March 19, 2009

I've been ruminating on age often lately. There have been a series of events that have caused these thoughts. Music, however, is the major impetus.

I traveled to Radio City Music Hall last week twice. The first time was to see Bill Maher debate the devil, I mean, Anne Coulter. Georgi had invited me as his guest and it was a fascinating spectacle. But I am not talking about all that right now. Back to the thoughts on age.

Prior to the debate, Radio City flashed screens announcing upcoming shows. And whattya know, right there in front of me, an announcement for a show for Simply Red. My heart skipped a beat. Something got me started.

I started to speak to Georgi about Simply Red and surprisingly he actually knew them. Not bad for a 26 year old who loves Beyonce. But he knew only two songs. Sigh.

When home, excitedly, I told Ben. And though he is only 2 years younger, he too, knew only a handful of songs. And I suddenly felt old.

I came of age (which means realized I was gay while sitting with headphones on escaping into music) in the years 1988-1992. These were magical music years: Caught bands like The Smiths and Depeche Mode at their prime. Discovered dance music and its sometimes ridiculousness (Army of Lovers and Deee-Lite on MTV? Would not happen today). RuPaul? Erasure? Madonna at her gayest peak (Vogue). Robert Smith in lipstick and Neil Tennant Going West. The college radio scene, music for the art fags, was actually popular then. I peaked with this gay pop. And those who also did can reminisce with me for hours. Days. Weeks. Joe D'Espinosa. Alireza. Dow. Eric Riley. It is in our blood.

Ben just missed it. Georgi had by a 1/2 decade. So I felt two things: distance from them but also sadness that they did not witness this moment in time. It was magical.

Back to Simply Red. Joe and John joined us. Ben agreed to go. Mick Hucknall looked old. As old as someone, who at around 50, had spent decades prior boozing and sexing and singing. He looked a little like The Wizard of Oz's Scarecrow. But his voice. Angelic. Gripping. A nuanced performance. An overload of soul. Music that had passion, spark, intelligence, beauty, even. It comes too few and far in between these days.

The next day I saw Morrissey in a small venue with Aaron and Alireza. He too looked old. And bloated. And tired even, at times. But he sounded clear. Crisp. Sexy. In control. Ben opted to skip Morrissey, as he often does. And I want so desperately to convert him, but then I think, it is just not possible. It is in my blood. Not his. And that's ok. It makes it special.

So I got Depeche Mode tickets this week. As I spoke to AMEX at the gym's cafe, instructing them on what rows I wanted them to procure, Dave Gahan walked in, bought a bottle of water, and stood by me. No lie. He works out there. It was weird. He looks old too.

Ben is going to Depeche Mode. He is not as obsessed as me. But he goes along for the ride. That is sweet of him. I am now the age that Morrissey, Mick, and Dave were in the late 80s. Their peak. Mine too, I guess.

I just miss being a kid sometimes. That's all I am saying.