ANYONE WHO has ever been to a concert as a young person is familiar with the scene: It is nighttime and a throng of teenagers, dressed inappropriately for the weather and decorum, swarm the securely-guarded venue waiting to get in. Music from inside teases the fans as the band warms up. Boys and girls flirt and shout as the crowd thickens.
Finally, the signal is given and they are allowed to enter. The pack surges forward, funnelling into lines. Pant legs are patted down, tickets are taken, last-minute hair and make-up checks are made, you move in the direction of the stage and then, YOU ARE THERE!
Friend groups bunch up and move as a single organism. There is a lot of conferring about where to go and who to stand by. You notice a lot of free-feeling folks and many who look wooden. Not quite knowing what the appropriate amount of swag is in the moment, you do what your friends are doing and sway or stand accordingly.
“Heather,” my friend says, “What song do you hope they play tonight?”
I wonder if there is a bad choice? I run down the list of options, looking for my favorite. Listen to the Music, What a Fool Believes, Black Water were all contenders in my mind.
Suddenly, the dim lights flicker and get dimmer, dry ice creates theatrical smoke and fog, and a low drum roll begins.
“Ladies and Gentlemen …”
“Listen to the Music!” I shout to my friends, but no one is listening anymore.
The opening notes of China Grove trickle out and the crowd goes wild. Instantly, arms are up, bodies are shimmying and twirling, everyone is happy and singing along. My body understands the decision to dance or not is out of my control because my feet and arms have ears of their own and are way ahead of me.
The band sings, “They just keep on lookin’ to the east” and every person is instantly clapping as the guitar lick roars out. Arms swing up, shoulders dip back and forth, a few people hit the point move, hips shake, fingers snap, “Well, you’re talkin’ ‘bout China Grove … Oh, China Grove …”
The band finishes the song and I twirl around, elated with the vibe.
“That was amazing!” I shout to my friend, but the drum beat and low electric guitar hum has begun for the next song and she doesn’t hear me. I try to get her attention again but she’s off – swaying her way towards the stage.
I look around for the others, but can’t see them in the dark. Straightening my vest, I try to look casual and plunge into the crowd. Pushing past a random mix of gauze, polyester, and blue jeans I reach out and tap on Wendy’s arm. Too late! She is shimmying and shaking.
I hear, “Got those highway blues …” and I’m transported with joy. I’m getting down with everyone else, jivin’ and ‘jammin’ until we hear “Oh, rockin’ down the highway …” and everyone is clapping.
Wendy shouts, “Let’s Bump!”
She was referring to a dance move from the seventies where you bump your partner’s hip to every other beat of the music. It is usually done hip to hip with the dancing couple standing side by side. I was never really taken with The Bump because everyone’s hips are a different height and people’s understanding of a song beat varies widely – complicated by their innate flexibility and personal rhythm. I figured, you could either look really cool or offbeat and awkward but learned it was best to go along with whatever your friends wanted you to do.
“Sure!” I said, and away we went.
There were other “seventies dances” that we knew well and probably busted out that night. We were actually required to learn them in gym class. Mrs Kazmire was our gym teacher, dispenser of our light blue, zip-up, cotton unitard, shorts uniforms, and post-gym class shower-sergeant. The dance requisite of our education was taught in part by her (the square dancing) and also by my friend, Sheri, who danced in Miss Donna’s School of Dance. We learned The Hustle, The Bus Stop, and The Electric Slide. However, when we naively attempted to organize one of these group dances at our first non-highschool concert, we quickly learned that was “not cool.”
After awhile, my friends and I found our way to the drinking fountain and to the doors to get some fresh air. We glanced at the bulletin board and talked about who we’d seen inside.
“I wonder where the band is playing next?” I wonder aloud.
“They are sooo good!!! I love the Doobie Brothers!”
“I think John’s the handsomest.”
“The new singer is so cute! I heard he’s the guitarist’s younger brother.”
What did she know? The last person she liked tossed his head constantly in an attempt to re-feather his bangs, a bit like a peacock displaying his feathers. Too showy, if you asked me (and she didn’t).
“John owns a music store!” I said.
John Rictig (not the Doobie Brothers drummer John McFee) was the owner of Thunder Island Music, and was a founding member of the local Upper Peninsula 60s rock band “The Ravelles” and also “The New Breed” in the 70s.
The New Breed were masters of replicating music from The Doobie Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Pink Floyd and rock bands of that era. They would hold packed concerts at the Kingsford National Guard Armory and, as teenagers, we went to them all. We LOVED the The New Breed. They brought 1970s rock culture to Dickinson County and reinforced in us an abiding devotion to our era’s music.
Of course, the seventies were a golden era for vinyl records and like young people of every generation we cultivated our collections, singing and dancing to the beat right into middle age.
Now our music is played on oldies stations and as an homage to the “mature” attendees at weddings, but WE KNOW our music is the most cross-generational because the dance floor is always full when it is playing.
“This is the clapping part!” I’ll shout to my kids as we’re dancing together and I hear the guitar lick peeling out as it moves towards the final refrain. They’ve heard that phrase enough to associate it with certain genres of rock and roll and I’ve said it enough to realize “clapping parts” are not so much a part of their millennial dance array. They indulge me nonetheless and I’m in an untouchable happy place as we Listen to the
Music once again.
Last Letters /No Regrets is a multi-faceted business devoted to words, their purpose, and application. Heather Mlsna is a professional writer and can be reached at lastlettersmqt@gmail.com or (906) 250-5769.