“It’s better to burn out than fade away.”
Said no aging, concert-going fan ever.
We don’t care about that touch of grey. We don’t care if they’re singing against the wind. And we expect them to be still crazy after all these years.
In our forgiving mind, old rockers are the epitome of what we’ve always wanted to be: Forever young.
We recently saw The Doobie Brothers perform with Steve Winwood and his daughter, Lilly, and let me tell you, they rocked it out of the southwest suburbs.
Winwood, who got his start with Traffic, is now 76 but in my playlist of memories, he will forever be in his 20s and 30s, and me a college senior wearing out his “Arc of a Diver” album.
Same for the Doobies’ “Minute by Minute” LP. Even though some of the band has changed over the years, Tom Johnston, Patrick Simmons and Michael McDonald are still there, belting out favorites and introducing new stuff.
When I learned the combo was coming to my perform a stone’s throw from my backyard, of course, I had to go.
They took the stage on a steamy Sunday night and, just like that, I was 21 again and dancing in the aisles — no liquor needed.
I would have been forgiving if they stumbled or couldn’t hit the high notes or needed extra time between songs. But they didn’t. They were great. Two encores even.
Were they as youthful as they were 40 years ago? Of course not. But neither were we.
And who cares anyway?
For me, music is a more profound timestamp than smells or food or even old photos.
Hearing a favorite “oldie” immediately transports me to another time when I’d easily forego television for my bedroom stereo.
To a time when I sat on my twin bed in that rickety old house a few blocks off campus and blasted Tom Petty’s “Damn the Torpedoes” for my roommates.
Or when those same roommates and I sat on the second-story eave late at night, crooning “Ripplin’ Waters” by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.
Or when Talking Heads’ “Fear of Music” played on a loop at a college newspaper friend’s house party.
Music has always been an integral part of my life, since way back when I treated the neighborhood to the strains of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” blasting from my bright blue ball and chain AM transistor radio.
It’s not just the lyrics and melodies that come rushing back, it’s the feelings — the joy, the fear, the determination, the hopefulness and the uncertainty of being young, with the whole package called life ahead of you.
Music has always been both courage and bravado, a rush and a comfort, a voice in your head and a megaphone to the world. It still sings to my inner self, sometimes urging me to stop everything and dance, sometimes suggesting I chuck it all and take to the road, always reminding me of what really matters in life.
Love.
Music is love. It’s being understood, seen, accepted, embraced.
The syrup, the shattering, the cement, the hardship, the elation. And lately, for those of us of a certain age, the loss.
Now that we’re on the downside of things, fiercely hanging on to what truly matters, music is a priority. So is watching my faves perform live while I still can.
Anyone who dreamed of seeing Aerosmith one last time knows what I’m talking about.
Last year, we doled out some serious change to see Bruce Springsteen at Wrigley Field. The outing pushed us to the limit of our aging comfort zone. We even experienced user issues at the gate and had to enlist a young clerk to find our tickets in my virtual wallet.
The show was worth every semitone of frustration. The Boss rocked for more than three hours. We had trouble keeping up and we were just bobbing in the aisle.
But when we spilled out onto Addison Street, we were decades younger, with sass in our step.
We felt the same way after seeing Steely Dan with Steve Winwood at Northerly Island, Chicago at Ravinia, Tom Petty at Wrigley, Lionel Richie with Earth, Wind and Fire at the United Center and Jimmy Buffett in Tinley Park.
It was crushing to learn the news of Buffett’s death last year. We had tickets to his last Chicago area show at Alpine Valley in 2022. We drove all the way there before learning it was canceled due to a thunderstorm.
We weren’t able to make the makeup date because of a previous engagement. But had we known he’d be gone the following year, we’d have moved heaven and earth for that last glimpse.
Like us, aging rockers have more shows behind them than ahead of them.
I have never regretted attending a single concert, despite often exorbitant costs and Ticketmaster hassles. I love live performance. And I love to become one with the music.
Concerts can be an escape, and a transport back to more youthful times. Or they can be a reality check on your ticking clock.
Musicians are not just entertainers or lyrical heroes, they are our contemporaries, our fellow travelers on this ride.
And, just like us, their stops are numbered.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
