The Magic and the Music

“Ho ho ho, it’s magic, you know,

Never believe it’s not so…”

From early childhood, my kids have been taught there are two places where they are allowed to scream as loud and as long as they want.

The first, of course, is on a roller coaster. When you’re going over that first big drop, thrown into 360 loops and zooming around sharp curves, a good loud scream seems appropriate. Necessary, even.

And the second–just as obviously–is at a concert.

“I really can scream as loud as I want?” Libby asked this week.

“Go ahead,” I assured her. “No one will hear you, anyway.”

Friday night, my husband and I took our daughter to her very first concert–a performance by Disney channel icon-turned-pop star Selena Gomez at the Mann Music Center in Philly. I guess it was an age-appropriate choice, since a good 75 percent of the audience was under the age of 12–and all of them were female. 

Most, like my daughter, were wearing Selena T-shirts, bopping up and down to tunes like “Tell Me Something I Don’t Know,” a cover of the old Pilot song, “Magic,” and Selena’s latest hit, “Who Says?”

“Who says you’re not pretty? Who says you’re not beautiful? Who says?” sang Selena, echoed by a sea of fresh-faced little girls, many of whom were, no doubt, at their very first concert.

This was the third time I had the privilege of introducing one of my children to the world of concerts. I took my older daughter, Courtney, to her very first concert, a performance by the pop singer Brandi (who could probably be considered the Selena of her day) at the Tweeter Center a decade or so ago.

And just last year, I surprised my youngest son Max with Paul McCartney tickets. It was worth the very extravagant ticket price to sing along with my 14 year old to the songs I loved growing up. (And it was quite the relief to know that at least one of my children preferred music not covered by Kidz Bop.)

But, like my other two sons, my first real concert experience was sans parents. Well, maybe that’s not altogether true. I admit, quite reluctantly, that my first exposure to live music was a Bobby Sherman concert that my entire family attended when I was just a tween. My father took all of us, but I never really count it as my first concert since my sister was the Bobby fan. The rest of us were just along for the ride.

My first concert, the one I count, was an Eagles concert the summer between my junior and senior years in high school. A bunch of my closest girl friends from the WD Class of Way Back When piled into a car and drove to the mall–which had just opened the year before–to buy tickets at the Listening Booth.

This, of course, was back when hell was still as hot–and so was the music. The Eagles were in their prime, pumped to be headlining the Spectrum and ready to put on a show. The opening act, a little-known singer named Boz Scaggs, was poised on the edge of big success, just ready to break through and find his audience. (The following summer, I saw him as a headliner at the Mann.)

I don’t know what it was that clicked in me that night. I always liked music, but there was something raw and personal about seeing it live, singing along with a crowd of strangers who somehow shared the same soundtrack. And, looking back, I guess it had a little to do with growing up and a little to do with freedom. It was the first time one of us was old enough to have a license. We sensed that freedom was just around the corner, just a turn of a car key away, and this music would be blasting from the radio when we headed down that road.

That would be the first of many many concerts, many many nights of sharing the electricity that fills a room and makes a group of strangers a community. Some concerts were trips back in time for me–like Ringo Starr and the All Starr Band, or a newly reunited Simon and Garfunkel. Others were total experiences, like numerous Grateful Dead shows.

And sometimes, the perfect combination of music and performer captures you in a way that sounds coming from the stereo never could. I will never forget the first time I saw a thirtysomething Jersey guy take the stage and croon, “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.” It might not be true magic, but it was something very very close.

On Friday, I watched as a new generation tasted a bit of that magic. Libby flashed me a smile and took my hand, and I was happy to sing along.