Took Ruby to her first rock and roll show the other night. 'Twas the band Flyleaf and, if my 40 year old self may say, they kicked major ass.
The lead singer, Lacey, looks drawn from a Tim Burton sketch book. All straight black hair draped over one eye, the size of an Olsen twin and sporting a icy-red crinoline prom-dress (Yes, I love her. No, I will never tell Penelope.). Heavy, meaty guitars and a driving zombie fueled groove that captivated the house. And it was LOUD. Mother fucker. I didn't remember how loud clubs got. Or how hot. HOT and LOUD. Mama loved it. Ruby? Hmmmm, not so much. Not at first.
Enter guardian angel of 10 year olds at their first show. Dude came out of nowhere while we were sitting out of the main venue area, made conversation about his first show and gave her some earplugs. Then, protector of most excellent premiere concert experiences, chauffeured us up to the VIP section, parted the velvet rope and gave Ruby a stool to stand on. And then he was gone.
Yes, I was crying. Shut up.