The other day, one of my friends told me she wanted to celebrate her birthday this July by going to see Michael Buble in concert. She then asked me if I wanted to go with her.
I’d seen Michael Buble (pronounced “boo-blay” not “bubble”) on TV a few times and really enjoyed his singing, so I told her to order the tickets and I’d pay her back.
Well, the day the tickets went on sale, she emailed me to tell me she was lucky she had been able to get us two really good seats, because the tickets were selling like proverbial hotcakes.
I honestly nearly needed a defibrillator. Even if the Beatles were reincarnated and were giving one final concert, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t spend $113.50 to go see them.
Maybe that’s considered a good price for a concert nowadays. I haven’t been to one in years, so I have no clue. When I was a teenager, I went to concerts all the time, usually at the JFK Coliseum in Manchester. Ticket prices back then averaged only about $8. I saw everyone from the Beach Boys to Three Dog Night.
And waiting in long lines didn’t bother me. I was so excited about seeing whichever band was playing, I would have waited in line for hours. Now, however, if I have to wait any longer than 20 minutes, I’ll probably be ready to keel over…or need a restroom.
The last concert I went to was with my husband to see the Four Tops and the Temptations in Concord. I hate to say it, but my husband wasn’t exactly Mr. Sunshine that night.
First of all, he complained about the stairs going into the theater, and then about the additional stairs to get to our seats. You would think someone had forced him to run a marathon.
“My knees are killing me,” he moaned after he finally collapsed into his seat. “They should have elevators in this place.”
Then, during the concert, the people in the rows in front of us all stood up to dance in place and clap their hands. My husband and I remained seated.
“I paid for a seat so I could sit during the concert!” he muttered. “Why would I want to stand up all night? I wish everyone would just sit down! I came here to see the performers, not a bunch of people’s butts!”
A few songs later, he complained again. “I can’t hear them! Why don’t they turn up the volume on their amplifiers? They sound like they’re singing with pillows over their faces!”
“Honey, they are really loud,” I said. “I’ve been telling you for months now, you need a hearing aid!”
“And it’s hot as Hades in here!” he said. “I don’t know if it’s because they have the heat turned up too high or because all of these people are working up a sweat dancing when they should be sitting!”
Let’s just say there was a good reason why that concert was the last one I ever went to with my husband.
So I really don’t know what to expect when I go see Michael Buble in July. For the price I’m paying, I’m expecting not only to see him sing, but to have him sit on my lap and personally serenade me.
And I’m hoping I can stay healthy because I’m not about to miss the show and lose my $113.50. However, I’ll probably be suffering from malnutrition by then because after I pay for my ticket, I’ll be forced to live only on Ramen noodles.
But even if I’m in the middle of having an appendectomy at the time of the concert, I’ll still go – and then hope the people in the seats behind me won’t mind looking at the rear exposure of my hospital gown.
After she bought our tickets, my friend also said in her email, “You might want to get Michael Buble's newest CD, ‘To be Loved,’ before we go to the concert, so you can become familiar with his latest songs.”
I would. But I can’t afford it.