Everything old is new again

Went last night to see the always-fabulous Erasure in concert at Irving Plaza, and it basically ended up being a three-hour blast from the past. I felt like I was somewhere between the ages of 12 and 18 again, but was simultaneously reminded that I am no spring chicken.

I last saw Erasure during the Wild! Tour. I think I was in eighth grade or early ninth grade at the time. Hearing Erasure classics like Oh L’Amour, A Little Respect, and Sometimes reminded me of the days when I would play cassette tapes in my dual-deck tape recorder, trying to read the lyrics in the mini-script printed on the little fold-out tape covers. I can’t believe that I listened to songs before CDs existed. I remember hearing Erasure’s Innocents album for the first time in junior high, when someone lent the tape to my sister, and remember thinking, “What is this devil music?” That’s mostly because up until that point I really only listened to hip-hop/rap, as that was what was popular in my pseudo-ghetto school. I also listened to some top 40 stuff that used to come on Q107 (any D.C. old-schoolers out there?), but mostly listened to R&B stuff that came out on DJ100 (home of local D.C. go-go) and WPGC.

I thought all that new-wave, Brit synth-pop stuff was weird because their videos had lots of goth-looking people (the Cure videos, especially would creep me out—the one with the spider? Ugh) who sounded like they were worshipping the devil in their is-this-really-considered-singing wails. I think my sister was growing out of her R&B phase at that time (asymmetrical haircuts a la Klymaxx, anyone?) and underwent the inevitable draw to synth-pop that seems to lure Asians like the Pied Piper lured children. (Seriously, it’s like moths to a flame. I think Asians have some sort of synth-pop-affinity gene. And a Spam-affinity gene.) Go to any Pet Shop Boys/New Order/Erasure/Depeche Mode concert, and I can guarantee almost half the audience will be Asian-American 30-somethings reliving high school. Anyway, needless to say, I, too, soon became a loyal follower of the New Order/Erasure/Pet Shop Boys trifecta (didn’t really get into Depeche Mode until high school) and vis-à-vis my sister, came to love their old stuff as well.

So now here’s where I start feeling old.

First sign: My coworker, who is my age, tells me that Erasure and similar synth-pop bands are gaining popularity amongst the hipsters, as the youngsters start to discover “the classics.” There are also new bands that are paying tribute to their synth-pop forefathers, such as Scissor Sisters and Elkland, the band that opened up for Erasure. Elkland has replicated that 80s sound perfectly (in fact, with every song they played, my equally ancient friends were thinking, ‘Isn’t this a remake?’ Or, ‘Don’t I know this song?’). But the kids in the band looked like they are all of 15 years old and were probably half-formed fetuses in the womb when the first Erasure album came out.

Second sign: No one in the audience looked like they were younger than 25 or so, and in fact, skewed older. People with grey hair were mouthing all the lyrics. I mean, these people probably had to find babysitters to come to this concert for goodness sake. Anybody who looked young was probably one of Elkland’s street team, or one of those kids who insist that the “old music” is better—the way that people of my generation get into the Ramones or Bob Dylan, and lambast music of our generation as prepackaged drivel. Even Andy Bell said to some of the folks in the audience that they “probably weren’t old enough to remember this next song.” The only other times I felt this ancient were when my 21-year-old brother asked me whether Madonna’s “Dress You Up” in the Gap commercial was a “real song.” Or when I was watching John Mellencamp on TV with my roommate’s boyfriend, who exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, he’s still around? Wild Night was such an old song!” I retorted, “Wild Night!? What about Jack and Diane?” only to be met with a blank stare. Sigh.

Third sign: After the concert, there were no attempts to wait until the crowd clears to procure an autograph, or take advantage of the post-concert high where you don’t go home just yet, but drive around and blast the music of the band you just saw and stay up all night hanging their posters up on your wall and fall asleep in the $15 concert t-shirt you just bought. Instead, I made some halfhearted attempts to look for a t-shirt stand, didn’t find one, so immediately shifted my efforts to getting on the subway, going home, watching the late night news, seeing who’s on Carson—I mean Leno—and rubbing my aching feet (which probably would have given out if there’d been another encore), and massaging my sore neck, which hurt from craning up to look at Andy Bell in his sparkly red speedo.

Fourth sign: Speaking of sparkly red speedo, Andy Bell was in great shape. But he did look old. Or at least older. He’s in his early 40s now, although my friend thought he looked much older. But how often do you see a singer who’s had both hips replaced prancing around the stage in bedazzled underwear? More power to him. Vince Clarke always did look older, but now he REALLY looks older, though still demure and diminutive in his gold lame tux. (I always like to think to think of Vince as good-naturedly going along with whatever Andy wants to wear—as in, “Oh, alright, Andy, I guess if you’re going to wear the sparkly Elvis-in-Vegas outfit, I’ll wear the gold lame tux. But just for this tour.”)

