Approaching Etihad to finally cash in on our 6 month held
tickets, last night, the crowd suddenly split in two. I chose right over left
which led us directly to our seats, confirming that I am completely psychic and
should be employed on a true crime show (tomorrow).
Act 1, for this long awaited show, was a man whose lyrics
consisted purely of his own name: Kid & Rock. Sharing only the Americana of
our key performer, he was otherwise the savoury, selfless man’s antithesis. We
were bombarded by pics of the Kid with a slathering of the bootilicious and
then, to draw on our mindless emotion for the sake of his finale, a barely
relevant projection of the late Nelson Mandela. He changed hats several times
throughout the set, sporting an ‘American Badass’ cap as he lit up a cigar and
chugged some whiskey, an unconvincing image in the fully lit, half empty
stadium. As the disinterested crowd
still hunted their seats, I can at least give the kid full credit for his
unwavering energy. I almost felt sorry when he threw his arms in the air, right
and then left, which was supposed to be met with screams of, “Kid! [Kid]..
Rock! [Rock],” but smacked straight into silence. Energy or no, however, my
impatience for the main act was successfully amped by the time he was done! The
stadium crew finally came to cleanse his smut from the stage, which was nicely
designed to resemble the hood of a car, true to our main man’s open road theme.
Watching the last of the ticket holders trickle in, I was
cruelly amused by the sight of some larger ladies after Ben had predicted,
“There are gonna be some middle-aged mamas throwing their giant panties onto
the stage, tonight!” Ancient women in their ancient tour tees carefully
cluttered down the stairs, one poor dear spilling her drink at every step
despite holding on to the shoulders of every seated person she passed. Bums
found seats, lights went down and the roar of the crowd signalled the entrance
of.. Bon Jovi! - Singing a slow song I’ve never heard. It was quite the
anti-climax. Next up was You Give Love a Bad Name (which Ben and I love to
repeat back at home as “BAED name!”), however, and all was forgiven. The sea of
middle-aged creakingly rose and a lady before me danced with a typical mumsy
butt-sway and head toss. By track 3, another slowy, the ladies before us looked
around and we all giggled in unspoken agreement, ‘We don’t wanna stand on these
old feet any longer than we have to. Sitting time!’ and back down we went. It
was going to be a very comfortable show!
Bon Jovi was just as lovely as you’d imagine. His big,
frequent smile emanated kindness and his denim jacket, with stars and stripes
at the waist, was much more convincing of a good-boy image than were Kid Rock’s
attempts at bad-boy. Without a trace of narcissism, he clearly loved his fans
and thrived on his crowd’s attention, busting some eccentric moves which Ben
deemed as ‘a road to Jagger-town’ to cheers of approval. Having just come from
our nephew’s third birthday party, where he’d persisted in crushing a green
marshmallow into his mouth and hands because I’d been laughing so hard, I was
reminded of this child-like propensity for silliness upon encouragement. I
could imagine Bon Jovi saying, “and now look at THIS, mum!” as he strutted
about like a chicken. When the band seamlessly detoured into The Rolling
Stones’ Jumping Jack Flash, I sniggered over Ben’s earlier Jagger prediction.
For some time, now, whenever we’d hear Bon Jovi on the
radio, Ben and I would exchange a ridiculously serious look and a nod, and sing
along intently with our best redneck accents. Despite this good-natured marital
fun, I never considered myself a fan, but when I heard of their upcoming tour, I
realised, “Shit, yeah, that’d be rool good, ‘n’ stuff. I know all the werrrds,”
and demanded Ben buy tickets as my birthday ‘surprise.’ I learned, on Saturday
night, just how well so many other Aussies know Bon Jovi’s lyrics, the chorus
of the crowd drowning out the man and his band during every classic tune. I
could see how frustrating it might become to perform all the ‘old stuff,’ for
this reason, and forgave them for excluding one or two of my favourites (even
though they could’ve gone out with a bang by ending on Blaze of Glory. ‘Sall
I’m sayin’). I also learned that I cannot escape the fact of my fandom, after
emitting an involuntary squeal over the intro of Bad Medicine. That was a good
one to old-lady-dance to.
Just as the band had begun right on schedule, in accordance
with their middle aged crowd’s sensibilities, they didn’t have us waiting long
for an encore following their obligatory false finish. Which unheard classic
would they reward us with for our two minute wait?! Softly, Jon Bon attempted
to treat us with a lovely, acoustic opening for Livin’ On a Prayer.. and was
again overridden by his fans, who altered the tempo to its traditional speed.
The good-natured guy appeased his offbeat followers and joined us in an old
school, rock style version.
Barring the mind-numbing opening act, the show was just as
fun as expected (LOTS of). It was fitting that I was horribly sore from the
gym, yesterday, and hobbled my way out of the stadium with all the other old
girls. This is the only show I’ve been to where the women’s bathroom has
actually run out of toilet paper; based on the sheer volume of female fans, I
am now less embarrassed to count myself among ‘em. I only wish I’d brought
along my pair of giant undies to throw in approval.
Thanks for my ‘surprise,’ Benny.
A sea of light, at Bon Jovi's request.
Ben, feigning interest in Kid Rock.
Bourbon cheers.
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