I'm not much for concerts. I enjoyed the music at Rock Fest in Fort Worth the summer of 1997 but I got nervous on the edge of the mosh pit when people started acting crazy to Matchbox Twenty's rendition of Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" and when people started throwing plastic water bottles in the stands I freaked out. That was it for me. Then a month ago I read in a magazine that there was going to be a Metal Masters concert in The Woodlands, a woodsy area just north of Houston. My husband is a huge fan of Motorhead and Judas Priest so I went ahead and bought a couple of tickets. I got us a room at the Holiday Inn Express and arranged for my mom to watch our son. I was hesitantly optimistic on Friday afternoon when we took off for Houston. My nails were painted black, I had the latest issue of Zen Baby to bolster my spirits and my husband had packed massage oils and condoms. This was all wonderful but I have major traffic anxiety and no sense of direction. My husband isn't much better. I had directions printed out from our house to the Holiday Inn Express and from the Holiday Inn Express to the pavilion. While my husband drove he had me read the directions to him. I was so mindfucked from my anxiety of being in the biggest city in Texas that I accidentally read both sets of directions. "Oh, that's where the concert is going to be. The hotel should be close by," my husband said. When I finally figured out my error I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. When we got to the hotel I collapsed on the bed. "Maybe we could scalp the tickets," I suggested. I didn't feel up to braving a heavy metal crowd. I had a nightmare vision of being pelted with plastic water bottles, trampled and sacrificed to Satan in the mosh pit. My husband remained optimistic and pumped up. Motorhead! Judas Priest! And some band called Testament and some band called Heaven and Hell. All in one arena!
The concert was scheduled to begin at 5 p.m. on Saturday. We slept in and then headed for The Woodlands Mall against our better judgment. I was on the rag and had packed a pair of pants that were a size too small (I could normally squeeze my fat ass into the pants but not when bloated from my period) so I was wearing a crappy pair of Wal-Mart jeans that didn't seem to rock hard enough for a heavy metal concert. I didn't find any heavy metal concert worthy jeans in the mall but I had to buy something to make up for the grotesque waste of time and the anxiety that kicked in as soon as we hit the parking lot and saw all the families ambling around like they had all the time in the goddamn world. "It never occurred to me to have a family outing at a goddamn mall. Wheee! Let's load up the kids and go buy shit we don't need and ride the carousel in the food court!" I bitched and my husband tried to tune me out while he found a parking spot. So to make up for this I bought a twelve dollar tube of red lipstick, Sephora crème brulee bubble bath and Warm Vanilla sugar shower gel and lotion. Then we bought a mediocre lunch in the food court and sat near the carousel. "Check out that horse. It's a mermaid. Oh, wow. Look at the dragon. When Jackson gets older I bet he'll want to ride the dragon," I told my husband. My husband saw a guy in a Judas Priest t-shirt walk by. "I should ask him how to get to the free parking lot," Michael said. The guy was soon lost in the food court crowd so we decided to just wing it like the bat shit crazy motherfuckers we are.
We found the free parking lot without too much anxiety. "It's okay to park here, right?" Michael asked a guy on a horse. "Yeah, man," the guy said. As we walked to the arena I felt geriatric and out of place. "This fucking heat is unbelievable," I bitched as I felt my knees creak. I usually hate to watch television but I found myself fantasizing about being back in the air-conditioned hotel room, sprawled out naked in bed watching VH-1. We found our seats and then Michael suggested we get drinks and t-shirts. Michael spent $35 on a Motorhead t-shirt and $30 on a Motorhead cap. Then he bought a bottle of water for me and an energy drink for himself. I was relieved when the vendor poured my water into a plastic cup. "That is not ecologically sound yet this means I won't be pelted with water bottles," I told myself with much glee.
I wasn't expecting much. The only Motorhead song I know is "Ace of Spades," which I make fun of. "Don't forget the joker!" I like to scream in Lemmy's agonized rasp. I'd never heard of Testament. I was vaguely familiar with Heaven and Hell. A spin off of Black Sabbath or some such shit, I thought. I knew the lead singer of Judas Priest was gay and sang a mean rendition of Joan Baez's "Diamonds and Rust," the love song she wrote about Bob Dylan. I also knew that "Rock Star," the cheezoid movie starring that chick from "Friends" and the "Good Vibrations" Calvin Klein model was loosely based on Judas Priest temporarily kicking the lead singer out of the band when he came out of the closet. This concert was my belated birthday gift to my long suffering husband of three years. He definitely deserved a party.
Testament took the stage and mostly sucked. I was not impressed. Then Motorhead came on. Lemmy snarled into the mic, "We are Motorhead and we play rock and roll." Hell, yeah! I liked the guy's no bullshit get straight to the point style. I found myself banging my head when they tore into "Ace of Spades." Don't forget the fuckin' joker! That dude will fuck with your shit every single time! When Motorhead finished their set I told my husband, "That was an ONSLAUGHT." I appreciated Motorhead's work ethic and take no prisoners balls to the walls old school style of rock and roll. Was I inspired to spend $35 on a t-shirt and $100 on a bootleg DVD? No. But the Motorhead men have my undying respect and that is no small thing. Then the roadies set the stage for the next band. They hauled out these ominous looking winged demons. I thought of a book my mom gave me a few months ago, hoping to scare me into going back to church. That book is 23 Minutes in Hell by Bill Wiese. According to Bill, he was dead once for 23 minutes. During those 23 minutes he was given a tour of hell. I can't lie. I believed Bill. I was almost scared into going back to church. Then I read some Anne Sexton poetry and forgot about it.
Then it happened. Heaven and Hell appeared onstage. "I remember that dude from VH-1!" I told Michael when I saw Ronnie James Dio. Right away I recognized Dio's commanding stage presence and charisma. The man is approximately the size of a Keebler Elf but let me state for the record: It's no accident that "Dio" is Italian for God. DIO IS GOD. I'm not one of those who says, "Well, this song/cd kinda sucks. Maybe it'll grow on me." I have to psychotically love a song or cd right away. I don't even know what Dio was singing…I could barely understand a single word…but from the first verse he sang I was converted. When Dio thanked the audience before leaving the stage I jumped to my feet clapping and screaming, "DIO! DIO! DIO!" I knew that if the audience screamed and applauded loudly enough Dio would come back and favor us with an encore. Sure enough, Heaven and Hell came back to blow us away with "Neon Knights." I told my husband I wanted to spend $35 on a Heaven and Hell t-shirt. I wanted to buy every cd Ronnie James Dio ever put out as Black Sabbath or Rainbow or Heaven and Hell or as himself. I wanted to place an ad at Craig's List. Something along the lines of, "I am taking voice lessons in hopes of kicking maybe half as much ass as Ronnie James Dio. I can't play the guitar so I'm looking for a lead guitarist, a bass guitarist and a drummer. Do not respond to this ad if you do not bow down at the altar of Ronnie James Dio." I wondered how what I just saw could translate into poetry readings and decided that it couldn't. But if you ever see me at a poetry reading using a couple of winged demons as props rocking a frizzy fro and a Ronnie James Dio t-shirt, don't laugh or throw rotten tomatoes. I'm just paying homage to my newest favorite deity. |