Anyway, I felt a little like one of those folks who go see those hair bands from the 80s, like Motley Crue and Poison, or who still worship the Grateful Dead or Jimmy Buffett. Am I going to go to a New Kids on the Block reunion in 2015, screeching like a schoolgirl at age 40? Will I take my kids to lawn concerts and dress them in fluorescent Erasure baby concert tees? Or when they’re teens, in a rebellious hipster stage, will I scorn at them wanting to pay $40 in an urban vintage store for a distressed Vanilla Ice concert tee—that I probably still have at the back of my closet?

What made me feel better was that at least I could say that Erasure has a new album out, and therefore has reason to be touring, AND all ten or so shows they played at Irving Plaza sold out, so I am at least comforted in knowing that I am not alone. Plus, Erasure still rules.

That night, as I returned home, I relished the mini-escape the concert afforded me for three hours, letting me believe that I wasn’t a working stiff who had to get to the office the next day and pay the bills—I was a bopping prepubescent teen whose biggest drama was not making the pom squad. At home, though, it was back to reality. I took my shower, rested my weary feet, took my vitamin, flossed, and watched my stories before going to bed. I will definitely look into getting the new Erasure CD. And Elkland’s as well. I guess that’s what the kids are listening to these days.

Topless bars and crazy buffets

Got back from Florida about a week ago where I was visiting my sister, who lives in the Tampa/St. Pete/Clearwater area. I’m a child of the suburbs and have visited my sister before, so the trip shouldn’t have been any sort of eye-opening experience. But for some reason being there this time made me truly realize how much of a bubble we New Yorkers live in.

First of all, I couldn’t get over how many overweight/borderline morbidly obese people I saw. I guess it doesn’t help that many New Yorkers, especially when one ventures down into Soho, are unabashedly anorexic, but the weight differences were pretty stark. I guess I should be lucky that I’m forced to live in a city where I have to walk everywhere, as opposed to having to drag my ass around in a car. If I lived in the burbs I’d probably have to go to the gym twice as much just to avoid gaining any weight, much less lose weight.

I also couldn’t get over the inordinate amount of strip clubs there are, in the most random areas. We’d drive down a main street and there’d be a strip mall, gas station, office building…oh, and there’s the local XXX topless bar, right next to that there dentist office, not to be confused with the OTHER topless bar that’s over by the Winn-Dixie. Nobody seems to make any big stink about the placement of such “entertainment venues.” So weird. There didn’t appear to be a seedy part of town; the red-light district was woven into the suburban landscape as naturally as a Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts. And they are always relatively well-attended, even on a weekday in the middle of the day. There also seem to be more Hooters per square mile there than in any other place I’ve been. If not Hooters, its Muggs N’ Juggs, which I imagine to be like a Hooters, or Molly Goodhead, a raw oyster bar I saw advertised on a billboard. I guess that’s why my coworker calls Tampa Trampa. (On an aside, I once heard Conan O’Brien refer to Florida as “American’s Flaccid Penis” in a sketch about what state taglines should be on the new quarters. From what I saw, it doesn’t seem like flaccid is the right word. Maybe, "America's Erectile-Disfunctional Penis in Search of a Remedy"?) Now that Times Square has been converted from peepshow central to a breeding ground for corporate megalomania, you don’t see too many topless-type places anymore. Or at least I don’t. Maybe I just don’t hang out in the right neighborhoods.

I also realized how lucky I am to be able to find within 20 blocks of my apartment all types of ethnic restaurants, museums, dive bars, upscale bars, cafes, movie theaters, boutiques, chain stores…etc…etc. I mean, I grew up in the suburbs, but Tampa is different from even the D.C. suburbs, which, as far as suburbs go, is pretty darn great. I found Tampa to be kind of desolate and depressing. There are pretty neighborhoods in St. Pete and beautiful beaches, but I think I would have hated to grow up there as a teenager. I probably would have ended up boy crazy with fake boobs and auditioning for the Real World.

On the other hand, we did do some great suburban things that I miss out on in New York City. I love, love, love being in grocery stores where I can do cartwheels down the aisles if I wanted to. And it’s so much cheaper there. Unlike New York, where I roam cramped aisles full of overstuffed shelves, pay nosebleed prices for things that I can get for half price in the burbs, and take a health risk every time I opt to buy “fresh” meat or vegetables. And I also got to eat at TWO great buffets: Sweet Tomatoes and Crazy Buffet, which, despite the name, is a slightly fancier Asian buffet. My family loves us some buffet. We go to town at those places.

I also hung out at a pool hall (where it was smoky—not used to that since they outlawed indoor smoking in NYC) and bowled a 150. I have never in my life bowled such a high score. I’d forgotten how fun bowling can be. Not to say I can’t bowl in New York, but it’s a different vibe. As with everything else, New Yorkers are capable of turning even an event that requires ugly shoes into a costly-for-what-it-is, slightly pretentious experience. (Ever try to go to crowded Bowlmer Lanes on a Sat. night?)

Anyway, the trip was relaxing and I’m glad I got out of town for a week. And I always have to go through this slight adjustment period whenever I come back from vacation, in which I wonder whether I’d be willing to exchange living in a cultural and commercial mecca for somewhere that’s less cost-prohibitive. But then I snap out of it. At least right now, I think I’m where I’m supposed to be.