Rose Festival is a Portland, Oregon thing with a parade, week-long carnival, and live bands. My son arranged for him and me and Gwynne, my wife, his mom, to go the night where the entry fee included some Tribute Bands. Outdoor concerts in Tom McCall park are a crap-shoot because it's rainy season, but I was surprised how few people were there. We bought a few beers, and some fair food. I didn't know what to expect. Heath, Gwynne, and stood in a little group together a little ways from the stage.
I'm behind the times but I was aware that Tribute bands, what we used to call Cover bands my day, are a big thing now. They dress up, act, and do the music from old time bands, particularly the classics that are easily recognized by the audience who wants to relive their youth. We were going to see Bon Jovi, AC/DC, and Guns 'N Roses. The odd thing I noticed is that they refer to themselves as the original band, as in “Slash flew in from Texas on a moment's notice,” and “Iggy started this band.” Talk about deep-diving into the character. At first I didn't know what to think but the AC/DC Tribute band made my mind up for me.
I was in High School, over 40 years ago, when I first heard AC/DC. They're lyrics are loud, simple, and catchy. Everybody's heard an AC/DC song: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, Back In Black, and For Those About to Rock. They also have a distinct sound, so I was surprised their music was so indistinguishable from the originals I remember. The lead singer seamlessly switched between both Brian Johnson (floppy hat on) and Bon Scott (floppy hat off) tunes; it was rather remarkable. After rocking out for a few songs, he paused to introduce himself and the band. Of course, he used the names of the original band members as he introduced each musician, eventually getting to the most famous:
“And Angus... My dad.”
His dad was playing Angus! That kid was in his thirties. I had to get closer to the stage to see what his dad looked like, so I pushed my way through the crowd, mostly Millennials from what I could tell, to the stage, and sure enough, the guy in the schoolboy outfit of shorts and a funny hat was my age. He was obviously wearing a bad wig but it worked. He certainly wasn't Angus heroin chiche' thin, more a squat fat guy, but that didn't stop him; he was definitely Angusing out: jumping, squat-kicking his way across stage, and most impressive, lying on the stage rocking out on his guitar while spinning around like a pinwheel. I don't think I could do that; just the splinters would be a deterrent.
“That's a pretty good Angus,” my son, Heath, remarked.
“How come you can't do that?” Gwynne asked, pointedly.
It made me kind of jealous: hell, yeah, that old fart was good. It made me wonder; what came first, the obviously AC/DC super-fan dad, or his super-talented offspring?
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