OAR. Red Rocks.

We haven’t been to as many concerts this summer as we have the last couple years during the warmer weather months, due in part to our move as well as travel plans we were unsure of. In the span of three weeks, however, we’ve seen some really fantastic shows.

The first in our lineup this month was OAR. We saw them for the first time at Red Rocks two years ago. We’d seen their recorded concert on AXStv and when a groupon came up for their show and a CD, I asked Frank if he wanted to go. When we decided to, the only song either one of us knew was Shattered. By the night of the concert we knew several they played.

I’ll never forget the first time we saw them, since that was the night Marc Roberge opened the show standing right next to me. It’s a great memory. 

Last summer we saw them twice, and did meet and greet both times. They played at Red Rocks early in the summer, and then again as the last concert of the season. This year we agreed to get tickets, but thought we’d bypass the MandG. As the concert date got closer, and I got an email reminder from the band, I went ahead and added it. With most MandGs, you don’t get tickets. You buy those separately, so since it was just an add-on, I bit the bullet. I surprised Frank a couple days before the show and told him.

I posted something on Facebook about going to see them, and Dan, our first sponsor son from USAFA (who now lives in Denver), said he was going too. We agreed to meet up, and saved seats in the middle of the third or fourth row for the four of them. 

While we were in line at the Upper South Lot (always try to park there if you have general admission tickets), there were people in line behind us who had flown in from New York for the show and had never been to Red Rocks before. They were full of questions about how it all worked, and were clearly anxious about getting good seats, the MandG, etc. 

Frank and I told them a bit about how it worked, mainly to go get their seat BEFORE the meet and greet, or they'd get crappy seats. I also told them that people around them would save their seats when they went to the MandG. One guy was skeptical. I told him just to sit next to us and the guys we were planning to sit with would save his seat too. It was then he told me he had an extra MandG if any of our group wanted it. 

I told him that one guy was a HUGE fan and would probably be thrilled for the opportunity. When NY guy told me he wanted money for it, I brushed it off. Much anxiety ensued on his part between the time we were let in to get our seats and when the MandG was scheduled to take place. But Frank and I just kept reassuring him it would all be fine. It was, and in appreciation for our help, he invited our friend Aaron to join him. 

Aaron has seen OAR more times than Frank and I have. That he got to go back and meet them filled me with joy, especially when he told that ten days after they concert he’d be heading to Afghanistan. Dan is out of the Air Force now, but Aaron is still in. Him having this memory to carry in his pocket was such a nice surprise.

Frank and I got in line, Aaron and NY guy were behind us. As we made our way down the ramp, a few of the OAR guys could see us and started to smile, wave and say hello. And then remembered they were in a photo with other fans. It was cute and sweet. 

As we made our way through the line, most of them seemed to recognize us. Not necessarily me, but Frank, and said how much he looked like a rocker now. Marc was at the end of the line and hugged me, and I told him Frank was considering Ohio State as a possible college choice. Most of OAR (if not all), graduated from Ohio State. They were encouraging, and added that he should probably study (a lot), if he wanted to go there. They also told him it would be a good experience, and that he’d have a great time. (And then added again that he should study.)

Aaron was beside himself excited for the remainder of the show. When he met them, one of the guys in the band asked him if he was a musician, and told him he had a vibe. It isn’t a night I think Aaron will ever forget. 

On the way home I told Frank that I thought we should get tickets for OAR every year, until such time as he couldn’t make it back for their Red Rocks show due to college, life, career obligations. It’s our thing, we both agreed.

As far as the show went, I’m sure both Frank and I wondered if it would be the same as the other three shows we’d gone to. It wasn’t. The first surprise of the night was Marc’s introduction of Stephen Kellogg. I’m a huge fan. I know he writes with OAR a lot, but seeing him come out on stage and play a few songs with them was unexpected, and AWESOME.

Near what I thought might be the end of the concert I looked up and saw a guy standing to the left of the stage. He looked familiar. When someone brought him a guitar and he turned around holding it, I was sure. "That’s Richie Sambora," I said to my concert mates. I’m still not sure if any of them knew who he was. 

A few seconds later, Marc welcomed him to the stage. He played several songs with the band, who never left for the typical off-stage, on-stage, off-stage encore game. They just stayed on stage and told us they were going to keep playing until they were forced to stop. Richie is one of those WAY bigger than life, kinda guys, who is also showing his age. Seeing him play guitar though . . . it was amazing. I told Frank it was unlikely he’d ever have an opportunity to see him again, and I was glad we had. 

There are times I wish I could write the guys in OAR a letter, or share a post with them, and tell them the influence they’ve had on my son. We see a lot of concerts, a lot of bands, but the guys from OAR are different. Their genuine appreciation for their fans is something they never hesitate to share. Each time we’ve met them, they’ve thanked us. All of them. Not just one or two. All of them. 

The other thing about them is their professionalism. I think I was able to convince Frank to consider a business degree because of this band. They run their band like a business. They do it right. I have thirty years experience in marketing, yet I don’t think there’s much I could come up with that they aren’t already doing. 

I asked Frank once if going to all the concerts we have had any influence on him becoming a musician. He looked at me with an odd expression, and followed with something akin to "duh, of course it has." OAR has been a big part of that circle of influence and someday I hope I get to tell them so. Maybe next year.

Mark Knopfler. Red Rocks.

Eric Clapton was quoted in a Rolling Stone article as having answered when asked if there were any musicians he admired, “Well, Mark Knopfler, I think, is totally unique. He’s a great craftsman, which brings it back to that. I mean, with Dire Straits, if you listen to any of their albums the first time, it sort of goes by you a bit, then gradually it just gets better and better, and it stands the test of time. They’re fantastic craftsmen.” 

