The Pretenders

After months of dithering about on how to celebrate our 25th anniversary – silver is so tacky in a down market, and it’s not as if you can just give the paper gift 25 times – we finally settled on having an old-fashioned night of ear-blasting rock ‘n’ roll with Chrissie Hynde and the Pretenders at the Palace. We’ve seen them twice before, once at the Landmark where we were way too close to the speakers, and once at the Palace, and both times they just rocked. The new album, “Break Up the Concrete,” is rock solid and I knew we wouldn’t be disappointed to hear the new stuff in with that pretty deep catalog of old stuff. Our seats were way up in the balcony, eye level with the cherubs, a fantastic view of the stage. The second I took the stage I realized I’d forgotten how incredibly sexy her performances are. 57? I’d still do her in a heartbeat. The band was tight and I was surprised to learn that Martin Chambers was drumming again (having been fired years ago, and with Jim Keltner drumming on the current album). Great mix of the old and the new, with a beautiful version of “Back on the Chain Gang,” one of those songs that gets me absolutely every time, and a version of “Bad Boys Get Spanked,” a song I didn’t really remember, that was a transcendant wall of sound. All in all, just a great show.

Note to the drunken a’hole who stands up from the start of every show and screams out for the one song he wants to hear, so that the rest of us can barely hear the song the band is actually playing; and to add to your stupidity, you have the name of the song wrong, dumbnuts. It’s not called “Ohio.” Sit the hell down and shut the fuck up. (In this case I think it was actually the same fucknut who screamed for “Voices,” also the wrong name, all through Aimee Mann’s show this past summer. But some version of this guy has been at pretty much every show I’ve been to for more than 30 years, and I would like all of them to just shut up.)

And while we’re turning the thrilling energy of a massively exciting rock show into a morning-after rant: could I please go to just one concert in my life without having to smell patchouli? Nearly everyone in the house was the same age as we are, give or take (but mostly give) 10 years. And that age is way too old to be wandering around in a patchouli stink. Give it up.