Grandmother Groupies

 

I heard a rumbling noise coming from the second floor of my house.  Since we almost never go up there, I thought that one of our dogs might’ve cornered a squirrel that somehow got in through the attic. I made my way up the stairs, walked in the bedroom, and saw enough stuff lying on the floor to have a yard sale. It was my wife Carol rummaging through a closet.

“What in the Wide World of Sports are you doing”, I asked.   

She flashed a look of disdain and said, “I’m going through our old albums. I’ve got to find a couple to take to the concert. I’m going to get them autographed.”  

I should’ve known. Tonight we were going to see a sixties band, Herman’s Hermits, featuring lead singer and Carol’s teen heartthrob, Peter Noone. For about a week, I’ve felt the anticipation building. Several times I’ve walked in our house and heard “I’m Henry The Eighth I Am” blasting away on our sound system. I have been reminded that posters of Noone, aka Herman, were prominently hung on the walls of her teenage bedroom. I also knew she could sing every word of every song by heart, and that she bought Tiger Beat magazine whenever he was on the cover. 

So, once we learned that Herman and his Hermits were coming to a concert venue near us, I was threatened with bodily harm until I bought tickets. Not just any tickets either. I was told to get as close to the stage as possible, no matter what the cost.  

“You may not want to do that,” I said.”You understand he’s not going to look or sound like he did 60 years ago.”

She stared at me with bug zapper eyes, and replied,”Get tickets close to the stage.”  She didn’t say, “…or else.”  But I understood. If I didn’t comply, she might pour ammonia in my C-PAP machine while I was sleeping. It’s obvious that the dying embers of a teen crush had once again been fanned into a raging flame.  

She wasn’t the only one. The evening of the concert I noticed it was chock full there of older ladies who, like Carol, were all amped up to see their former teen idol.  

I didn’t say a word to anyone, but I knew old rock bands could be hit and miss. We’ve seen McCartney, The Stones, and The Eagles in the past few years - all of them were great. However, there are some other sixties and seventies groups who should’ve hung up their microphones a long time ago.  

Finally, Herman and his Hermits took the stage.  My first thought was, “Wow, this guy has an excellent plastic surgeon,” because he looked good. Fit and trim with nice, flowing hair. And when I heard the first verse of “Something Tells Me I’m In To Something Good,” I was quite surprised. His voice, while not the high pitch of his teen years, had aged quite well. I began to relax and enjoy the concert, which was a mixture of old hits, and banter with the crowd. 

Herman worked the audience skillfully, talking to them with an easy, down home manner.  He even sang a couple of songs while standing in the aisles. 

The former teenage girls were lapping it up like a dog eating Gravy Train. One lady gave him a dozen roses. I thought I saw someone throw her granny panties (or maybe they were Depends Diapers) at Herman while he was on stage. Dozens of women reached out to touch him. I even heard a collective sigh when he began crooning “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter”, although it might’ve been more appropriate to sing    “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Walker.” 

Finally, he asked if anyone had one of his old records. Carol shrieked, jumped up and said, “I’m going down there!” With that, she barreled toward the stage, waving her albums like a flagman on a road crew. Unfortunately, another woman got there first, so Carol, shoulders slumped like a scolded child, shuffled back to her seat. Naturally, I did what any sensible husband would do - pretended I didn’t know her. 

However, life is full of second chances. As the concert wound down, Herman announced that he would be signing autographs after the show. The minute they sang their last song, Carol bolted for the lobby. I didn’t think a woman with two titanium knees could move so fast.   

As the line grew shorter, she began saying, “I’m sooo nervous, I think I peed my pants.”  I just shook my head. 

When her time came, she handed Herman the album covers and a newly purchased T-shirt, then sat down beside him and wailed,”I think I’m gonna cry!”  He smiled genuinely and said in a British accent,”Don’t cry luv. It’s all right.”

At once, I begin snapping photos. Of course, I was told in no uncertain terms that the pictures must be perfect. I even got a tutorial on how to operate an iPhone camera - and I have an iPhone.  

Within seconds, it was over, and we headed for our car. But Carol’s teen-like behavior continued.  She kept chanting, “I can’t believe I just met Peter Noone! I can’t believe I just met him! ”

Finally, I could take no more. “Good grief”, I said. “He’s just a singer in a band. It’s not like he’s Nick Saban or anything.” 

She turned to me, shot daggers from her eyes and said, “How immature. How many albums has Nick Saban sold?”

I replied, “How many championships has Herman won?”

I’ll be sure to check my C PAP machine tonite.