When combined, those genetic markers make for a child obsessed with concerts … country music concerts.
Together, we’ve attended many shows, big and small. She’s even had the remarkable experience of meeting a lot of country artists like Miranda Lambert, Rodney Adkins, and Little Big Town. Her room is decorated with autographs and photographs, ticket stubs and t-shirts. She loves it. All of it. And I love to see her excitement ~ that’s the real high for me.
Caveat ~ Before anyone starts to wonder if this child is a spoiled monkey, let me assure that she is practically perfect. She’s a straight-A student, plays competitive soccer about 30 weekends a year, helps her brothers in unimaginable ways, does chores, babysits for her own money … I could go on all day. She’s a great kid and when I can, I do things for her just to make her smile. That’s my privilege as her Momma.
Now, to the heart of the matter.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to Miami (pronounced Mi-am-uh, just like Missour-uh), Oklahoma to the Buffalo Run Casino to see Jason Aldean. I wasn’t really familiar with Mr. Aldean, but Hubs bought the tickets off of someone who couldn’t go. Fourth row, dead-ass center. You can’t argue with that and the girl was thrilled!
We left early and stopped for a great dinner and did a little shopping before arriving at the Casino at 7:00 sharp. God forbid we be late for a whole hours worth of AC/DC and Fleetwood Mac from the soundboard. Hooray! We got to our seats easily, everything was marked well and the Casino staff was very helpful, all over the age of 65, but very helpful.
Now, let me be clear about this. When I say “Casino”, I’m not talking casino-casino, Vegas style castle, or Trump-ed up blackjack palace; I’m talking about an airplane hangar stuffed with electronic poker and Wheel-Of-Fortune slots. I have to give them credit on their little showplace though. We’ve been there many times and the intimate setting is perfect and very safe for a Mom and a kid and an excellent place for photo-ops and autographs. That is, until last night.
First of all, when we arrived at our seats, there were roughly fifty 17-25 year olds standing at the stage. They were shouting at the crew about this and that. Seemed to this old gal that they were rather underdressed in their Daisy-Dukes and tanktops since is was only about 40 degrees last night, but I did let my subscription to “In Style” expire. Their partial nudity was only slightly less ridiculous than their counterparts, their FauxBoys (my daughter called them) - Fake Cowboys wearing straw western hats, a wide range of Hollister pastel golf shirts, and mechanically ripped jeans from American Eagle. They grew in number and drunkenness as the eight o’clock hour neared.
At this point, people that paid the “premium” price ($50) for tickets began to seek out management and complain about the stage-front Sodom and Gomorrah spectacle that was unfolding. I’m talking full-on groping, grabbing, and making out. The Premium Seat ticket holders were quickly told that the “artist” (and I use that word loosely) decides about that and that Aldean likes the people right at the stage. At this point, I’m thinking that Aldean has a pretty good scam going, if this is how he operates, night after night. (Doing the Math … 200 premium seats x the extra $25, equals … ummmm $5,000 …that brilliant little Son-Of-A-Bitch!!!)
The band was prompt, I have to give them that. Well, not the Jason Aldean Band, but another starter band (not quite good enough to earn the moniker, “opener”). Three super-skinny, blonde girls, a heroin-thin Bob Dylan look-alike on lead guitar and a bass player that I’m sure was Eric Zoolander pounced onto the sage and I almost popped an aneurysm from the feedback. Oh. My. God. Deafness would have been a gift. They were called “Chasin’ Dixie” … the daughter suggested they chose that name since they were obviously “chasin’” the Dixie Chicks wielding an electrified mandolin and a very fine fiddle.
They punished us for about 40 minutes before closing their show with Crazy On You, which was the highlight of their performance. It was most unfortunate that the most rabid of their hoochie-mama fans had no idea what the hell they were singing. I have to say though, if the sound hadn’t been so fucking bad, I think it would have been a pretty good interpretation. Then, they left the stage and with all of their stuff. Literally … they carried their own stuff off the stage with them.
