As tends to be my habit when one is available, I went to a concert last night. I’m an eclectic gal with wide musical tastes spanning from boybands to manbands to fierce country divas. Last night’s performer was everyone’s favorite spitfire, Miranda Lambert. She brought along the girls in her side project band, Pistol Annies for good measure and thank ‘Gos’ she did. I love those girls.
I have an issue with going to concerts and ending up far away from the stage. If I’m going to make the effort to get dressed, put on my face and stand for hours, I better be able to see up some skirts. With that in mind, my boss and I left work a little early (don’t tell) and headed downtown to wait in line. We had purchased early entry passes which granted us an extra half hour before the general public. That extra $5 paid off since we were able to hoof it into the concert grounds and stake claim to a patch of land immediately in front of the stage. If there were “rows”, we’d be in the front row. I’m pretty lazy and standing for hours doesn’t usually sound like a good time, so the fact that there was a rail to lean on was priceless. And the proximity to someone famous, of course.
The opening act took the stage and was met with general confusion and disinterest. He was an older gentleman who oozed “easy listening” from his corduroy jacket, black jeans and receding hairline. His accompanying singer was a youngish woman who was wearing a terrible dress/half-sweater combination that added years (and assumed homeschooling) to her appearance. They sounded fine, I guess. It was just a weird choice before the “Kerosene” and “Gunpowder & Lead” diva took the stage. At one point, the aging singer introduced another member of his “band” (all of whom were absent from the stage) as a guitar player named…uh…I don’t care. This guitar player never picked up a guitar, instead he joined in on the chorus of a SUPER slowed down version of “Boys of Summer”. It was awkward. His performance was followed by an unnecessary announcement that the homeschooled accompanist was his wife. I didn’t care. I’m sure you don’t either.
Almost out of nowhere, Miss Miranda took the stage. She stomped her surprisingly bootylicious self to center stage and belted out “Fastest Girl in Town” to a roaring crowd, despite the slow start. I was taken aback at the eye contact and serious possibility of seeing her downstairs but that girl can blow. Tunes. She can sing. Is what I mean. The couple next to us was in their 50s and there all the way from Muskegon. The man was a prison guard nearing the end of his term and the wife was a hopeful gambler. They were very nice and courteous when saving spaces for beer runs or bathroom breaks but got extremely excited when Miranda appeared. They maintained their excitement throughout the show and I was treated to a shower of tobacco spittle every time he shouted the lyrics out of tune. It was pleasant.
Just when I could take no more brown chunks of nasty landing on my white t-shirt I was distracted by the Pistol Annies. Hippie, Holler and Lone Star lined up and busted out “Hell on Heels” which I’ve taken to be my personal mantra. It only bothered me a little that they were all wearing flat shoes. Ok, so it bothered me a lot. At least put on some fierce stilettos for that one song. I mean…really. I could see that “Holler Annie” was wearing thigh-length spanx under her leather skirt and that really endeared her to me. I feel as if we’re kindred spirits. She also nearly knocked down a mic stand and sang into a dead microphone for several awkward seconds. She was a hot mess and I love her for it.
As the show wound down I realized just how well Miranda can sing. I tend to forget that with all of her sass and “I’ll shoot you if you mess with me” attitude. She can sing. Well. They did the requisite tossing of guitar picks and then the drummer threw out his stick, which I caught. Several other people caught it as well, but apparently I caught it with the most gusto because I have it and they don’t. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but I have it. It’s in my purse and will most likely remain there until I forget about it and toss it in my closet.
“Chew” spit-showers aside, the evening was a blast. Miranda has cemented my status as both a fan of hers and the other Annies. Especially my little disaster, Holler Annie. Big ups, girl. Big ups.