The kid's off on spring break. Wife's got a four-day weekend. Par. Tee. Right?
"Dude," exclaims the giddy guy watering the adjacent urinal. He's addressing no one in particular. "I haven't been in a place in a long time where I was sure I could drag something home with me!"
Where, you ask, can you hear such insightful perspective all the while indulging your secret fantasy to attend a mullet convention? A Winger concert, where else? When we walked into Gilley's or the Palladium Ballroom or whatever they're calling that giant venue on Lamar these days, I think my first five words sounded something like: "Kill me. Kill me now."
I must've left the toilet seat down (or is it up?) one too many times, or else Oprah's new Book of the Month Club suggestion is Relive Your Wasted Youth. Because here I am, dragged kicking and screaming alongside 276 (I counted them all) of Kip Winger's burned-out disciples. While the band bellows out "She's only seven-teen!" it occurs to me that every chick in the joint looks like they have been run over by (not photographed atop) Whitesnake's car and should be singing "My daughter's seven-teen!" And the dudes? They live.
Where's this Kip when you really need him?
So the band starts with this tight guitar rift on "Headed For a Heartache" and then ... "Hey, Dallas, y'all wanna hear some new stuff?" You're kidding, right?
And why is it that nowadays bands don't seem so obsessed with seeing our "hands in the air"? Just curious. Even though I paid $8.78 for a Captain Morgan & Coke (what is this, Ghostbar?) and recognized only one song, it wasn't the worst concert of my life. Right, honey? I got chastised on this very blog recently for not getting out and about and seeing Dallas' live music. Done. And done. Tonight we're scanning the area for a drive-by performance from these guys. --Richie Whitt
