Where do I begin?
First, readers will know I'm not the world's greatest fan of R&B - at least not the kind churned out by the vocalists who litter the charts, and my wife's playlists. They can keep their mostly unmemorable and often manufactured, auto-tuned and repetitive oohs and gasps.
Second - or third if you're counting - I've never liked their proponents. From 70s Motown, through standing around dance floors waiting through an interminable procession of Philly tunes in the vain hope - often unrealized - that something truly danceable from the Clash got played. By which time of course everyone else had sat down for a breather and yours truly was left to Rock The Casbah all on his own.
So, there we were last weekend in sunny Vegas, with two second row seats for a show by a crew I couldn't pick out of a police line up and with a catalog of songs I knew not a note to whistle.
That would all have the makings of a disaster but for Mrs P's excitement and her determination to have a blast. I therefore basked in the glory of that blast, standing up whenever our artistes said "everybody stand up" or clapping my hands whenever they commanded.
Sure enough, I barely recognized one chorus - aside from the medley of Motown hits they covered. The audience was deeply into the show, which must have made me stand out like a vegan at a pork roast.
I couldn't help but think of all the shows I'd been to where I would have killed to be at the front.
All in all though, I was very, very happy that my darling wife had such a good time in my company, even if I do owe the Boyz for most of that.
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