During our drizzly, overcast haul out to the Atlanta suburbs to see Tom
Petty & The Heartbreakers play the Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre at
Encore Park, my wife wondered aloud “if he’ll play many hits or if
it’ll be mostly be stuff I don’t know from his newest album.” The mood
in our car was more than a little bleh. What if this show is more
trouble than it’s worth? The interstate commute, the inevitable parking
debacle, the shitty weather, the prospect of several thousand
stumbling-drunk baby boomers pathetically trying to relive their
freshman year of college.
After wading through aisles filled with muddy rainwater, we found our
seats and silently watched the roadies tool about on stage. After approximately
15 minutes, the lights in the amphitheatre faded to black. A lingering
moment of total darkness and then, in one glorious downbeat, a searing
wall of Telecaster distortion exploded from the speakers. The stage’s
gargantuan lighting rig flashed blinding white as “You Wreck Me”
launched the crowd into a frenzy. As bright as the lights
felt in that moment, I’m sure the grin on my face put them to
shame. No, Tom, you wreck me.
My wife’s misgivings about the setlist were quickly bulldozed, steamrolled, cremated and sprinkled over the ocean. The band might as well have shown up on our doorstep with flowers: “You Wreck Me” into “Listen To Her Heart” into “I Won’t Back Down” into “Even The Losers” into a throat-lump-inducing rendition of “Free Fallin’.” The band hurtled from one tune to the next, feeding off the crowd’s deafening elation. Petty found his own "happy place" during one of Mike Campbell’s many revelatory guitar solos, spreading his arms out like a young kid pretending to be an airplane and spinning in woozy, blissed-out circles.
The poor venue staff couldn’t keep the aisles clear. Couples hugged and gyrated and sang the lyrics to each other, losing all sense of their surroundings until a roving Aisle Nazi jolted them from their reverie, demanding they return to their seats. Two minutes later these revelers were back in the aisle, getting in trouble again, hardly caring. (Isn’t rock ’n’ roll about rebellion anyway?) The band wisely dipped into the Traveling Wilburys catalog for ’80s classic “End of the Line” whose sing-along refrain “it’s aaaaalright” perfectly expressed our collective euphoria. The rain had stopped drizzling and a cool breeze gently worked its way through the outdoor amphitheatre. One of the bolder guys in the audience wrapped his arm around a middle-aged Aisle Nazi's waist, trying to lure her into a sort of square dance. She chuckled, let him twirl her once and then pointed him to his seat.
Walking out to the parking lot after the show, I overheard a woman telling her husband wistfully, “He didn’t play my favorite song.” Truth is: he didn’t play my favorite song, either (“The Waiting”). But with a catalog so deep and shockingly consistent in its greatness, there’s obviously no way way he could get to them all. I suppose the best complaint you can get as a performer is that your crowd didn't get enough of you.
My wife’s misgivings about the setlist were quickly bulldozed, steamrolled, cremated and sprinkled over the ocean. The band might as well have shown up on our doorstep with flowers: “You Wreck Me” into “Listen To Her Heart” into “I Won’t Back Down” into “Even The Losers” into a throat-lump-inducing rendition of “Free Fallin’.” The band hurtled from one tune to the next, feeding off the crowd’s deafening elation. Petty found his own "happy place" during one of Mike Campbell’s many revelatory guitar solos, spreading his arms out like a young kid pretending to be an airplane and spinning in woozy, blissed-out circles.
The poor venue staff couldn’t keep the aisles clear. Couples hugged and gyrated and sang the lyrics to each other, losing all sense of their surroundings until a roving Aisle Nazi jolted them from their reverie, demanding they return to their seats. Two minutes later these revelers were back in the aisle, getting in trouble again, hardly caring. (Isn’t rock ’n’ roll about rebellion anyway?) The band wisely dipped into the Traveling Wilburys catalog for ’80s classic “End of the Line” whose sing-along refrain “it’s aaaaalright” perfectly expressed our collective euphoria. The rain had stopped drizzling and a cool breeze gently worked its way through the outdoor amphitheatre. One of the bolder guys in the audience wrapped his arm around a middle-aged Aisle Nazi's waist, trying to lure her into a sort of square dance. She chuckled, let him twirl her once and then pointed him to his seat.
Walking out to the parking lot after the show, I overheard a woman telling her husband wistfully, “He didn’t play my favorite song.” Truth is: he didn’t play my favorite song, either (“The Waiting”). But with a catalog so deep and shockingly consistent in its greatness, there’s obviously no way way he could get to them all. I suppose the best complaint you can get as a performer is that your crowd didn't get enough of you.
Email
Leave a comment