think that my tastes in music improved (I generally listened to whatever my boyfriend at the time was listening to), but it’s doubtful, so I’m not going to mention my favorites. Since moving to Hawaii in 1997 though, my interest in music has dwindled. I play it for one reason and one reason only – to keep my kids quiet in the car.
In January, Russell and I attended the Airborne Toxic Event concert at Hawaii Theatre. It was ridiculously fun in no small part due to the opening band, a local group from Ewa Beach called Sing the Body. They are an Indie Rock duo (Zack Shimizu and Eli Ogumi) and they have a blast on stage. We could feel their energy from our seats -- everyone could. Before Airborne Toxic Event finished their first song, I was telling Russell it was the best concert I’d been to in years. Suddenly, I wondered what I’d been missing music-wise.
So, when I heard that Sing the Body would be playing at Art After Dark on Friday, I was excited to attend. Not only do I like their songs (all six of them), but I give them a bit of credit in reawakening my interest in music.
I arrived at Art After Dark late and in a foul mood. A girlfriend met me at the bar and assured me that I hadn’t missed Sing the Body. I quickly ordered a white wine and we headed to the area in front of the outdoor stage. It was just starting to drizzle.
My girlfriend and I were chatting about sex or religion or something “grown-up”, since we had left the children at home, maybe it was chocolate, when I noticed the drummer from Sing the Body walking our way. I nudged her, pointed him out, and said somewhat giddily, “I’m going to say something.” He was almost past me when I worked up the nerve to call out.
Because he was almost past where we were standing, he had to stop and turn back towards us in order to acknowledge my comment. It was at this moment, when he turned to see who was speaking to him, that two very small but profound events unfolded.
First, the drummer guy blinked his eyes in a funky way right before he smiled and thanked me for liking his band. It was just a fraction of a second, but I think he was registering some sort of shock. I think he was accepting the unwelcome fact that a women old enough to be his mother’s older sister considered herself to be one of his “fans.”
Meanwhile, I was dealing with my own inner turmoil. As he turned, I noticed just above his red moustache and just below his intelligent eyes were cheeks an elderly auntie could not help but pinch. They were the cheeks of a boy. When this guy (Zack or Eli, I don’t even know) is on stage, I see a twenty-something MAN pounding his heart out on the drums. Standing in front of me in the rain might as well have been a fifteen-year old kid. A little gasp, barely audible I pray, popped out of my throat.
Drummer guy continued to smile and we exchanged some pleasantries that I don’t recall because I was too busy reeling from that one moment in time: right after the blink and just before the gasp, when I came to a very upsetting realization:
I am too old for men who are in their twenties.
Now, I’ll admit, I could be totally wrong. I could have misread that blink and all that I perceive to be behind it. Perhaps a raindrop had hit the drummer guy directly in the eyeball causing that exaggerated blink, but I don’t think so.
Something is telling me I’m on the money. Something is telling me that the first thought that went hurtling through that musician’s brain was “Coo coo ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson.”
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