Hello? Adele? I want you to meet my ‘little brother’...
I used to write with music playing in the background till I realized the rhythms were interfering with my work. Like music, writing relies on attractive cadences. Seems to me that my favorite writers have a bit of bossa nova in their fingertips.
Me, I hear drum lines in my head and giant cymbals falling over accidentally.
Music is life, and I like to share that with my youngest son. He is so into sports, which I also crave, but more and more I find sports to be a little vulgar, financially and behaviorally. What we really need in the world is more togetherness, which is what I get from pop culture, in small staccato bursts.
Anyway, I took the little guy to the Adele concert the other night, passing him off as “my little brother,” as I do in many social settings.
The little brother deception is a reach, yet I like the glint of confusion, the tilt of the head from polite and puzzled strangers when they try to decide whether I’m kidding or simply demented.
“Have you met my little brother?” I ask, seeing if they detect the 46-year difference in our ages.
By the way, I think this Adele person — just the one name, apparently — might really have a future. She sang the roof off Staples Center the other night. Seriously, they are probably pounding a new roof on the place this very second, the other having blown clear off and landing on the 110 Freeway like a giant sun visor ... like a lid.
This being California, drivers would’ve been unfazed by such an occurrence, swerving out of the way and resuming emergency phone chats with their therapists.
As you know, everyone out here has a therapist. Even the therapists have therapists. It is an economy based almost entirely on movies and mental mayhem. The two go hand in hand, of course.
Back to Adele for a moment. It is a majestic thing, This Voice, unlike any other, but with hints of Aretha Franklin and a touch of British coal mines. Torchy. Celestial. Hurt.
Her songs are invariably sad, which I can’t really relate to. But women sure do. On this night in Staples, the audience is 80% female. They show up in sequins and white summer jeans, to see their emotional messiah. An Adele concert may be the biggest chick flick we’ve ever seen.
As with any amazing concert, you remember not just the songs, but who you were with in the moment.
I love her though, and I don’t think it unmanly to admit that. When she rises in the center stage, singing her haunting hit, “Hello,” I get chills and a little burning tingle in my forearms (like when you fry bacon).
Though I adore music, I’m certainly no expert. I’ve been to only three live concerts in my life. I had the good fortune to catch Beethoven when he first started working the clubs, and I had a transcendent experience at an REO Speedwagon concert in Cleveland — till a sudden downpour ruined my rolling papers.
Through some rare twist of logic and fate, I also saw Elton John play the old Chicago Stadium, where during his encore fans began to race for their sensible sedans in hopes of getting out of the West Side alive.
From this, I learned the best concerts leave you breathless.
As does this one.
She’s a little chatty, Adele is, stopping between songs to talk about her young son, the pregnancy rumors, the Olympics. She’s quite witty, yet severely British, so I have trouble making out all the words.
One question, or maybe several: How is it, in this glitzy era, that the world’s biggest pop sensation doesn’t even dance? During the two-hour show, no pyrotechnics, not even a sparkler? They call this entertainment?
I suppose it’s because, when she sings, Adele leaves us breathless.
And as with any amazing concert, you remember not just the songs, but who you were with in the moment. In this case, “my little brother,” who is growing awfully fast these days.
As Adele may one day write about her own son, your kids grow up so quickly that it’s almost abusive, it’s almost torture, and the realization of that comes in small staccato bursts.
Celebrate every note.
Twitter: @erskinetimes
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