This week was the week of concert epic-ness. For those of you paying attention, the Universe loved me enough to bless me with consecutive Neil Young-then-Bob Dylan concerts.
On Wednesday, Nicola, Michele, Shannon and I went to go see Neil Young. Our seats were balcony, our view was as such:
In case you forgot, my friends and I had third row tickets. That meant we were pretty damn close.
Close enough to see ever time he smiled (about five times!! Be still my heart..) or nodded a cue to the band. Frankly, a lot of the songs he played were unrecognizable he changed the melody so much. This might be why the local paper gave him a poor review. However, it's not a Pussycat Dolls concert...you don't go there to be entertained by an "artist" trying ridiculously hard to sell you something you didn't know you needed. You go to bask in his glorious presesnce, to gaze upon his unearthly being with your very eyes, to swoon over his clumsily graceful stomping pseudo-dance.
I had seen Bob Dylan before, but I hadn't seen him play guitar, so I was elated when he played guitar (instead of keys, which he played for the rest of the show) on "Just Like a Woman".
In forty years, that will be me, drunkenly dancing offbeat while a grizzly old Alex Turner mumbles "I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor" from onstage.
I can't wait.