If You're Not Here To Party — You're Stuck In Traffic
Sing it, Luke
If Luke Bryan’s “Dirt Road Diary” read “want to grow up to
be the new Tim McGraw,” then his dreams have come true. Earlier this year, The Inky Jukebox saw Mr. McGraw’s show
and came away with that sad feeling that she’d just seen a once-bright star
lose some of its twinkle. That’s OK; McGraw’s had his run.
But that left the stage open for some new handsome buck to
take his place and that man has arrived. His name is Luke “Shake It For Me”
Bryan. As if to prove The Inky Jukebox’s
point, it has just been announced that Bryan’s latest album Crash My Party has made the biggest
sales splash for a male artist since McGraw’s Live Like You Were Dying in 2004.
Who's #1? You are!
Bryan slides very easily into that spotlight on his first
headlining tour, with a big ole stack of hits to make a fat set list from and
the moves and singing chops to back it up. In Pittsburgh on September 28th,
he proved why he’s the current ACM Entertainer of the Year and delivered some
whoop-ass to close out the concert season.
Impressive on the big screen. Just sayin'.
He noted that it wasn’t long ago
that this was the very venue of his first amphitheater-sized show (as opening
opener for Sugarland and Brooks & Dunn), and that he vowed that night to
sell this joint out one day. The Inky
Jukebox can attest that he certainly did that.
Close enough to touch, ladies!
There were some tell-tale signs: first, The Inky Jukebox drove past five (5) miles of cars waiting to get
off at the venue exit and only just made it into the parking area before it
closed. Based on past experience, all of those cars were directed to the
overflow parking in a field a mile away. Yet when The Inky Jukebox entered the amphitheater and found her place on
the lawn just before Florida Georgia Line came on, the place looked packed to
capacity already. Now that it’s getting dark early, Thompson Square’s set
opened in the dark, yet folks were still coming in.
Acoustic set with Luke Bryan at piano
Luke Bryan’s got that mix between country topics and a pop
look and sound; his latest single, “That’s My Kind of Night” features a
club-thump and rap-style lyric, and clearly ruffled a few feathers in traditional
circles. Zac Brown talked trash about it, but I don’t think Zac Brown shares
the same audience as Luke Bryan, Georgia boys though they both be. What Bryan
can do is play his instruments (guitar and piano), sing, — and dance. His
booty-shaking is a crowd-pleaser and he knows it.He genuinely looks like he’s having a blast on stage.
The hardest working ass in country music
The crowd was mostly very young (high school / college) and
familiar with the urban hooks and rap that comprise the identity of Florida
Georgia Line, which really do cause The
Inky Jukebox to wonder about the state of country music. For good measure,
Clay Cook has rubbished them by name too.
Shawna Thompson is better than her band
Thompson Square try hard, but like themselves more than the
crowd does. Keifer is not that good a singer, but Shawna is.
First Niagara Pavilion, Burgettstown, PA June 2, 2012
I get it with the security pat-downs at concert venues, I
really do. Those places are full
of drunken people who’d probably shoot you if they could. But when it takes an hour of standing
in a long line just to get from the parking lot to the turnstiles, all you do
is make a crowd angry for losing their tailgate buzz — especially when they’re
standing in the pouring rain listening to the muffled strains of the opening
act from outside the venue.
This is what we missed: Thompson Square
Why the lines? Because female fans have to get patted down
by female security guards — and it takes longer to do this because women tend
to have handbags that also require a search. One would think that it would make
sense to employ twice as many female security personnel to speed things along,
but no: at Pittsburgh’s First Niagara Pavilion Amphitheater, male and female
guards are alternated, the men generally standing there doing nothing except a
perfunctory pat-your-pockets to the odd male concertgoer who happens to want to
get in. It is worth noting that the men at country concerts tend to be wearing
nothing but shorts and a pair of boots — and maybe a hat — which a quick (or
lingering) glimpse will make obvious they are weapons-free.
The result of this — particularly at a show that tends to
attract a large female crowd, as it did for Lady Antebellum last night in
Pittsburgh — is that the venue quickly fills up with men waiting for their lady
friends. And what do they do to pass the time? They drink. Perhaps this whole
security detail thing is a devious ploy to increase concessions sales. In any
case, by the time the womenfolk show up, they (the ladies) are pissed, and
several drinks behind.