I’ve seen Mark Knopfler live three times. I never had the opportunity to see Dire Straits before they broke up. The third time was a week ago, at Red Rocks.

I can pretty much recognize Mark Knopfler on guitar whenever I hear it. His sound is unique, to use Clapton’s word. I consider him to be among the best guitarists in the world. Whenever a song of his would come up on the playlist, I’d turn it up and tell Frank to listen. “Listen to this part,” I’d say. “It’s magic.” It wouldn’t really matter which song it was, they all have their share of magic.

Since the two other times I saw Mark Knopfler live were with Doug, and since I know Doug admires him at least as much as I do, perhaps more, I suggested to Frank that we get tickets and take his dad as a birthday gift. Frank was all in.

The weekend before the concert, Doug and I went to Vail for Oktoberfest and to celebrate his birthday. We listened to Mark Knopfler/Dire Straits playlists the whole way there and the whole way back. Every so often we’d reminisce about the first time we heard the song  playing, and how perfect it was for the drive and the scenery.

We got front row seats to the show at Red Rocks, because I wanted to be able to watch him play, and I wanted Frank to also. They weren’t the greatest seats, sort of further off to the side than I would’ve liked, but once he came on stage, we could see him fine. 

He’s darker in personality than I remember, but then again, I hadn’t ever seen him that close. You hear what someone is saying better I think when you can see the expression on their face. His comments were more mutters, but at least a couple times, he did say something about how it would be like him to look at the situation from a dark side. 

Watching then, I could see it. He smiled infrequently. Instead, he was very serious in his role as band leader. He orchestrated the others, and once I saw him turn his back to the audience and hit his forehead with his fist. When it came together was when his face would light up. 

It was a subdued crowd. Frank and I are used to standing the two or three hours the band plays. Not so with Mark Knopfler. There was little standing, which once we got used to it, didn’t matter. 

He’s a phenomenal guitar player, and fantastic lyricist. Both I think Frank recognized. For Doug and I it was a short trip down memory lane. Doug posted photos of the concert along with a lyric quote a few days after the show. Our attending concerts at Red Rocks will slowly become fewer and further between, particularly when Frank goes off to college. But seeing a favorite at Red Rocks, should be something everyone does at least once. The magic of the venue matched the magic of the musician perfectly.

The Hair

The “hair” has been a subject of contention in our house since Doug and I moved in together. Or from the first time I was rummaging through the contents of the cedar chest my grandfather refinished and my grandmother filled with treasures for my sixteenth birthday. One of those so-called treasures was the hair.

The story goes something like this: my great-grandmother (my grandmother’s mother), had a sister named Blanche who died at the age of seventeen. For some reason my grandmother believed she died of leukemia, but I don’t think there was anything to substantiate her belief.

Blanche had beautiful hair. Its perfectly formed ringlets were a rich auburn color. How do I know this? Because I have those ringlets. I’ve had them since my sixteenth birthday. It never seemed odd to me, having Blanche’s hair, until I showed it to Doug, who pointed out the whole creepiness of it. And yes, he’s right, it’s more than a little creepy. 

When we were in East Aurora a month ago, we visited Maple Rest Cemetery where Blanche and the rest of my grandmother’s family are buried. I pointed to her gravestone and said, “this is who the hair belonged to.” Frank and Doug nodded their heads in somber acceptance knowing that as long as I’m alive, I will not consider discarding the hair. I can’t. I feel a sense of responsibility given that I’ve been the keeper of it so many years. 

Later that afternoon, we got together with one of my cousins on my grandmother’s side of the family. In the course of conversation about the color of her daughter’s hair, Blanche’s hair came up. I’m not sure how the rest of the conversation went, but I lamented my role as keeper, and how I could not allow myself to get rid of it. I went on to say that I had given Doug and the boys permission to do whatever they wanted with it once I was gone.

“I’ll keep the hair,” offered my cousin. I may have imagined the degree to which Doug and Frank’s eyes lit up. I told her I’d happily relinquish the hair to her and promised to send it.

Yesterday or the day before she sent me her address and reminded me about my promise. I opened the cedar chest that afternoon and the hair wasn’t where I expected it to be. One by one I searched the boxes inside the chest looking for it. When only one box remained, I was in a near-panic. Thoughts began swirling in my head about how I was giving it up, and perhaps it was intentionally being hidden from me. I didn’t really believe this, it was more that I thought it would make a GREAT story, if I could somehow expand on the mysticism of it. 

Alas the hair was in the final box. There were eight ringlets attached to a yellow ribbon. And the hair was as pretty as I remembered. I took a photo of it. Again, creepy, but the idea that I will never see it again, made me a little emotional. Even as I write this, I am tearing up, and I have no idea why. 

The hair is gone. It’s in an envelope on its way to my cousin, who has daughters she can pass it down to. She may decide not to keep it, but I have let go of worrying about the hair any longer. Whatever she chooses to do with it, is entirely up to her. For me, the hair is gone.

Gone Too Long . . . Again

The last two months, keeping in line with all the other months that are part of my existence-history, have been a whirlwind of activity. Writing has been on the back burner for the blog, but worse, for my books. 

Part of my literary inactivity has been due to an edit, which is number one on my priority list, and also number one on my list of things that are a pain in the a$s. I finally figured out how to do the edit in a cleaner, simpler way, which means it is now something I want to do rather than dread. I’m on page 117, so it appears I’m on a roll. 

Each day that I walk over to the mailbox, or drive somewhere and my mind wanders, I think of all the things I plan to post on my blog. Invariably, because it is the reason for the blog, it is something I don’t want to forget. There’s been a lot of that lately, so many that there are some I’ve already forgotten. Perhaps by writing a few, my memory will be refreshed so I can write the rest.