Fleetwood Mac was in Sac a few months ago! Chuck and I could not and would not pass on seeing them. So we went. And we had a wonderful evening. I mean, who wouldn’t love communing with their inner-1976-ish self while watching Stevie and Mick do their thing?
So we met up with our favorite concert-going friends, Jim and Teresa. First we dined al fresco at Jack’s Urban Eats; and then we headed to Arco Arena – I mean, Power Balance Pavilion – I mean, Sleep Train Arena — for the 7:30 start.
The venue was perfect. Our seats could not have been better. The anticipatory excitement was contagious. The joie de vivre was palpable. Chuck’s beer was icy cold. My wine was blissfully refreshing. This, my friends, was going to be an awesome concert!!
But…who were these people?
Because as I was checking out the crowd, I was accosted by the sight of an overabundance of Mom Jeans and Easy Spirit Comfort shoes. At every turn I saw upper-arms-gone-flaccid and too-large-to-be-healthy paunches. I was overlooking a veritable sea of salt-and-pepper and shininess, i.e., graying hair and balding heads.
As I sat there assessing who would for the next three hours be my new BFF’s, I wondered what the cumulative cost of HRT, Fibercon and Cialis was amongst all of us gathered together.
A heavy silence descended upon the four of us. I leaned in and quietly said, “Pssssssst. You guys, doesn’t everybody look old?”
Jim replied, “Yeah, they do. And I bet they’re saying the same thing about us.”
Pregnant pause. Then nervous laughter ensued amongst our little foursome. Because he was right. He was absolutely right. We were one of them. We were all in this together. That cold harsh reality warranted two more quick gulps – I mean, sips – of wine.
Finally, the lights dimmed. Thousands upon thousands of liver-spotted hands clapped in unison. And out came, first, Mick Fleetwood, followed by the venerable, iconic Stevie Nicks. And thus began about 160 minutes of introspection, retrospection, cold chills, misty eyes and sheer entertainment.
Okay. So they sounded a titch raspier, and they moved a tad more slowly, but they still had that same innate ability to captivate and mesmerize.
They melodically beseeched us to go our own way. They sang to us about Rhiannon and Landslides, and the fact that children get older, times get tough, and that we might just be Second Hand News. And they harmoniously told us: Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.
But heck, I couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday. Because after listening to about two of their songs, I was back to circa 1976…before wrinkled bell-bottoms became wrinkled faces; before Ding Dongs and HoHo’s evolved into Froyo and Skinny Cows; back to the days when an Apple was, well, an apple; when hashbrowns were a daily staple and hashtags were not yet born. You know, before of 401K’s, mortgages and college tuitions were rudely inserted into our everyday life…
Sadly, though, all good things must come to an end. After two encore performances, Fleetwood Mac bid us their gracious adieu. The lights, cruelly, came back on, ever-too-brightly. Through no fault of our own, we were all catapulted to the here-and-now, which isn’t a bad thing, at all. I’m not complaining, at all. I’m just saying: Boy, is it ever cool and therapeutic to take a psycho-stroll through your 20’s!
Chuck and I have seen quite a few bands — Chicago, The Doobie Brothers, The Eagles, Three Dog Night and Lynrd Skynrd, to name a few. Fleetwood Mac, we decided, ranks among the best. And if, say, Billy Joel or Bob Seger or the Rolling Stones ever come to Sleep Train (I propose we rename it The Johnson|Ranadive Center), count us in. We’re there!