Last night, I did something I haven't done in AGES and it felt GREAT. No, I didn't dance on a bar with a shiny-chested mustache man in mylar shorts. I did that last week.
My old creaky ass was treated to the discovery of a new band. Well...they aren't a new band per se, but aside from a long-ago learned familiarity with a handful of their hits, the majority of Pulp's playlist was relatively new to me. They've been around since the late 70s and had mild success stateside in the early-mid 90s, led by seductive deep-throat frontman, Jarvis Cocker. Yes, the guys name is COCKER. With a name like that, his only occupational option was to fellate a mic.
My gracious, generous friend Alan had an extra ticket and I didn't have to think twice before doing the virtual equivalent of pulling a Horshack in Mr. Kotter's class. Turns out, Pulp is one of his FAVORITE bands, and personal introductions like these are the very best way to adopt a new sound into your system. Just because I'm an old dog doesn't mean I've forgotten how to rollover in the face of inspiration, and to me, music always was and will remain as much a part of my essence as bacon and foul language.
After our pre-show dinner convo ran late, Alan's pal Gretchen and I comically booked it in heels down 48th Street toward Radio City after Alan, who was just short of singlehandedly hurling a class of touristing teens out of his damn way. His enthusiasm for this band was as infectious as a snots dripping in a Pre-K class and lucky for me, I caught it immediately. Almost two hours of ass-shaking melodic sardonic sexy from THIS GUY.
Alan leans over and says, "Can you believe he's nearly 50?"
An hour and a half in, searing pain in my back and down my arm reminded me that I was nearing 50, that I was due for yet another cervical spine surgery, and that I'd better skedaddle before any further deterioration of my bod and spirit took place. But in that blessed hour and a half of grooving to new/old music with new friends, I was transported to a place and time when my spine was properly aligned and free to shake about however it liked.
And this, my friends, is why we should indulge in music as often as possible. Quick, before a few red state Republicans realize what it can do.
Forgive the un-Soapboxian addition here, but this speaks to my point. If you haven't already, take five and see what music does for this guy.
It just goes to show how music plugs into your heart and out through the clouds.
Say, if you live here in Brooklyn and your kid can't stop playing Rock Band, inserting "poop" whenever possible into otherwise demure song lyrics or singing "Girl look at that body..I work OUT" in public, really REALLY loud, here's the solution - send them to a summer camp that will nurture their inner Cocker. Or LMFAO. Or Pantera. Or Katy Perry. Or whatever.
The Brooklyn Music Factory has joined forces with Brooklyn Boulders to form the Rock, Write and Record Camp. Basically, your kid spends the morning with real musicians in a small group of kids their age, experimenting with songwriting and learning to sing and play the keys, drums, bass and gee-tar, then they head on over to Brooklyn Boulders to scale some heights. It's a beyond exciting option for the kid who craves a creative AND physical workout. Dig? Click the link above for more info!
Finally, remember our favorite Sue Simmons moment? There's nothing like cussing on camera to silence a room. This was generously sent to me by Altyn, a lovely woman who's been helping me deal with domesticity for a few years now. Obviously, she's gotten to know me rather well.
Check how foxy Brit-host Cat Deeley drops a wet stinky F-bomb all over these rowdy motherfuckers.
Smell you later cuties! Stay gold!
*Full Disclosure: Compensation was provided for information about the Rock, Write and Record Camp. But I really do love it!