By the time they finished their show, every person that had been sitting on the front row was gone and the front row chairs were pushed back against the legs of the people on the second row. I had started to get a little nervous. All you could see was people to the front, left, and right and in row after row behind us. The people on the second row started moving out. Before the show even started, people were standing on the front row chairs and the second row chairs became the ‘beer pass’. Boys/men of all sizes skimmed from seat to seat carrying two, three, sometimes four beers at a time, all while balancing on cushy chairs and avoiding the elbows and asses of the chorus line kicking it up just in front of them.
This is when I got really scared … not for me, but for Grandma sitting in front of me. She seemed to be 50ish and had her grandson (maybe 7) and Grandpa who was easily 70 there with her. Grandma was already PISSED and certainly did not like what was taking place right in front of her, so she decided that she would retaliate by pushing the beer boys off the road. No shit! This sweet little lady made an art of pushing those guys off the chair completely unnoticed, forcing them to create an entirely new spectacle before our eyes. It was becoming a wet t-shirt contest for the ages.
Right about that time, one of more obnoxious of the young group turned to the couple behind her and said, “Aren’t you pissed that you paid fifty buck for those (insert air quotes) premium (insert air quotes) seats and I only paid twenty-five and I’m standing in front of you?” She laughed hysterically and turned around and shook her bony ass double-time to some piped in Brooks and Dunn.
Thank God, they announced the band because tempers were about to blow. Jason and his crew took the stage. Everyone in his band looked like Jeff from Top Chef except for the drummer who looked more like Joey Tribbiani from Friends. Aldean, himself, was unimpressive in a plaid shirt, a few buttons short (showing too much of his scrawny chest), baggy jeans, and, lest we forget, the cowboy hat. He looked a little like Mr. T on a budget, wearing entirely too many bulky silver chains and medallions. Then he began to sing. I didn’t think that the sound could get any worse, but I was wrong. I swear to God, you couldn’t make out one word coming out of his mouth. The only semblance of lyric was coming from my sweet child, and the crowd around us who were compensating for the thundering bass and squawk of scratchy feedback.
I’m not sure how an “artist” presents an entire hour of his music looking out into a crowd of people sticking their fingers in their ears, but I have to give it to Aldean, he was a professional in that regard. He never let up; in fact, I think he just started trying to sing louder which led to more squawk and eventually actual ear pain. The bass was so intense that the bottoms of my jeans were vibrating. I sat there watching the legs of my pants shake to the “music” while Aldean entertained hoards of half-dressed bimbos with his “take my picture” antics and backwoods bravado. It was spectacular.
The drunk broad to my right was totally out of control. She was about my age and soaked to the bone, I believe. At one point, she sat on my lap for at least ten seconds before she realized that I wasn’t her chair. She danced with both arms in the air swinging them around like she was spinning an invisible hoola hoop, taking up the space … of an actual hoola hoop. I finally ended up sitting in the chair directly behind my child, looking at her ass or the floor. Good times.
Finally, those musical buffoons left the stage and I grabbed my purse and coat, only to turn around to see them returning. This was a good move, because it produced the single audible piece of music of the night, an acoustic song written for his grandfather and it really was lovely. I have to give it to Aldean, though this was his finest moment of the night, he felt the need to give the audience more of what they had obviously come for.
His “Grand Finale”, again, used loosely, was a worse-than-karaoke version of … God for-freaking-bid, Sweet Child O’ Mine … Good. God. Man. Enough. Already. It was quite possibly the most horrific cover ever and that includes a bad-pot induced Axel Rose impersonation by the lead singer of the notorious, Bananas At Large.
As soon as it was over, I grabbed my daughter by the jacket in a desperate attempt to get the hell out of there, but there was no place to go. It was like being trapped on the Titanic (if the Titanic was run by fake cowboys and Hugh Heffner). Where’s the fucking fire marshal when you need him??? Finally, the redneck reign of terror subsided and we slipped out through the roadie entrance and to the serene safety of the mini-van.
As for Mr. Aldean, he slipped away with an awful lot of money that he didn’t earn. And I’m here to tell you this; it will be a cold day in hell before I give the Buffalo Run Casino another cold, thin dime.
So this is the punk that bent me over … and no, I didn’t get kissed.
And to anyone who says there’s not a God, let me present you with this: When I got home, everyone was asleep. I poured myself a big glass of milk and turned on the television … PBS … Chris Botti and the Boston Pops … I think that speaks for itself.
