The problem with marrying someone with a diverse taste in music is that you must take the good with the bad. On the night of our first anniversary, instead of listening to the new release by Flogging Molly, I found myself listening to 21 by Adele during our romantic dinner at home. While my wife has been known to sing along to Rancid with me, she will also sing along to Ingrid Michelson (usually alone). Together, we have seen The Offspring, Dropkick Murphys, Cake, The Flobots (twice), and even a taste of the local punk rock scene with First Offense, as well as many other, lesser known, bands. For all the concerts I’ve taken my wife to, simply because I wanted someone to go with, I suppose I owe her a concert or two of her own choosing. This is how I found myself at a New Kids On The Block and Backstreet Boys concert.
She had never been to a concert until she met me, so she never got a chance to see her teeny-bopper idols, the Backstreet Boys, live, in the height of their popularity. When tickets went on sale last winter, we were preparing for the birth of our daughter. We both knew our priorities would drastically change after she was born, limiting the number of concerts we attend. So we bought tickets for this show well in advance while we had the extra money. So far this year, since the birth of our daughter, I have missed concerts by Dropkick Murphys, Rise Against, Bad Religion, Local H, Flogging Molly, and I will most likely miss Tom Morello opening up for Incubus. Never the less, here I am, seeing the Backstreet Boys. (Don’t feel too bad for me, I’m going to Lollapalooza as a birthday present.)
Clearly, I knew most of the crowd would be female, but I was not prepared for the sheer volume of 25-40 year old women trying to relive the glory days of their youth. The safe money says most of the clothing worn this evening was pulled from the back of the closet, dusted off, and worn for the first time in 10-20 years. But this night wasn’t about looking trendy or fashionable. This was about swooning over the boys (men?) on stage. To these women, this night was about casting aside their adult lives, going back in time, and indulging in their teenage selves for just a few hours.
The tour was called NKOTBSB. The bands took turns singing songs. Occasionally they would share the stage at the same time, but for the most part each band would sing 2 or 3 songs in a row then go backstage, letting the other band preform. The transitions were well done, giving both bands numerous epic entrances. Just because something is executed well doesn’t mean it was good.
From the eyes of this punk, the concert sucked. The light show was impressive, never reusing the same effects, always changing it up. And the indoor fireworks were cool. Indoor fireworks are always cool. But the music, the eye candy for the ladies, and the 10-minute break during the show where each band member personally introduced and complimented a member of the opposite band… it was all pretty awful. Every crotch grab, every torn shirt, every pelvic thrust; I just shook my head while every woman in attendance (my wife included) shrieked for more. The crown jewel of these moments came when a member of one of the bands (I honestly have no idea which one) unloaded a barrage of 10 pelvic thrusts in a row. In unison with his 10th thrust, fireworks erupted. It was somehow awesome, in its own cheesy, over the top, kind of way. I want my pelvic thrusts to trigger fireworks.
As New Kids prepared for their encore; the intro to a song that I instantly knew started. That drum beat. That mandolin. It was “Shipping Up To Boston” by Dropkick Murphys (F.Y.I., New Kids On The Block are from Boston. I know, “who cares,” right? But this part of the concert makes more sense knowing this). At first I was worried they would attempt to do their own version of the song, ruining something I loved in the process. Fortunately the intro was only played to build momentum for the encore. When the lights came on, there was the band, dressed in Boston Celtics jerseys. In the Q, they had the audacity to wear Celtics jerseys!? As I took a deep breath to begin booing, all the ladies in the house beat me to it. Only they didn’t boo. They welcomed their idols to the stage despite the green jerseys. The Backstreet Boys joined them on stage for the finale. They were decked out in their own Orland Magic jerseys. I was disgusted, and the women continued to swoon.
The show ended and I turned to my smiling wife. Seeing them was everything she hoped it would be. She had a great time: mission accomplished. Even though I recognized way too many songs for me to feel good about myself, I felt like one song was missing. So, I asked my wife, “Why didn’t they sing “Bye, Bye, Bye”? Wasn’t that one of their hits?” Apparently that was ‘N Sync, not the Backstreet Boys. I didn’t know, and I’m glad I didn’t know.
