Andrew had dragged us out to listen to the band Donna the Buffalo who was playing at a
fundraiser in the nearby town of Cazenovia. Seems like we had been just missing
Donna for years. Every time we arrived in our favorite vacation place Ocracoke Island
our friends there would say "Donna Buffalo played here last week-- they were great- you
just missed them." When Andrew saw the banner across the road in Cazenovia that
announced Donna's concert, I knew we would have to go.
Now "dragged" might seem to be strong word to use here, but
to get me out at night after 8 p.m. after a tough week at work
takes a pretty formidable effort. He sold the idea by insisting,
and rightly so, to the group of us 30-50 somethings that we
need to do some of those things we "used to do, but didn't do
anymore"--- like going out and listening to some music.
And that strategy worked. That and of course the fact that you
always humor people who are going through treatments for cancer.
("Lets go up to Alaska tonight to see the Northern lights." -
"Sure Honey, why not. ..)
Nonetheless, I was stifling continuous yawns by the time we got in the car and headed east and the thought that kept running through my head as we wandered through the milling crowd waiting for the band to start was that I'd never stay awake.
But then the band did start. . . and like I said, only three chords in I knew it was going to be great. The crowd immediately started moving irresistably to the rhythm of the six piece band. Andrew turned to me and said with his accent " Its going to be a rocka'" - and a a rocker it was. The band warmed up with a swaying Cajun rythym that got everybody's attention, but by the second song we all could see what they could do.
Now most of my students have heard me wax poetic over the rock and roll of my youth when I teach about the 60's and 70's. They've heard me rant about the amazing Jim Morrison and the Doors and know I keep a poster of him on my office wall (compliments of my beloved sophomore class of 2007). They might even know who the top 5 guitarists of all time are based on my instruction (Hendrix, Santana, Clapton, Knopfler, Vaughn), but they still might not be aware, as most people are not, of my true passion for good rock and roll. That stuff really does it for me. . . and for Andrew too.Its one of the many things we bond about.. . . within minutes we were comparing notes:"They are really tight aren't they? the lead guitarist has the nuance and phrasing of Knopfler". .."yeah
but the narrative rythym of Jerry Garcia." etc., etc.
By song three we were done comparing notes and just swaying to the music -- transported in five
minutes back to what I will call our "wild days." Days we weren't so responsible, weren't so burdened
and weren't so damn serious. The days when when we still worked hard, but we played hard too.
I had forgotten what it felt like to stand in a crowd of people, all dancing, with the taste of bad draft beer in my month and the smell of sweat, patchouli and other exotic substances in the air --- listeningto amazingly good rock and roll. Our kind of what I like to call "physical" rock and roll -- the kind that gets into your bones and stays there-- the kind that makes you break into an irresistable smile when the just right chords are played-- the kind that makes you forget whatever it was you were so concerned about just
minutes before. We hooted, we hollered, we danced and we clapped.
It was amazing fun! the kind of fun we had almost forgotten about and certainly hadn't experienced in a while.
Toward the end of the set the band sent out a dedication to the victims of a bad
accident on they saw on the road on their trip up to the gig. "The best tribute we all
can give to those that we've lost, is to just live life to the fullest," their lead guitarist told us.
"That's our mantra," I thought -- at least we've been talking that talk.
Seems like it took a little Donna the Buffalo to show us how to walk the walk though.
"We should do this more often" A said on the trip home. "Couldn't agree more. . ." I replied.
Just live it. . .
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