One of the many reasons they are pissed (in addition to
having missed the opening acts and the chance to use the bathroom before the
show starts in earnest, and any shot at a choice spot on the lawn), is that
they have stood for an hour only to get past security with the proviso they
surrender their umbrella. New rule: no umbrellas allowed. All 23,000 people
here tonight have umbrellas. They are also confiscating lawn chairs. Needless
to say, with pouring rain all day, the lawn is a tad wet.
It is with this in mind that I offer this gentle suggestion
to the bands: while it is nice that you thank us (as you invariably do) for
spending our hard-earned money to buy a ticket to come see you, you might also
pay attention to the weather conditions outside the tour bus and thank us I an
heartfelt way, for having endured several hours of standing in line in the
pouring rain. That would go a long way towards making your visit to our neck of
the woods seem less like an anonymous stop on your massive tour. (Am I the only
one who cringes when a band member begins “Hello…,” hoping they get the
location right?)
Sometimes, an attempt at appealing to local pride falls
flat. This is usually because some sporting reference is lost on a particular
crowd. Last night, Darius Rucker told a lovely anecdote about meeting his hero
Dan Marino, which was met with utter silence from the sodden masses, probably
to his puzzlement. This is because the crowd consisted of teenage girls whose
only notion of the legendary quarterback is that he’s one of those guys in a
suit on TV commenting on the game. They never knew that Pittsburgh was his
proving ground. They are also too young to appreciate the Hootie and the
Blowfish song that mentions crying when the Dolphins lose.
They are also too young to recognize Rucker’s magnificently
decadent version of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” which has become his go-to closer.
I think the girls standing near me thought it was a taste of his next single
and weren’t too keen.
Speaking of not being too keen, the female person whose
delightful company I enjoyed suffered for the hour of waiting to enter the venue, had
much to say on the matter of Mr. Rucker and his ilk. And by ilk, I mean black
people. I am still unsure whether this person was even aware she was attending
a concert at which a “nigger” (her word) was going to be tolerated actually
performing (she certainly wasn’t shy about letting everyone around her know of
her distain for the darker-skinned security guards). She was also on a tear
about the hoards of “bitches” from the other queues whom she perceived as a
threat to her place in line. She was a thin-featured, weather-beaten women who
was wearing earrings made out of Budweiser bottle caps, which she proudly
assured us she made herself. (“Y’all can find me in row H if you want me to
make you a pair.”) Poor row H: I wonder how their evening went?
For those still wondering why on earth Hootie has become a country act, consider this: if Hootie (and his Blowfish) were around today, they would be a country act; they're about as country as Lady Antebellum is.
More songs the young crowd don't know.
The earliest shows in a concert season are subject to their
own universe of woes. In late May / early June, chances are that by the time
the sun goes down it is pretty cold. If you are also soaking wet, you’re going
to be uncomfortable. Folks want to get their groove on and wear summer concert
attire, but ladies: shorts, tanks and flip-flops are not ideal when it’s only
54 degrees out. On the other hand, the men are all covered up (boo), mostly in camouflage.
They’re hard to spot. The number of darkly tanned girls at such an early date
is curious. The spray-on crowd are usually the ones sporting very
natural-looking two-or three-toned hair; black and white was popular last
night, as was purple and white, and a lady with red and white stripes.
If I am going to veer into the cruel world of fashion
faux-pas, I am duty-bound to mention the redneck girls who could stand to lose
50 lbs or so who have adopted the one-shoulder top. This is a garment designed
for women who are not you. It is not clear who, exactly, but most definitely
not a woman whose massive chest is being contained by an industrial-strength
bra. The whole one-shoulder thing sort of precludes a bra strap, no? While I’m
at it, if your face has not yet settled down from the acne that riddles it, invest
in a course of Proactive rather than spend your cash on facial piercings. Too
many spots.
As for Lady Antebellum: Mrs. Scott appears to have been put
on a diet, or marriage agrees with her. Mr. Heywood has a better haircut. (Y’all
know what I’m talking about.) And Mr. Kelley still looks like a really tall,
thin Muppet, but one with a voice like melted chocolate. When Hilary said they
only formed five scant years ago, it seems shocking they could be headlining a
tour, let alone one that didn’t haul out all of their hits. I thought maybe
“Hello World” might appear as an encore — but no. A song with that title for
their entrance onto the larger stage might have been a no-brainer, but hey,
what do I know.
