The woman in the tight angora sweater in front of me at an Old 97's concert was actively engaged in three things.
Jessica Burgess
Clearly Unedited
1) Swilling Jack and Cokes.
2) Chattering energetically with her date.
3) Pissing me off.
I wanted to grab her by the lint on her sweater, stick my face right up in hers, and screech, "You're at a concert. Shut your Jack-and-Coke-hole and let me listen to the music."
But I didn't. I just glared. And it led me to realize that live music falls into two distinct categories – one for the young, and one for the not-young, and I don't fit into either anymore.
The idea of attending the not-young concerts, where you remain stationary in your $300 seat and glower at people who have the audacity to stand up for their favorite songs, makes me want to stab myself with the credit card I am using to purchase tickets online.
Yet the shows where you drive to Deep Ellum and leave your car in a scary parking lot only to be crushed up against a thousand drunken people who are not exhibiting proper control of their cigarettes don't sound that good anymore either.
The solution, clearly, is that all the bands I like should come play in my backyard whenever I want. Wouldn't that be GREAT?
You'd all be invited, of course. The bands could play atop my rickety, splintery picnic table. We could all dance around, dodging the three cats that aren't really mine but kind of live at my house anyway.
At first, my neighbors would complain, but then we would invite them in and ply them with beer and live music and then they would be first in line for the next show.
It would become the golden era of Dallas live music.
But then dark times would fall.
My backyard venue would get too popular. People would flick cigarettes and toss empty bottles on the ground and the neighborhood association would start crawling up my behind.
There would be fights when people drank too many beers. I would have to start hiring off-duty police officers to keep everyone in line.
There would be parking issues – I don't know how many cars could fit in the cul-de-sac across the street.
Then a local alternative weekly would write a story about how my sound system is crap. Negative buzz would arise on local blogs.
The crime rate on my block would skyrocket. People would slowly stop coming to my shows. But it wouldn't really matter because then the TABC would shut me down.
Sigh.
Maybe it's time to break out the sharpened credit card and start going to the old-people concerts after all.
If you want to play your youthful music in Jessica's back yard, e-mail her at jburgess@quickdfw.com.
