A Bolt Of Youth

Earlier this summer, I turned 50 and, not surprisingly, it was a non-event. My brothers competed to see who could call first and creak out "you old goat" cracks before moving on to general conversation about family, politics and sports. I awoke that morning and thought about Bill Clinton's remark several years ago about having "more yesterdays than tomorrows" in his future, and quickly dismissed any melancholy with the sensible notion that many people of my acquaintance didn't even reach the half-century mark, gave thanks for the health of my wife and kids and got on with the day. There were a few presents, a small outdoor party in the evening-the highlight a glitzy fireworks display, rainbow rockets galore (amazingly, all but the most industrial-strength explosives are legal in parts of Maryland) and whistling, flaming turtles-and that was about it.

A few weeks later Nicky and I took a walk to a used record store near the Johns Hopkins campus-he recently discovered the 2000 old LPs boxed in the basement and now wants a turntable, which baffles me, but so does his embrace of the impossibly sanctimonious Jon Stewart-and after buying a Sigur Ros number, we stopped in at a nearby Blimpie's. I have no use for any fast food chains these days-although visiting the 8th St. Blimpie's in the Village as a teenager was, along with a large Orange Julius, mandatory for any jaunt to Manhattan-but as we were waiting for his grilled chicken sub, a fellow tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hey, Smith!"

Turned out it was my boyhood best friend from Huntington, Bobby Ringler, a brilliant student and athlete with whom I spent thousands of hours horsing around a long time ago. He's a doctor outside of Albany now, and was, along with his wife, on a college tour with their daughter, who's thinking of applying to Hopkins.

Nicky was speechless-I've mentioned Ringo to my sons on countless occasions-as we abbered for about a half hour, catching up on the 20 years since I attended his wedding and trying to pack as much info as we could into the small window of time such a coincidence allows. Ringo said, noticing my graying hair, that I looked just like my oldest brother; I countered that he exactly resembled how his father had looked when we were youths, except that he's actually older now than the esteemed Dr. Howard Ringler was in the mid- to late 1960s.

Ringo's 50 as well, happy and healthy, and so we both scoffed at the chicken littles who dread any birthday that ends with a zero.

Matt Drudge recently splashed one of his best headlines in recent memory, making fun of the sudden political activist Mick Jagger and his bandmates' current tour, calling them the "Strolling Bones." I thought it was hilarious-just the thought of paying to see Mick and Keith play "Sympathy for the Devil" in front of an affluent, rapt audience who probably didn't show up for their vital shows in the late 60s and early 70s, made me gag-at least until I took Nicky to a concert at a midsize venue in Baltimore on August 22.

The headliners were System of a Down, an awful, politically bombastic band that attracts the worst sort of modern greasers imaginable who like to get high on whatever the drug of choice is for that crowd and beat each other up in the mosh pit. Nick doesn't like SOAD either, or the opening act, the ludicrous Bad Acid Trip, but cajoled me into subjecting myself to such an experience by reading several Mark Twain novels within a two-week period, so that he could see his current favorite touring group-the middle attraction-the Mars Volta.

Nicky's almost 13, and I'm delighted at the ever-expanding roster of bands he's discovering-currently, he favors Radiohead, Modest Mouse, the Decemberists, King Crimson, At the Drive-In and Sufjan Stevens-and I appreciate that he's patient enough to listen to (and sometimes like) his dad's recommendations of Bob Dylan, the Searchers, Roxy Music, the Smiths, the Clash, Sam Cooke and Hank Williams. Unlike his younger brother, he's mostly dismissed Green Day as "pseudo punk," although he's looking forward to seeing them in the next week as well.

All of which is terrific in theory. I was dreading the August 22 show, but tried to embrace his enthusiasm, all of which went down the toilet when we arrived-an hour early-to a freezing hall with no seats and an audience in which he was the youngest and I was the elder statesman. Talk about "strolling bones": During the Mars Volta's hour-long set (and I was converted by a riveting performance, especially 21st-century guitar god Omar Rodriguez-Lopez, who reminded me of Jeff Beck and Carlos Santana), I was accidentally jostled by a college-age kid who spilled a beer on my shirt. He was polite, and quickly made amends, saying, "Sorry, dad, I just got carried away."

Even worse was a pair of young (early 20s) Mars Volta fans who noticed Nicky and me sitting on the floor before Bad Acid Trip appeared on stage and immediately reminded me of several nasty encounters with Mr. Natural more than 30 years ago. "You're just the best father," the girl said, with her boyfriend nodding in agreement, "taking your son to a such an awesome concert!"

Nicky was out of earshot, trying to sneak peaks at Mars Volta frontmen Cedric Bixler-Zavala and Omar, and so the two indulged me, and if the conversation was a bit condescending no harm was meant on their part. I told them about seeing Van Morrison (who's he?) at Central Park in '68, the Doors and Jimi Hendrix the same year, and the Stones (with opening act Stevie Wonder) at the Garden on their triumphant Exile on Main Street tour in '72.

This is what it's come to for me, at least in the world of pop music: I'm an oral historian, and a chaperone (at least for a few more years) for my sons when they want to see live shows.

Nicky and I skipped the System of a Down portion of the show and went home, me to a baseball game on the tube and my son, exhilarated from the "best hour of his life" to his room to post an instant review on the internet with fellow Mars Volta fans.

But hey, I can deliver some payback. A few days later, Nicky, Booker and I were in the city, and I spent an excruciating 90 minutes (for them) poring over the incredible selection of rare recordings at the unsurpassed Bleecker Street Records. My younger son was bored after five minutes; Nick lasted a half hour before asking if we could move along. But nothing doing: as usual, I found five CDs worth buying, the jewel of which was a triple CD of unreleased Dylan recordings spanning his career. Included was an alternate studio version of a song he gave to Eric Clapton ("Sign Language"), one of Dylan's last meaningful tunes, as well as rough but illuminating versions of "Sign on a Window" and "Lily, Rosemary & the Jack of Hearts." Another gem was the complete 1969 Dylan-Johnny Cash sessions in Nashville, 23 songs that sound just as swell today as when the then-reclusive Dylan stunned rock fans by appearing on Cash's variety show, singing a few songs from Nashville Skyline.

I wasn't looking, but I'll bet if I asked the knowledgeable if somewhat testy managers if they had a complete collection of System of a Down concert CDs, I'd be shown the door.