Ironic Jukebox

Two weekends ago, I made the trek up I-95 to visit my family in New Jersey. Since I get to visit them about once or twice a season, my mom had jam-packed our weekend with activities, the most anticipated being …anyone? anyone? ….no less than a Jason Mraz concert at my younger brother’s school, Brookdale Community College!! We aren’t diehard fans, but we like the Mraz — on vacation this summer we enjoyed his happy new song “I’m Yours” and the rest of his latest album. I, myself, have always been amused by the unfortunate title of his first album Waiting For My Rocket To Come. So when my brother had mentioned he was coming to the area to my mom she seized the opportunity and bought the tickets. Mind you, my folks are used to venues with seating and jazz standards these days (which isn’t to say they’re boring or unhip), or at least they are used to representing the average age at any show they’ve attended. Mind you also, that I’ve never been to a concert with just the two of them. What follows is a magical journey through the thrills and tribulations of General Admission with the people who raised you up:

After twenty minutes of waiting in line outside (much to my father’s chagrin), and several near bailouts from his corner (”Wouldn’t it be nicer to get a beer at a nearby bar?” “Wouldn’t be nicer to watch a movie at home?” “We’re never going to find the car…” sighs and grumbles, etc.), we finally make it into the tropical climate of Brookdale’s Robert J. Collins Arena. Now, three things are of note here. One, Robert J. Collins Arena, is really only an “arena” in a titular sense. Maybe if you were a hobbit or a fairy this would be an arena–however, to your concert-goer of average size and experience, this is actually a very large gymnasium and its “upper level” is just an indoor track (See photo 1). Two, because of the arena’s size, my party comes to see firsthand what “General Admission” means in this case. It means choosing between two evils (1) standing on the floor in close quarters with about a thousand 18-22 years olds, and their necking and smells and potentially filthy language (2) sticking to the indoor track above with the rest of the weak and infirm. We choose the latter, despite its poor lines of sight and acoustics. Finally, it is of note that with parents, particularly mothers of a certain age, the temperature of a venue comes to be of significant importance. Again, it’s HOT in Robert J. Collins Arena. More on this detail later.

Mom and Dad looking coy. Like two young co-eds on their first date, they stand against the wall and pretend not to be interested in one another. Reality: Mom is looking for concessions stand. Dad (note posture) is still disgruntled about being at the concert in the first place.

The satellites of our party. My able-bodied 19 year old brother and his girlfriend pay respect to their elders before joining their peers. We have, by this point, acquired beverages (Pepsi! Water!) and are happy sitting on floor amongst Ugg booties and other unfortunate fashions. With anticipation for the show to come, we enjoy the opening act, Lisa Hannigan, without ever actually seeing her.

Confused, Mom and I think we are at a Mary J. Blige concert.

Things start getting crazy. Dad takes a nap during soundcheck for Jason Mraz.

We are wasted. Mom has taken of her shoes.

Our view of the stage. This is after we have re-located to a balcony area near the exits for a cross breeze (Mom=hotflashes) and a fast getaway to the parking lot. Jason Mraz puts on a good show, sounds nice, dances well, and has a three piece brass band backing him up. He likes to talk to the crowd–a lot–unfortunately, it was virtually impossible to understand what he was saying, though the floor was laughing and interacting with him. Jason Mraz is also the human equivalent of a Mexican Jumping Bean in a fedora. My school nurse mother says multiple times that she would have classified him if he was a student of hers. The crowd sings along with “The Remedy”. “Isn’t it nice,” Mom says, “to hear kids singing along to nice music instead of Death Cab?!?!” I discover my mom is under the impression that Death Cab for Cutie is devil-worship music.

I finally lose it.

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