Lady Gaga was Stephanie someone-or-other, and she grew up in New York City at the same time as my fabulous daughter, Sarah. She went to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, the very name of which tells you that they didn’t celebrate her desire to wear only a few token pieces of clothing on any given day and otherwise go around pretty much naked. But her parents always told her she was fab just the way she was. And good for them, because she is. I can’t help wondering: if I had told Sarah it was ok to go to school in her underpants, would she have forgone law school in order to get onstage at Madison Square Garden and sing about following your dreams? Sorry Sarah, if I inhibited your sense of self. You do the best you can, and when you know better, you do better (thank you Maya Angelou).

My first inkling of Ga Ga’s brilliance and talent came via 60 Minutes. She was smart, articulate, and sincere (although who really knows; one of my colleagues once worked with Jeffrey Dahmer and he thought he was a nice guy). Most of all, her music was amazing. I didn’t realize she could sing. Her music is her own, and her lyrics actually speak to me.

My mama told me when I was young

We are all born superstars

She rolled my hair and put my lipstick on
In the glass of her boudoir

There’s nothin’ wrong with lovin’ who you are
She said, ’cause He made you perfect, babe
So hold your head up, girl and you’ll go far
Listen to me when I say

I’m beautiful in my way
‘Cause God makes no mistakes
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way

Don’t hide yourself in regret
Just love yourself and you’re set
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way, born this way.

She puts it to fabulous music, and while her performance attire is outrageous, I now find myself looking forward to seeing what she is going to wear next. It is a total package.

I see kids crying during her performances, not because they are worshiping her, but because she is telling them they are ok the way they are in that moment. I wish that Paul Simon had told me I was ok the way I was instead of telling me that he would be my Bridge Over Troubled Water, or to go look for America. I don’t really mean that, Simon was my Bridge Over Troubled Water when I cried my seventeen-year-old self to sleep to that song over and over again over Bob Reid, whom I had rejected for some silly reason that made no sense to me immediately after I did it. But I never felt like he knew me, or was supposed to know me personally.

I don’t know if Lady Ga Ga is an anomoly, or if today’s social media platforms allow performers (she says she is a performance artist) to speak more personally to their fans. But whatever it is, take a look at her, peers of mine. It is well worth the trip.

But, here is the thing. Planning an entire season without much worry for the weather, then add the amazing accoustics (at least I thought they were), the lit cross on the hill to the right (I’m not a holy roller, but I looked at it more than once as a song was being performed that brought back days gone by and felt it deep inside), and the civilized way people behave there made me immediately go online when I got home (at one in the morning!) and see what other concerts I can’t do without.

There are some flaws however.

Let’s talk about what they call stack parking. I have amazing parking karma. I always believe I will get a space, and I always do. If I park illegally, I never get a ticket because I’m sure I won’t. And stack parking (which means there is no way out until the person in front of you, and the one in front of them etc. is in the car and leaving) means it can take an hour and a half to get out. But we were number three in our row and I told my compatriots we would not be waiting and we didn’t. But I don’t want to push my luck and next time have to figure out the VIP parking scenario.

The trek is uphill. Big time, and when you are walking down you feel if you lean too far forward you could go rolling down the concrete hill (I swear it’s a straight down angle) and start picking up people becoming a large ball of rolling people that would slam into the tent at the bottom sellng flashing hair bands in assorted colors. I think this fear came from a time in college when I was skiing with friends. We laughed and laughed about this poor woman who was strapped into a sled after she fell and broke her leg. The sled got away from the rescue peeps and she went careening straight down the moutain, her head up, terrified racing faster and faster down the hill. She hit the lodge when she got to the botton and broke her collar bone and an arm. The worst part about it was that her leg wasn’t broken in the first place, it was only bruised. I made up the part about her leg not being broken after all so you would find the story more interesting. Anway, to make a long story longer, I kept thinking of how I laughed at that woman last night and knew it was payback time should I lean too far forward.

My friends at the Bowl...

But the stars above (not many but a few), the cool air, amazing Eagles (although I liked them better in the early days before they let the rocker lead singer guy in), and funny and equally appreciative friends made it one of the nicest nights I’ve had in the LA in which I’m starting to feel at home.

Next concert I’m going to there is the Carole King, James Taylor concert. Add in Simon and Garfunkel and I would sprint up the hill.

Jon Stewart (tell me he wrote it himself) gave one of the most moving and inspirational introductions that I’ve ever heard. He started off funny, as are all amazing introductions, and talked about how perhaps Dylan and James Brown had a baby and it was Bruce. And, then he went into his point that he didn’t really understand Bruce’s music until he began to yearn. Yearn is one of my favorite words. I think the world is bland without it.

He went on, “I didn’t understand Springsteen until I began to question the things I was making and doing in my own life. It wasn’t about the things. It was about stories of lives that could be changed. I was working in a bar in NJ and every night when I closed the bar, I got in my car and listened to Bruce and everything changed. I didn’t think or feel like a loser. When you listen to Bruce’s music, you aren’t a loser, you are a character in an epic poem about losers. That is the power of Bruce Springsteen.”

