Mark Kendall’s fingers slither up the strat’s fretboard
so smooth the sound comes out of a Marshall stack
like butter, and then Audie Desbrow switches
from brush on cymbal to thumping the tom:
now Great White is rocking the f—k out.
Permed hair swings side to side, like they’ve seen
in endless videos of glam bands shredding,
though their sound owes more to blues
than Lemmy or Slash. But the crowd of suburban moms,
teens in black concert shirts, bikers with spider tattoos,
and pool hall burnouts could care less about theatrics—
the flash pots and pyro waterfalls earn no applause—
they just want to sway to gravelly-throated melodies.
This is my first concert, the Patriot Center,
we pounded their cassette in Mike’s mom’s minivan
the whole way here, we’re eighteen rows back,
which still feels close enough to catch a pick
if Michael Lardie tosses one away, and at the end
of the night I’ll freeze this moment in time
and Great White will become immortal.
That’s how we think when we’re fourteen
and the volume is turned up loud: what’s come before
and passed was temporary but now, this moment,
the one that had been waiting for me to live it—
even if I can feel the tug of time at my sleeve
I don’t have to believe there’s anything better
than, or after, now. There’s so much I can’t fathom
about the tour bus of time, which idles out back
of the arena, knowing we’ll all have to board
and ride and ride and ride. In fifteen years those guys
on stage will be worn thin with addiction, haunted
by tables blocking the exits of a nightclub on fire,
arthritic and angry and sad. In thirty I’ll slide an old tape,
…Twice Shy, into the deck and give it
thirty seconds before it goes in the trash:
how hollow its keyboards, how meager its bass,
how empty that rasp that once I thought had soul.
I’ll think about all I’ve learned and won’t pine
for a time when the ordinary wonder of youth
seemed so unglamorous I tried to drown it out
with hairspray, double-necked guitars
and gaunt idols in leather pants. But how much can be said
for age and wisdom? My ear still throbs
from the mall piercing kiosk, I’ve had my first sip
of beer, and this is the moment I’ll return to
for the rest of my life. The singer is twitching,
his mic stand holding him up. It’s the most
rock and roll thing I’ve seen to date. It’s cartoonish.
It’s the most rock and roll thing I’ll ever see.

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