The Rock n' Roll Rewind festival is coming and it features bands from my teen days that performed at dances and wedding receptions a thousand years ago. They belted out "House of the Rising Sun" and "My Girl" at the end of every soiree while I sat on the sidelines, a shrinking violet in an orange polka-dot dress sewn by my mother and a bubble hairdo straight out of To Sir With Love, that's right, just like Lulu.
But some nights were . . . well, magic. A guy in tight white jeans, black turtleneck, short hair-cut with long sideburns and black-framed (before Johnny Depp made them famous) glasses would tower above me and put out his sweaty hand and I would be rescued from my anonymous misery.
By the end of the night I had decided what color my bridesmaids would be wearing and the guy hadn't even asked me out. Girls back then needed to hear more stories that did not end happily after. We needed to know that many times things did not work out when a man was involved.
I don't plan on attending the musical reunion.
The fellows who will perform are old, bald, fat, stuck on themselves and wearing clothes that belong in retro shops or on the backs of really hip young New Yorkers. There will be a couple of old boyfriends milling around I don't want to see. One good thing is that the bands are not allowed to play original songs, and you know they all have that little stand with someone's old lady in a tie-dye skirt selling CDs and after five or six beers you convince yourself that you really want to hear Steve and his Sitar in your home anytime you want. I have a special place in my CD catalog books for these types of misbought CDs. I know Ed, misbought, not a word.
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