Sting, my favorite musician of all time, made a stop in Dallas on his Back to Bass tour this week. I was fortunate enough to be there. I won’t bore you with too many details of the show. Suffice it to say, Sting is a God. Head and shoulders above the rest. Still a class act after all these years. This I know to be true. I have seen him perform before. His vocals are flawless, his backing band without equal, his set list a great mix of commercial hits and lesser known glittering gems that set a true fan’s heart fluttering with excitement. All in all, it was a superb show.
While Sting may be top on my list of favorite things, people watching comes in at a close second. What better place to people watch than a rock concert, right? Right. I can’t help myself. It’s all in the name of character inspiration. At least that’s what I tell myself as I gawk unabashedly at the masses swirling around me.
Here are a few of the things I learned at the Sting concert:
I learned that…
…that it was not hard to spot the husbands and boyfriends who were dragged kicking and screaming to a concert of an Englishman they couldn’t care less about. They were the ones whose faces were illuminated throughout the concert by the light from their iPhones and Blackberries. I image they do not have very happy relationships and are one banana peel away from a nasty, hate-filled break up. While it is true that they may have earned “points” by showing up, they prove just how uncommitted to the unity they really are. It’s sort of like when you go on a date with your husband or boyfriend and instead of engaging you in conversation over dinner, they browse their mobile twitter feed. I feel pretty certain that their deeds will not go unpunished. We women are a spiteful lot. Their wives/girlfriends will make them suffer. Even if done subtly, revenge can leave its mark.
…that there is something inherently wrong with women over a certain age showing their faces in public while wearing thigh high leather boots, skin-tight leather pants and skimpy glittering tank tops. Denial? Not just a river in Egypt. Look, I know that age is relative. You are only as old as you feel, but have some self-respect. 60 and dressed like a hooker at a Sting concert? It just reeks insecurity and is, frankly, pathetic.
…that walking ten steps behind the aforementioned 60-year-old hooker and carrying her swag bag, is her mate – a short, pudgy, bald man who she has dressed up to look like Charlie Harper.
…that I should start carrying around a small travel size bottle of bleach in my purse to sanitize my eyes. The gentleman in front of me was kind enough to flash me a good two inches of his butt crack every time he stood. I’m not sure I will ever recover from the sight of his hairy ass.
…that there are those among us who will pay a premium price for tickets and then spend the entire show engaged in an activity that does not involve watching or listening to what they have paid to see. I don’t understand this. I paid $200 to see Sting. I want to see Sting. I want to hear Sting. I want to feel his music seep into my pores and surge through my veins. I don’t want to continuously have to pull my eyes away from the stage in order to let these inattentive people in and out of their seats at regular intervals.
…that copious amounts of alcohol will make the man sitting behind me who, by his own admission, had never seen Sting and didn’t really seem to know who he was, a very vocal and ardent fan. I’m just grateful that he didn’t spill his super-sized wine on me.
…that though I felt like one of youngest people at this concert, it was nice to see children scattered through the crowd. There weren’t many, but I am encouraged by this. There is perhaps a smidgen of hope that this younger generation will know real musical talent when they hear it.
…that I am still sad I missed the reunion tour.