Secret Thrill

No matter how old I get I will always want to go to shows. I don't mean super star, $150.00 a ticket, sanitized, corporate-ized, play-all-the-greatest-hits-ever-as-a-medley kind of shows. I mean rock shows. I mean some dumpy bar with a live band playing their own tunes; that starts too late at night and ends too soon. Even though I live in the far north suburbs and wake up at 6 AM with young children, the thrill of discovering a new, indy band and hearing them live hasn't died. It is a part of myself I'm not willing to give up. So this is what I do: I get the children combed, scrubbed, brushed and tucked into bed in their cozy flannel pj's. Then, with the kids carefully entrusted to some Belizean earth mother (who will be paid handsomely) I run for the train. When you're a stay at home mom, an hour of train time is golden. You can listen to your IPod, read a magazine, stare out the window, think your own uninterrupted thoughts, eavesdrop. For my commuting husband, the train can be tedious, but for me it's blissful time. (Note: I have found if you read the New Yorker, no one will try to engage you in conversation but if you're reading People, you're at serious risk for unwanted conversation.) Once, I had to make a run for the 7:20 and forgot reading material so I had to listen to my seat mate's cell yell. Apparently the person on the other end wasn't respecting his restraining order, and she was sick of it! The whole ride I was hoping this guy wasn't in another car of the same train. Fortunately she departed at Davis Street. I hope she's okay. But usually, it's a very pleasant respite and by the time I hop off the train and swim upstream through all the commuting, departing suits, I feel really free. I ride the escalators down the middle of Union Station, out the revolving doors, past that one homeless guy that's always there hailing cabs for people, and jump in Dan's waiting car. Then, the adventure begins. Sometimes just finding the venue is a challenge. And when we finally find the warehouse behind the parking lot, near the river, and walk down the alley with all the art school kids in their resale shop clothes, we are on a quest. Once, I stood in line with my ID and waited while the boy stared hard at my license. I was patient but perplexed. I mean, I probably graduated from high school the year this kid was born. Finally he nodded and laughed. "Dude, I was looking for an 8!" I do not now, nor have I ever, fit the category "dude". I'm not male, I don't surf and I have three children. I grabbed my ID and laughed, "Dude I know. My kid's in the band" and I walked in. It may sound sad to someone who doesn't love live music. But it isn't about partying (we sip keg beer) and it isn't about lost youth (we love our life). It's that once you are in front of a live band that is making their way with an early album, you are part of a creative moment. You are sharing in the immediacy of music. It is art that only exists in that moment and it will never, ever be exactly the same. And if it's a band we really love it is passionate and profound. When we get home, with our ears ringing, we cover our peacefully sleeping kids. We'll be awake in the morning making pancakes and driving to piano lessons and we'll do all the other things good parents are supposed to do. But we'll be humming and we'll still be ourselves.