We're about to lose what little rock cred we have
Despite the many witty e-mails I got in response to my Craig's List ad, I decided to truck to the Agganis Arena for the Maroon 5 show.
I know in my heart that Maroon 5 is not a good band. Their lyrics are cliched and unimaginative. Most of their songs are formulaic and use the same four chords. They've been derided by every halfway-respectable music critic in North America. And I love them. I love Bright Eyes and The Killers and Wilco and... Maroon 5. If I was stranded on a desert island with five albums of my choice (and a gramaphone, one would hope), Songs About Jane might be one of them.
Still, I was a little nervous about the concert. I had good reason to be:
- Number of belly shirts sighted: 27
- Approximate percentage of audience members under the age of 17: 83%
- Approximate percentage of audience members that were parents accompanying their underage kids: 10%
- Approximate pitch of screams from 14-year-old girls in attendance: fucking HIGH.
I thought this concert would be the nail in the coffin of this embarassing teen pop crush I've been afflicted with for three years. But they opened with "Harder to Breathe" -- easily their best song -- and I was done. And after some unimaginative new material (including a song called "I Can't Stop Thinking of You," which I hope against hopes is a working title), they closed with "Highway to Hell" and I was right back on the bandwagon.
The band has even gotten slightly better technically, which gives me some hope. I guess that's what happens when you tour on the same album for ten years. But give them props for their ability to play guitar while jumping up and down, which -- trust me -- takes skill.
Even when they were playing iffy songs ("This Love", anyone?) the people-watching on the floor was spectacular. My favorite sideshow was the two moms across the aisle from me who brought their nine-year-old daughters. I can see the MasterCard ad now:
Two Maroon 5 babydoll tank tops: $80 Watching your nine-year-old daughters sign along with Adam Levine as he pledges to "keep her coming every night" and waxes rhapsodic about "sinking my fingertips/ into every inch of you/ 'cause I know that's what you want me to do"? Priceless.Tickets: $200.
But despite the screaming girls and James Valentine's unattractive facial hair and the disturbing spectacle of the nine-year-olds and the equally disturbing spectacle that is the B line, it was a good time. I'm over the hump with this band. They had me from "How dare you say that my behavior's unacceptable?"