When I texted my best gal pal, “Have to take subway to concert, pray for me,” she thought I was taking sandwiches to the Rolling Stones Fifty & Counting show. Not so much.
What has two thumbs and had never been on a subway until this past weekend? This country bumpkin. That whole thumb thing works better in person, but you get the point. I was nervous as I don’t like people all up in my grill, yo. But it worked out and the concert? Well, the concert was quite possibly the best EVER. My husband is so proud of me right now.
Let me rewind and start at the beginning.
If I would have agreed, our first born would have been named Mick Jagger. You see, my husband has a very unhealthy obsession with the Stones. I like the band. Great music. The English teacher dork in me loves the lyrics to “Sympathy for the Devil,” and “Gimme Shelter” gives me chills. That said, I would choose Justin Timberlake over a Stones concert 9 times out of 10.
So the hubs and I traveled the expanse of our great state and found ourselves only a little bit lost in Philadelphia. When we asked the concierge if we should take a taxi or drive to the Wells Fargo Center, he kinda looked at us like we were pathetic tourists. Spot on, good sir.
“How about the subway?”
I immediately crapped my pants.
When I read about all of the weirdos in New York City that always find their way next to my blogging buddy Jill whilst in close quarters on the train (subway? same thing?), I panic. And it’s not even me getting rubbed up on by random strangers. So when the news was dropped that my honky tonk self would have to man up and board the train, my blood pressure spiked and I chugged my beer in hopes of obtaining a necessary buzz. My husband assured me that I was completely insane, and millions of people ride the subway every day and live to tell the tale. I think he would have said the same thing if we had to walk across an alligator pit with fresh fish dangling from ropes around our necks to get to Mick, but whatever.
Once at the concert, I knew we were in for a treat. Everyone around us could have made/birthed us from their loins, which would have been totally cool had they not started stripping. One Grandma showed everyone her ta-ta’s and then began taking requests:
“Wanna see’em now?!!!! In a minute? You there in the back–you wanna peek?!”
Woman, put your shirt on and your teeth in. Damn.
The lights dimmed, the music swelled, and I won’t lie: I got goosebumps. The Stones are meant to be experienced live, not on a CD. We’re super lucky, too–this is the second time we’ve seen them in concert and, dare I say, this show was even better than the first. I understood less of what Keith Richards said and Charlie Watts still looked confused (I’m on a stage right now, aren’t I?) this time around, but the music. Oh, the music. If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it, but I think I *kinda* get why the ladies love Mick. I mean, he’s gross and I want to feed him, but he exudes talent and confidence. And his moves! Like none other! (Except JT). I mean, I wouldn’t throw my panties at him (Mick, Justin would totally get my granny panties), but dude works it. They all work it.
A live choir intro to “Can’t Always Get What You Want?” Check!
Special guest appearance? Check! (even if it was Aaron Neville…)
The incomparable Lisa Fischer on back-up? Check!
Mick Taylor on stage with the Stones again? Check!
Coming in a close third to the incredible music was the free contact high courtesy of the balding gentlemen in front of us. They were generous and offered to share, but we politely declined and then enjoyed the spectacle that was one of them falling forward, over four rows of seats, never to be seen again. Sure we’re going to hell, but at least we can say we didn’t inhale.
The second best part of our trip to Philly? Like I really have to tell you what traveling sans kids does for a couple. Silly.