Rock or Bust!!

Frank Sinatra. That is who I love.

Toby Keith. Loreena McKennitt. Leonard Cohen.

None of these musicians endorse the wearing of glowing red devil horns. None of them make screeching noises like their scrotums are clenched between the teeth of feral dogs. And while some of them are old, dead even, none of them Rock or Bust like AC/DC!

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When I told my Love that I got him AC/DC tickets for his birthday, his first comment… even before he asked where? or when? or how?…was: “We need costumes!”  Such was my ignorance of the AC/DC legend that we had to google the devil horns, and the school boy outfit, and the discography that included such gems as “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” and “Highway to Hell”. Don’t get me wrong. I know the songs. You’d have to be living under a rock to be oblivious to the dulcet tones of AC/DC… especially if my Love lives under the rock with you, and “real music” means rock, Q104, anything from the ‘70s, and especially anything that isn’t country.

AC/DC ain’t country!

I have never gone to a huge concert before. A Lot of People, to me, means standing in line at the Superstore when chicken wings are on sale. Loud music, to me, means the CJHK Country Countdown turned up loud enough to be heard over the vacuum on a Saturday. Staying up late, to me, means making it all the way to 9:30pm on a Friday night. This, was not that!

We camped for two nights in a field of friendly, happy, wild hooligans.

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We ate deer steak wrapped in bacon, we ate pizza, we ate lobster dip… roughing it? Not so much. There was, of course, lots of drinking and the sweet aroma of weed and probably some other mystery substances floating about, but I didn’t witness a single bad moment of impairment or obnoxious behavior. People were kind, funny, helpful… it was very nice that there was a gang of young 20-something men just behind us who frolicked, bare chested, all afternoon in the heat. When I told my Love that I was taking a photo of their youthful musculature so I could show my daughters, who appreciate such musculature much more than their elderly mother, he suggested that he should also be allowed to photograph all the lovely young girls, to show his son… Ok. I get it. Stop ogling the youth.

The concert was… overwhelming! So many people, so much noise, so many lights… I was so excited, in such a spinny, that I actually cried. Not weeping, just leaking.

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My Love: “What’s wrong? You’re crying.” (“For Those About to Rock” thundering behind us.)

Me: “I am? Oh! I just… LOVE THIS… I just… THISISAMAZING!”

My Love: “You’re so weird.”

Me: “THISISAMAZINGILOVEIT!”

This, from a woman who is scared of crowds, avoids large groups of people at all costs, gets nervous palpitations every time she has to go out in public…

I laced my hand onto his knapsack and let him drag me through the crowd. My face hurt later from smiling, screeching, singing, howling. It was absolutely phenomenal… the size of the stage, the huge towers for the lights, the enormous screens that show every drop of Brian Johnson’s sweat and every wrinkle of every grimace…

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In a moment of delightful role-reversal I texted my children…

Me: “Yeeeeefmjgub!”

Abbie: “Oh god… are you all right?”

Me: “Zur! I have fun at rock show!”

Abbie: “Hahahaha! Love you!”

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We got quite close to the stage, and at one point I just stopped moving and put my hand on my chest. Every bass note, every beat of the drum simply POUNDS through your whole body. My Love, once again, thought I was being weird.

Him: (yelling over the thundering band) “What’s wrong? You ok?”

Me: “THISISAWESOMEILOVETHIS!” (I think I was probably crying again)

Him: (top of his lungs) “Why you holding your chest?”

Me: “FEEL!”

He put his hands on my chest and we started head-banging in time to the pulse. Is that what it’s called? Head-banging? When your Love has his hand on your boobs in a crowd of 60,000 and you’re both giggling like school girls and jumping up and down, screaming? That was us.

It was over way too fast. They should have played for 657,000 hours. I am absolutely, completely, totally in LOVE with the big outdoor concert experience. On the drive home we were considering what other concerts we could get to, and who we would most like to see, and should we buy a motorhome and become groupies travelling across the country to every summer concert in Canada?

We camped on a golf course at concertcamping.com, and it was organized, efficient, clean, safe… I was completely impressed with the staff and crew that led us in, cleaned up after us and shuttled us out afterwards. The porta-potties were clean, the camping staff were super-friendly and helpful, and the traffic just seemed to flow without huge wait-times and snarls. Very impressive! We will definitely be staying there again.

So, although Frank Sinatra will continue to float my boat, I have discovered that AC/DC is actually more my speed. I think my spawn were surprised that I loved it so much, but I’m not sure why. Generation gap, I guess.

Molly: “Get ready, Mumma! You gonna jam out with your clam out?”

Me: “Oh, I don’t think so, dear. Seafood is much too rich to eat before a rock show. No, no. No clams for me.”

Molly: “Um… I meant… oh. Never mind. Have fun, Mumma.”

Don’t worry, little spawnlet, Mumma had fun!

PicMonkey Collage

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