I took a stroll down memory lane over the weekend. I attended a concert by a band whose music might have come out of the Sixties–a little bit folk, a little rock, some blues, mostly singer-songwriter stuff. Actually, I don’t know what they call it anymore, but it was definitely not Britney Spears or Kanye West.
But it was more than just than the band (who were mostly in their 30s) that got to me; it was the audience, about 300 strong, who were jammed into a banquet room.
Everywhere you looked, you saw beards, braids and bandanas. I suspect there wasn’t a tube of lipstick in the bunch, nor a comb. Instead, there were plenty of (proudly) mismatched clothes, a minstrel’s cap, and a general spirit of joy and liberation.
A one-year-old baby was stumbling around discovering, by trial and error, how to walk.
Seven and eight-year-olds were twirling on the dance floor, trying to emulate their parents.
Twelve-year-olds (surprise, surprise) were enchanted by a video game, amid all the music and dancing.
A 70ish couple sat with smiles on their faces soaking in all that was around them.
And there I stood, watching it all, listening to the music that harkened back to my past, and feeling a few tears creep down my cheeks. Understand, however, that the playing of the Clydesdales commercials around Christmastime can also get my waterworks going.
But this was something more. This was re-connecting with my youth when everything was fresh and new and exciting and beautiful but very, very complicated and occasionally confounding.
Now (I think) I understand it all, and I can appreciate it with full awareness.
Would I like to go back and re-live it all? Hell yeah. I’d be so much happier, so much smarter, so much cooler. But that’s not the way it works, is it? Instead, you’ve got to be content with listening to a little Bob Dylan music in a banquet hall, watching the swirl and color of humanity in front of you, and feeling a few, warm tears creep down your cheeks.