So I stayed up past my bedtime again, knowing full well that it would take at least two days to recover from such wild hedonism. And it did. It's actually been three days, and I'm not even sure I've completely recovered.
I went to the Wild Rover on Friday night with my friend Jan to watch this awesome band perform: Dan Daniels and the Southern Gents. I may be a tad prejudiced in my assessment. I happen to be the mother of Dan Daniels.
The Rover is a restaurant by day, bar by night. We got there around 9, when things were still in restaurant mode. In keeping with the night's theme of "So what if I feel like crap tomorrow," I ordered a little delicacy known as Irish nachos. That would be homemade potato chips languishing under a thick blanket of melted cheddar, garnished all over with tomato and green onion, all accompanied by a side of sour cream for dipping.
When I ordered the waiter asked me what kind of meat I wanted on my nachos. "None," I replied, feeling marginally virtuous. Those cheese slathered, deep fried taters may be glistening with grease and sparkling with salt, but by God they're meat free!
At 10 o'clock the lights were dimmed and the band took to the stage, which holds a banquet table when the Rover is in restaurant mode. Jan and I moved up front, the better to cheer the lads on and watch a roomful of adults - legally, anyway - get progressively, uh, happier.
I've seen Dan perform enough times now to not well up at the sight of him onstage, handsome, confident, joking with the audience and his bandmates. I've not, however, gotten over my amazement at his musical prowess, and that of the rest of the band. They play an eclectic mix of blues, '50s and '60s rock and their own compositions, all with lots of young-guy joy and energy.
But it's Dan who commands most of my attention, of course. I love watching him get what I call music face, that look of painful ecstasy that performers get when they're expressing the essence of their hearts and souls through their voice or instrument. I know when a song isn't going right when I see him scowl and bare his teeth in disgust. When he rises up on his toes, following the notes, or when he gives a lighthearted little kick a la Bo Diddley, I want to hold up a sign that reads, "That's my boy!"
Another band mom, Mary, mother of Matt, tapped my wrist on her way to the dance floor (location of a table for four during restaurant hours). "How often do we get a chance to dance to our own kids' music?" she called.
Good point. Before long Jan and I, along with Karleen, Dan's girlfriend, were out on the floor, too.
One gent, a stocky, thoroughly inebriated chap, stood in front of the stage throughout most of a set, expressing his appreciation for the music by shouting "Fuck you!" at random moments.
"Hey, hey, language!" Daniel chided him. "My mom's here!"
The evening was a blast from nachos to encore, a powerful rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "Machine Gun."
My favorite moment occurred at the band's first break. I walked up to Dan and he smiled down at me.
"I see you got front row seats," he said.
"Are you embarrassed?" I asked, half teasing, half wondering if I was overdoing my mother of the rock god routine.
"No, I'm really glad you're here," he said, with enough warm sincerity to melt cheddar cheese over potatoes.
"So can I hug you in public?" I asked, pushing the embarrassing-mother envelope a little further.
To my surprise, Dan answered, "Of course you can. You're my mom!"
I think, of all the unexpected events and surprising scenes that can occur in a bar on any given Friday night, a loving hug between a mom and her son has got to be one of the rarest. And without question, one of the best.
We left at 1:30 a.m. When I got home my left ear was ringing and my right ear was buzzing. My back and neck ached from sitting on a hard wooden stool. I tried not to think about the fact that I had to get up in five hours to get ready to attend a recovery-oriented activity.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll is the typical nightlife trifecta. The young folks can have it. I'll take Irish nachos and motherhood with my rock 'n' roll.
And maybe a little less amplifier.
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