“It’s that whenever I see Bruce do anything, he empties the tank. Every time. And the beautiful thing about this man is he empties that tank for his family, his art, his audience and he empties it for his country. And we, who are on the receiving end of that beautiful gift, are ourselves rejuvenated, if not redeemed. And, I thank you.”

Then the bio tape started to roll and the message was even stronger. They quoted Bruce. “The song writers who inspired me were searchers,” he said. “They spoke about our lives and our dreams. I searched for stories about the people I knew.”

Then the lyrics started.

“The screen door slammed. Mary’s dress waves. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays. Ray Orbison singin’ for the lonely. Hey that’s me and I want you only. Don’t turn me on again, I just can’t face myself alone again.”

Then back to Stewart’s voice-over. “He wanted his songs to bear witness to the hardships and heroism of everyday life.”

Then they showed Bruce singing. On stage, sweating his passion vocally like a pig before the slaughter, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial last year during the inauguration with a black chorus behind him in red robes that seemed to make his flame stronger. At the big football thing in January – oh yeah – the Superbowl, where he led three or four generations in a half-time show that was much stronger than a bared breast. And, I realized that Jon Stewart was right. He empties his tank every time he plays. And, he has played through so many moments of our lives.

Voice-over again. “I try and meld my voice to the story I’m telling. And, when a moment comes in our common history, I want to be there,” Bruce said.

Then the music again, “The dream of life comes to me, and like a catfish dancing on the end of my line, come on up for the rising. Come on up. lay your hands in mine.”

“Bruce doesn’t sing, he testifies.”

“I’m in the middle of a long conversation with my audience. It will be a long conversation for both of us by the time it’s done.”

The stage was then graced with the Viet Nam vet in a wheel chair who wrote Born on the Fourth of July. He told the story of being invited by Bruce to a concert where he played a song for him, and he said he felt proud again to be an American. It was a moment to be sure.

And, then his peers came out and sang. The last song was by Sting and everyone in the Center stood and sang and moved slowly, and with a cool unity that only happens once in a decade. Mel Brook’s wife, among others, was crying. Stars were moving and singing and forgetting the cameras.

And, when it was all over, Bruce stood and patted his fist twice to his heart, and I really got, for the first time, that way of showing the love. And, his friends on the stage who had just done their very very best to honor him with their talent and his music, they also patted their hearts twice right back to him.

What a gift to watch. And, Luke (my dog) and I played it over and over again and moved to the music and sang his words, and I am grateful for yet another moment in my life filled and enriched by the music.

I point out to her that my music has lasted for thirty years (ok, forty, but when I used to say it, the seventies were thirty years earlier). It is still played on the radio and sells out Madison Square Garden forty-five years later. Keep in mind the Stones were around in 1971, and they still sell out their tours today. Compare that against The Back Street Boys, or Britney, and I rest my case.

So, I was in my office today and a co-worker (the one who doesn’t get American Idol, helped me figure out the email issues, and generally is a wealth of interesting but not fruitful information) was telling me about the bands he saw way back in the sixties/seventies in Los Angeles. Here is the really interesting part.

Did you know that Jimi Hendrix opened for the Monkeys in 1967? You remember The Monkeys. (Hey, hey we’re the Monkeys, and people say we monkey aro0-ound, but we’re too busy <something> to put anybody dow-oun.) Yep, Jimi opened for them and not surprisingly, he left after seven shows because the crowds hated him and he hated them. He flipped them the bird and just walked off stage one night. The Monkeys however, watched his show before they went on every night and later admitted they knew he was the one with the talent. Personally, aside from Purple Haze, I was not a Hendrix fan but would have loved to see The Monkeys.

Anyway, my office friend also saw Jethro Tull open for Led Zeplin. Yikes, I can’t even imagine it. And, he swears my all time favorite, The Eagles, opened for Procol Harum. I’m listening to A Whiter Shade of Pale as I write this. Fabulous song. One of the all time best, but what the heck did it mean? What is a whiter shade of pale? So deep were the lyrics of my time. I was not a stoner and never knew what most of them meant, but I knew they meant something bigger than me. Vestal virgins? We were all pretending to be virgins but we were lying.

To top it off Chicago opened for Hendrix too. Chicago is so important because they were the first to bring brass to rock, and I personally think rock was all the better for it.

The conversation then led to the greatest rock song of all time which he swears is Stairway to Heaven, but I believe is Mandy by Barry Manilow. I want you to know I know Mandy is not one of the greatest songs of all time, but I sang it a lot and hate to leave it out of conversations like this. I’m sure that probably no one was willing to open for Barry Manilow, but alas, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the tears he comforted me through in the seventies when heartbreak was my own doing, but nonetheless painful.

