This afternoon I’m heading to fabulous Durham, North Carolina to catch the Willie Nelson/John Mellencamp/Bob Dylan concert at the Durham Bulls ball park.  Despite having a collective age of 201, it still promises to be a show worth the several gallons of premium unleaded it’ll take to get there.  I haven’t seen Bob Dylan since I was fifteen but have ticket stubs from Mellencamp’s last two summer tours and—fortunately—both of them preceded that wretched song he sold to Chevrolet.

I attended those shows partially because my then-boyfriend claimed to be a bigger Johnny Cougar fan than I was and—since he was two decades older than me—he had a pretty solid head start.  His willingness to belt out “Lonely Ol’ Night” during lulls in conversation was kind of endearing (kind of) but perhaps the fact that “I Need A Lover (That Won’t Drive Me Crazy)” was his favorite song of all time probably should’ve been a warning sign on a number of levels.

Anyway.

In keeping with today’s theme, I cracked open the archives to find this, my thoughts on the July 2005 show he did with Creedence Clearwater Revival frontman John Fogerty.
__________

I was just in my car and had the stereo up so loud that now it feels like my ears have been crammed full of oatmeal. I love turning the volume knob all the way to the right and always have. As a kid when we visited my grandmother, I’d sit on the porch listening to mixtapes on my Walkman (including classics by Heart, Michael Jackson, and Dolly Parton, a back-to-back-to-back combo that has probably never been duplicated) until inevitably her mailman would climb the stairs, point to his hearing aids and tell me that headphones left him deaf in both ears. Even at that young age, I was perceptive enough to realize that his problems had less to do with his affinity for Judas Priest and more with the fact that his mother drank throughout her pregnancy. Loud music doesn’t cross your eyes, Josh.

Speaking of music, on Friday, I had eighth row seats for the John Fogerty/John Mellencamp concert in Raleigh. I bought our tickets in advance because I am a longtime member of Club Cherry Bomb, the official John Mellencamp fan club, providing yet another reason why I never had a prom date. Or even a date, really.

John Fogerty tore through loads of Creedence classics and sounded absolutely fantastic. I love CCR because no one, including Mr. Fogerty, has any idea what the actual lyrics are other than the choruses but that doesn’t detract from the song at all.  Despite wearing out at least three cassette copies of Chronicle, I still recite my grocery list to the tune of “Down on the Corner” and it works out just fine.  John—that’s what I call him when we have conversations in my head— rocked a denim on denim outfit for his hour-long set, proving yet again that when you are a Rock Star, you may ignore the fact that the only other people who dress that way have a name patch sewn onto their shirts, generally something like “Dwayne” or “Critter”.

Despite John’s Canadian Tuxedo, there’s still something irresistible about a man with a guitar. I found Mr. Fogerty incredibly attractive, despite the fact that he is approximately 193 years old. During one song, he mouthed the words “after the show” to a woman in the front row and I was overwhelmed with jealousy and curiosity. What’s after the show, John?

Confidential to John Fogerty: Please email me and let me know what happened after the show. I think you are very handsome.

When you go see an artist whose albums are filed under Classic Rock, there’s typically nothing that can kill the crowd’s mojo like the phrase “Here’s a new song I just wrote.”  The only equivalent is if, immediately after sex, your partner rolls over and asks “So when are we going to see your parents?”.  But Fogerty proved me wrong with his new anti-war track “Déjà Vu (All Over Again)”, which slows the tempo of “Fortunate Son” but keeps all of the song’s anger and outrage. 
_________
After a quick set change, it was time for John Cougar aka John Cougar Mellencamp aka Dances with Cougars aka Mellencougarcamp. I was beyond pumped about this ‘cause I’ve crushed on him since I was in elementary school. Huey Lewis was still my #1 Rock Boyfriend but John C. Mellencamp was absolutely the dude in the on-deck circle and would’ve assumed Main Crush duties had Huey been eaten by scorpions or something.

My level of excitement was at the kind of Frenzied Level you rarely see outside of Day After Thanksgiving Sales when Mellencamp strode onstage.  He was wearing a tailored navy suit, which in the 99 degree heat had to feel like he was walking around in a Muppet’s ass, and smoking a cigarette which is totally hardcore for a heart attack victim.  While he still has hints of the “I Fight Authority” attitude that I found irresistible circa fifth grade (when I spent my after-school detentions writing ‘Dr. and Mrs. John Cougar Mellencamp’ on my Trapper Keeper), he’s softened a bit with age, with the family-friendly swagger of Uncle Jesse from Full House.

The man can write a pop song though and he tore through a chunk of his 850 album back catalog and he played ‘em straight up; he didn’t tinker with the arrangements or have a harpist onstage while someone did an interpretive dance to “Small Town”.

I maintained my Mellencrush for most of the evening until he started rearranging his wardrobe.  He ditched the suit jacket early and was wearing a white t-shirt (Classic Hotness) but he quickly tucked it in which just about killed the Hotness.  The gesture that absolutely gave the Hotness an overdose of sleeping pills and then held a bag over its nose to ensure it was dead was when he grabbed his belt buckle and pulled his pants up repeatedly until his waistband was resting on his collarbone.  Despite the swagger, the dance moves, and the voice that’s soundtracked my past two decades, that was it.  He may as well have put on a robe and slippers and started eating a bowl of All-Bran.

That said, it was still a great show full of songs I’d forgotten I knew the words to and if he rolled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, I’d still probably do several things he’d regret.  Especially if he could give me John Fogerty’s number.