"When they hit the stage, they're the best band in the world. . ."
– Dave Grohl

I rocked out this week.
When my lovely bride and I were courting, one of the things kids did in those days was to check out each other's record collection. Or, in her case, cassette collection. It gave you an insight, a shortcut, into what kind of person they were.
I still remember seeing The Cult's "Electric" tape in her collection, and having a feeling of wonder wash over me. This tiny, well-dressed, fantastic smelling creature is a rocker? As I got to know her, I learned loud, danceable, rock–the kind with a swing to it–is just part of who she is.
When I mentioned to one of the kids that I was dragging their mother to a Queens of the Stone Age concert, I could almost hear them thinking "wow, she's a trooper, putting up with him."
It makes sense. How would they know she's the rocker? Growing up, from their Mom they heard a lot of Raffi, The Wiggles, and some weird John Lithgow CD. Pretty tame. She may have even forgotten how much she likes the big, booming rock music. (it didn't help she went to the audiologist the week before and got a "you've got the hearing of someone 20 years younger" report from the doc)
Once they hit those first notes and blasted us with lights, it all came back to her. We danced. We rocked.
I'd say my ears are still ringing, but with my lovely bride's encouragement, I wore earplugs. No hearing loss for this guy.
(it was still plenty loud)
Rock on.
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