We are the Middle-Agers Gone Wild
Skid Row rocked the Paducah Riverfront last night!
Yes, sir. They rocked it good.
Good, considering it was a free show,
and good, considering the only band member left from the original line up wasn't present due to getting thrown in jail last night.
It was endearing and entertaining as I hoped it would be. A perfect little jaunt down memory lane...
and it was a gorgeous night to boot.
I really enjoyed myself.
Mark enjoyed it, too.
Everyone did, as far as I could tell.
The boys in the band had the crowd rockin' and head banging and throwing devil horns all night...
The lead singer did a fantastic job of using a metaled-out throaty scream of "PA-DUC-AH" in every conceivable way...
and when the crowd got too quiet for his liking,
he would mix it up with some college sports by metal-throating,
"Come on UK Wildcat fans...let me hear you scream!"
My very favorite line of the evening, however, was;
"C'mon, put those crazy Kentucky hands in the air and show your Momma how it's done!"
An instant classic.
I'm gonna use that line again sometime.
That one thing is for sure.
Apparently, Paducah has a lot of Skid Row fans. More than I could have ever imagined.
And apparently, they all know the words to every single song....
They aren't afraid to sing, either.
In fact, you know the moment at every rock show when the lead singer does the obligatory turn-the-mic-towards-the-crowd moment for the audience sing along?
Well, I must tell you I actually got cold chills.
Cheese-ola. I know. I know.
But I was truly impressed with how the river front rockers whole heartedly, and quite beautifully sang along to
I Remember You...in unison, even.
Of course, it goes without saying, that the people watching was choice.
And I have decided that there is something borderline high-fashion about having no fashion rules whatsoever. This includes hair. Think John Galliano for a better idea of where I'm going with this.
For example, I saw a smashingly attractive biker chick in her 70's (at least) with a long white ponytail and a menswear black shirt with ripped off sleeves standing and laughing against the flood wall. She was wrinkled and real and having a blast. She was pulling off her ensemble with flying colors.
Moments later, I saw a mullet that actually worked.
Yes, I did just say that.
It worked, in the way of meaning this:
There was this one particular good 'ol boy who wouldn't have had even a smidgen of the personality and charm if someone snuck up behind him and trimmed his party off.
His hair was him.
It was his signature.
It was his magic, so to speak....
I saw one very young man with rather nice tattoos all the way up both arms.
I'm convinced there is no way he was even near 18 years old yet. So, I found myself wondering how he got away with getting so much ink in his obviously minor state.
I concluded that his uncle must own the "Ink-It Up" joint out by the Bar With No Name, across from the Harley shop.
My other conclusion was, maybe he has a talented friend with some mad Sharpie skills.
Either way he occupied my mind for a long while.
One thing I witnessed, that was kind of disturbing to me, was the number of newborns cradled in their parents arms while the music roared. I was wondering what kind of imprinting was being done to their tiny smooth brains.
Their tiny smooth ear drums, for that matter.
I didn't worry about it too long, though.
I had rockin' to do, afterall.
So, feelings regarding Skid Row at the Paducah riverfront are as follows:
Music: great
Crowd interaction: great
Use of word "Paducah" in metal voice: extra great
Weather: great
People watching: great.
Five out of five. Not too bad for a small town Thursday night.
Yes, sir. They rocked it good.
Good, considering it was a free show,
and good, considering the only band member left from the original line up wasn't present due to getting thrown in jail last night.
It was endearing and entertaining as I hoped it would be. A perfect little jaunt down memory lane...
and it was a gorgeous night to boot.
I really enjoyed myself.
Mark enjoyed it, too.
Everyone did, as far as I could tell.
The boys in the band had the crowd rockin' and head banging and throwing devil horns all night...
The lead singer did a fantastic job of using a metaled-out throaty scream of "PA-DUC-AH" in every conceivable way...
and when the crowd got too quiet for his liking,
he would mix it up with some college sports by metal-throating,
"Come on UK Wildcat fans...let me hear you scream!"
My very favorite line of the evening, however, was;
"C'mon, put those crazy Kentucky hands in the air and show your Momma how it's done!"
An instant classic.
I'm gonna use that line again sometime.
That one thing is for sure.
Apparently, Paducah has a lot of Skid Row fans. More than I could have ever imagined.
And apparently, they all know the words to every single song....
They aren't afraid to sing, either.
In fact, you know the moment at every rock show when the lead singer does the obligatory turn-the-mic-towards-the-crowd moment for the audience sing along?
Well, I must tell you I actually got cold chills.
Cheese-ola. I know. I know.
But I was truly impressed with how the river front rockers whole heartedly, and quite beautifully sang along to
I Remember You...in unison, even.
Of course, it goes without saying, that the people watching was choice.
And I have decided that there is something borderline high-fashion about having no fashion rules whatsoever. This includes hair. Think John Galliano for a better idea of where I'm going with this.
For example, I saw a smashingly attractive biker chick in her 70's (at least) with a long white ponytail and a menswear black shirt with ripped off sleeves standing and laughing against the flood wall. She was wrinkled and real and having a blast. She was pulling off her ensemble with flying colors.
Moments later, I saw a mullet that actually worked.
Yes, I did just say that.
It worked, in the way of meaning this:
There was this one particular good 'ol boy who wouldn't have had even a smidgen of the personality and charm if someone snuck up behind him and trimmed his party off.
His hair was him.
It was his signature.
It was his magic, so to speak....
I saw one very young man with rather nice tattoos all the way up both arms.
I'm convinced there is no way he was even near 18 years old yet. So, I found myself wondering how he got away with getting so much ink in his obviously minor state.
I concluded that his uncle must own the "Ink-It Up" joint out by the Bar With No Name, across from the Harley shop.
My other conclusion was, maybe he has a talented friend with some mad Sharpie skills.
Either way he occupied my mind for a long while.
One thing I witnessed, that was kind of disturbing to me, was the number of newborns cradled in their parents arms while the music roared. I was wondering what kind of imprinting was being done to their tiny smooth brains.
Their tiny smooth ear drums, for that matter.
I didn't worry about it too long, though.
I had rockin' to do, afterall.
So, feelings regarding Skid Row at the Paducah riverfront are as follows:
Music: great
Crowd interaction: great
Use of word "Paducah" in metal voice: extra great
Weather: great
People watching: great.
Five out of five. Not too bad for a small town Thursday night.
posted by anessa arehart at 7/28/2005 11:48:00 PM
3 Comments:
I often think, "how cool would it be to be Sebastian Bach?". To be 6'+, have done broadway, somewhat successfully and ROCK. Yeah I said ROCK. Skid Row, what fun!! Just the other day I was thinking about them and starting humming, "Monkey on my back" or what ever it was called. Never the less, I bet parts of KY can rock too.
I'm tellin' ya....it was good, y'all!
I think it would be fun to be Sebastian Bach, too...but I would rather be Keith Richards, if given the choice....or maybe Anthony Kiedis....he seems to have a heck of a good time. That is, if I was a guy rocker. If a was a girl rocker.... hmmmm.... maybe.... gosh...I can't think of any off-hand. I'd rather be a guy. (Marcy I know you would be Polly Jean Harvey!)
Oh yeah just rock. I can just imagine (myself of course) standing high on the stage, Les Paul hanging low, head turned sideways, cig burning, black leather and no shirt. Now that is rock. Marshall stacks behind me and everyone is just waiting until I hammer that thing. That is rock. That is the kinda rock that you leave a concert saying, "that rocked".
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