I didn’t know there were radio versions of songs and concert versions of songs. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. For all you parents who share my ignorance, the radio version is clean. The concert version is not.
I didn’t understand this whole concept of “versions of songs” so when my 15-year-old daughter asked to go to the Post Malone concert, I said, “Sure.” I’m not his usual demographic, but I do enjoy his music: Better Now, I Fall Apart, Sunflower, Psycho. It’s an impressive body of work.
He’s also quite the personality—very charismatic and articulate. I would describe him as the worst-looking man I’ve ever seen and adorable all at the same time. For any parent of a teen who doesn’t know what Post Malone looks like, Google him and you’ll understand.
I was looking forward to the concert. I love sharing experiences with my daughter. Making memories, I call it. It was a lovely outdoor venue and the weather was perfect. My daughter brought a friend and they wanted to try to get closer. They are responsible girls. Again, I said, “Sure.” I was feeling pretty good about my mother-of-the-year chances.
I claimed our home base up on the ridge. I was feeling good about the whole situation, actually.
Everything was going fine until it wasn’t.
The opening act was vulgar. I was confused. I had heard this group on the radio many times. Something was not right. That’s when I learned about the whole radio version/concert version.
Our evening was rapidly disintegrating.
The crowd got bigger and I lost sight of my child’s blonde head. The young people pushed closer to the front. The parents (there were less than 20 of us) got squished towards the back.
The girls lost cell phone reception and could only text. I lost partial hearing in both ears.
One of the parents suggested we say a prayer. I disagreed. I didn’t think we needed to bring God into a Twenty One Savage opening act. God would say we got ourselves into the mess, we should get ourselves out. Literally. God would have said, “Grab your children and get out of that pit of sin.” He would have been right. If we were staying, waiting on the headliner, it was going to be on us.
I was about to find the girls and head out when Post Malone came on stage. He is even worse looking and more adorable in real life. I decided to stick it out.
My text messages to the girls evolved from “check in with me every 15 minutes” to “try your best not to inhale.” Before the night was over, the messages were, “Are you alive?” I was relieved each time to see the bouncing dots and then a simple “yes.”
Overall, I enjoyed the show. The opening acts should be ashamed of themselves, and I should be ashamed for sitting through it. But Post Malone brought down the house. It was worth losing my nomination for mother of the year.
It took forever to get out of the parking lot like it always does. A kid was selling concert t-shirts, and I was caught up in the moment. I handed my $20 out the window, and he tossed me a shirt.
Time passed. Back to our routine. One day my daughter came downstairs wearing a shirt with the words “beer bong” on the front. “Where in the world did you get that shirt?” I asked, “Go take it off right now.” My child loved pointing out it was the shirt from our Post Malone adventure—the shirt that I bought for her.
The name of the tour was “Beer Bong and Bentleys.” Who knew? I took a Sharpie and marked out the words “beer” and “bong.” Now, her t-shirt had two versions—just like pop music.
We went from a parking lot version of a t-shirt to a back-home version. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.