Here is the point. If you are a young person who reads this (yes, there are younger people who read my blog) then you will be hard pressed to provide bands from the eighties that will still fill up coloseums in 2020. Hard pressed my friends. And, if you are in your fifities like I am, take a moment and go to You Tube and look up some of the concerts which spackled the walls of our youth with songs that made the memories matter.

Sometimes when I’m driving and listening to the SIRIUS ’70s station, I turn on my iPhone microphone and tape a part of the song playing so I can go back and remember to download it into my iTunes. This morning, I was driving in heavy traffic to a breakfast meeting, and Laughing (by The Guess Who) came on the radio. I turned on the tape machine in my phone and started taping it. I decided I would do my very best to sing it and then listen with the impartial ear I’m not known for having to see if there is any merit to the comments about my voice. Listen

So, I get to breakfast and at the end of our meeting, I play it for my friend. She starts laughing and forwards it from my phone to hers. “My office has to hear this.” The men in the next booth ask if it’s a joke, and I start to get a little irritated.

“You know I was driving and didn’t have my full attention on what I was doing. Road safety is a priority for me,” I whined.

“This is the funniest thing I ever heard, and I’m not kidding.”

I left in a huff and went to my office where a client who has perfect pitch was working with a co-worker. I asked everyone to come in and listen. The resulting snickers, out-and-out laughter, comments such as “Do not give up your day job.” Or, my personal favorite, “I hope you never sang Sarah to sleep,” really hurt my feelings. Nice, very nice.

So, I e-mailed it to two men I work with on the West Coast. Here are their responses.

“I just strangled myself.”

“You surely should be fired.”

When I got home my friend from the diner, who insists on being nameless, e-mailed me an audio of her singing in the car on the way home. Listen I listened to it and got very excited. Jan and Dean. Simon and Garfunkel. Sonny and Cher. Come to think of it, we could be the first girls duo singers for sure. I called her and told her. She hung up on me. So, I called another friend who can’t hang up on me because I’m always there for her. She told me to get a good night’s sleep.

I am really hurt. Part of me is not kidding. I sing all the time. When I call my friend Claire’s house, if I get the answering machine, I sing my message. “Hello it’s me. I’ve thought about us for a long, long time…” or “Call me, don’t be afraid, you can call me, maybe it’s late, but just call me.” She has told me the whole family stands around the machine listening and laughing. Sometimes when they are home and they see it’s me, they don’t answer so they can listen to me sing for awhile before picking up. While I always knew they were laughing at me, it never occurred to me they were laughing because of my voice rather than the cleverness of singing my message.

This is very disappointing. I will find other things to focus on and let it go. I’m out of people to solicit opinions from, and since I’m batting a thousand on the ‘stay away from music’ responses, I guess I will have to face the music, so to speak. That said, if you want to know who the other singer is, e-mail me and I’ll tell you.

Anyway, the fact that I love Barry Manilow means it’s hard for me to fathom the passions brought out by a Michael Jackson, or a Judy Garland, or an Elvis Presley, and especially not John Lennon, whose music as far as I’m concerned, went to hell in a handbasket after Rubber Soul. It’s hard for me to understand the adoring Jackson fans crying on the streets. I keep thinking that on some level little boys in LA are better off without him on the planet. (I haven’t much room for child abuse of any kind.)

But I figured it out. We all have music that is the wallpaper in the rooms where our memories dwell. 

For some, so many memories – good and bad – are wrapped up in the music of Ben or Thriller or Billy Jean. (Who hasn’t sat in their room playing the same GD song over and over and over again whilst crying over the Bob Reids who broke their heart? In Bob Reid’s defense, I made him break my heart by breaking up with him first, but then he wouldn’t take me back when I saw the error of my ways. Instead, he became the boyfriend of that ho who’s name was whatever and looked sort of like me but not as cute. Imagine. And, the song was Cherish, and it still makes me cry with over the lost children I would have born him.) 

Ok, back to Jackson.

The fact that the dark side of Jackson is not something I can resolve when I see how his life is celebrated, is because he doesn’t live in any of my memory’s rooms. If he did, perhaps I would feel differently. 

Here is the clincher people. It wasn’t him. It was his music, and the music and the man (and even his dancing) were two very different things. And, maybe that was his problem. And, Judy Garland’s problem. And Elvis Presley’s problem. We Americans always confuse the music with the man (or women) which gives them no hope of a life at all. We don’t see the people; we just see what they bring to us. They haven’t a prayer after that, especially if they started as young as a Judy Garland or a Michael Jackson.

So, I will try and put up with this mayhem of media blitz for a bankrupt man on many planes who never grew up (or really was it he was never really a child?), and realize that he gave up a lot to put paper on the walls of so many. And, while it might look worth it from afar, it seems to me that the results of those who have become these icons says that perhaps it’s not worth it at all.

So I take my tone deaf self and head to my IPhone to play a few tunes for the future.