Rejuvenation

Last weekend I cashed in my Mother’s Day gift certificates, and went for a four hour spa treatment that included a facial, 60-minute massage, and a stint in a portable steam room. It was a place on the Eastside, which was very nice. I left feeling relaxed and refreshed, but not rejuvenated. This past weekend, we joined my husband’s family for a three day cruise to celebrate his stepfather’s 70th birthday. On the Royal Caribbean ship we enjoyed the pool, the casino, a small, but comfortable cabin, and the feeling of being carefree. I left feeling happy, but not rejuvenated.

Rejuvenation for me came last night when I ditched my suburb for a smoky club near Safeco Field and gathered with a bunch of other fans for, what has promised to be, the last Danzig tour. Since he doesn’t have kids to put through college or rehab, I believe he will actually be retiring, so I wasn’t about to miss this show. The added treat was that he reunited with his former Misfits guitarist, Doyle, to do a set of Misfits songs. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, Glenn Danzig formed the horror punk band, Misfits, back in the early ‘70s, around the year I was born. They broke up when I was in elementary school, and he went on to do a hardcore band called Samhain, then a band which he named after himself, simply called Danzig. Most of the people in the club, including yours truly, have only heard the Misfits via recording, so the fact that we were going to hear actual live Misfits songs performed by the original guy who wrote and sang them was mind-blowing.

The only catch was that I was skipping a second night of Rosh Hashanah services and the second night Seder to be at this show. Oh well, I guess I lose my bagel-eating privileges for the next three months. I also have to endure the endless teasing from my husband, who despite defining himself as “culturally Jewish,” is happy to have something to throw in my face. Take notes, girls, this is what you have to look forward to after you say, “I do.”

I knew it was going to be a good evening when I managed to find a free parking space less than a block away from the club. I walked into a large room with an exposed beam ceiling and brick façade walls draped with decorative red, velvet curtains. After retrieving a drink from the bar, I searched for a place where I would be able to avoid the over-active, young males who would inevitably form a mosh pit, and where I could get a decent view of the stage. I’ve always been in favor of a 5’2” and under section at concerts, because some tall bastard always ends up blocking my view. Fortunately, this didn’t happen to me last night, maybe because I looked like most of these kids’ high school teacher.

All night I was asked two questions by random strangers: ‘Are you with the band?’ and ‘What time is it?’ I was obviously dressed more conservative, though stylish, than the rest of the crowd, and maybe they figured with age comes a reliable watch. In a room that was stifling with cigarette smoke and sweat filled with mostly young people dressed in Misfits t-shirts and sporting devil locks, I did find a surprising amount of politeness. I was twice offered cigarettes, once offered a bottle of water, and some other punked out young man brandished a handful of colorful pills inviting me to sample at will. I politely declined all offerings, but appreciated being included.

The show began a little rocky, as Glenn’s vocal mic kept fritzing out. After unleashing a tirade of swear words at the sound guy, it got fixed and the show went on. The Misfits set was fantastic, and the mixture of Danzig songs was a perfect send off. I stood against the wall near a devil locked guy who clocked in at a minimum of 400 lbs. wearing bad eyeliner and a 3 XL Misfits shirt. He was friendly and kept trying to make small talk. As did the young girls on the other side of me who were excited about the “after show” wristbands they had been given by one of the roadies. Having worked in concerts for many years, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that in most cases, the so-called “after show” parties were less for the guys on stage and more for the road crew.

After one last Diet Coke in the bar, I left the club feeling slightly bewildered. How was it possible that I could live in Suburbia, be a conservative Jew, a devoted wife and mother, yet the only thing that makes me feel rejuvenated is a hardcore music show in a seedy, downtown club. I was once told by a wise and fabulous woman, who also happens to own the company that produced the Danzig show that you have to “live your truth.” I don’t feel like some hypocrite who dwells in the seemingly perfect world of Suburbia then rocks out to horror punk downtown, because it’s all me. I am the concertgoer as well as the Suburb mom. I don’t necessarily understand it, but I wouldn’t give up either thing. Much like the body of Glenn Danzig’s work, my life has many aspects, but at least I can go to sleep at night knowing that, pretenses aside, it’s all me.