Never Hear the End of It

What's next? I'll tell you what's next. Sloan at the Koolhaus, that's what's next.
It had been a while, infact this was my first Sloan show in almost four years. After Navy Blues, the next two albums where a little weak and that urgent, youthful desire to see them each time they came to Toronto had dwindled somewhat. I still remember eargerly flipping through Now and Eye Magazine each week, checking the listings to see who was coming to town that month. If Sloan was in the listing, I was off to the Ticketmaster wicket to get my seats for the show. I just couldn't miss it man, I mean, what if this was their last show! Heaven forbid!
But alas, those days are over now and for what ever reason I just couldn't make it off the couch to go check them out for the last few years. But after their lastest release, Never Hear the End of It, which saw them return to form, I figured it was about time that I went out and saw one of my old favourites again.
Standing there on the Koolhauses' expansive concrete floor amid a sea of teenage girls and twenty somethings, it quickly dawned on me that I was in the minority. I was now the creepy, older guy standing at the back of the show, with a beer in one hand, the and the other in my pocket. Too tired and too cool to go up to the front and start dancing, I've been relegated to the back, to sip my beer and mouth the words in relatively quiet seclusion.
I'm okay with that. And as Mike D, Toby and I were standing on the floor waiting for the show, discussing bands we like and cool shows we've seen over the years, I began looking around at all the young people , wearing clothes that I don't understand and drinking those super sugary alcho-pops instead of beer and I started to think about my Dad. When he was thirty would he be at a concert on a Thursday night, pulling pints like there the last beers on the planet. No I don't think he would be. For starters music wasn't a big part of our lives growing up. My parents didn't impart any of their worldly musical knowledge upon us. Forcing their favourite bands down our thoat in an attempt to get us to love the things that they loved. Infact in our childhood car, a large orange Chevy van, the kind oft described in Police issued warnings about a kidnapper on the loose, we only had a few tapes to choose from. Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA, Men at Work Business as Usual and a selection of Esso's Solid Gold 50 tapes that you ould buy at any of their gas pumps. So no, my parents weren't big music freaks. But mostly I can't picture my Dad at a concert because when he was at the age I am now, he had three kids, a house, a dog and lived in small town Northern Ontario. I'm not saying that what I'm doing at thirty is any better or worse I'm just saying it's different. He was already a responsible adult. I' m still waiting for that proverbial slap in the face from the adult Gods, telling me to get my shit together.
When I think about the age thirty, it sounds old to me. But then I say to myself, "but dude, your thirty"! And I don't feel old. I'm just as old as I am. And I'm not old.
Am I supposed to have kids now? Am I supposed to want to stop going to concerts and getting drunk on a school night? Am I supposed to want to settle down? And if I am supposed to do these things, when? Now? When am I going to want this?
You look at your parents as a template for adult hood. They are your role models. But when I look at my life and compare it too my parents, they just aren't that similar.
Maybe I'm just a big kid and I'm refusing to grow up and face the music. Or maybe thirty is the new twenty. I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet. When I do, I'll let you know.
Anyhoo, back to the show.
As far as Sloan shows go, this was middle of the road. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great either. Maybe it was just me. I was there but I wasn't in to it like I was when they played those 4 nights at the Palais Royal back in the day. I can remember being right at the front, the floor boards heaving under my feet as the sweaty, mass of arms and legs jumped in unison around me, shouting SLO-OAN, SLO-OAN, SLO-OAN. Now that was a rock show.
I don't know, maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe next time I should just stay home and read a review of the show in the paper the next week. Then again, maybe not.
What's next?