COLUMN: New Order

Breaking News: Contrary to what my brain routinely tells me, I am NOT 25 years old.

I miss my twenties. When I was a free-spirited youngin', I was constantly on the go. I can't tell you how many nights I'd leave work at 6 p.m., hop in my car, drive three hours to a 10 p.m. concert in Chicago, get back home around 4 a.m., and somehow be back at work the next morning. 

If I tried that kind of nonsense today, I'd die. And I know this because I pretty much just tried it.

Back in 2019, New Order and the Pet Shop Boys announced a dual headlining U.S. concert tour. Those two groups were almost single-handedly responsible for shaping my teenaged musical tastes, so I owed it to myself to catch them live. Then COVID hit, and all bets were off. The tour was postponed and rescheduled multiple times before finally settling on this weekend, and there was much rejoicing. Well, except from me. It turned out the rescheduled Chicago date fell on the same weekend as a friend's wedding I'd agreed to DJ. But the wedding was on a Saturday and the concert was on a Friday, soooo it's possible, right? Here's how it played out:

11 a.m. Friday - I depart the Quad Cities driving solo to the north Chicago suburbs to grab my friend Stuart. The plan is to buzz downtown, enjoy the concert, drop Stuart home, and head back to the QC. The show starts promptly at 7, so it should end around 10 p.m., putting me home by, what, 1 a.m.? That's not TOO bad, right?

12 noon - I should be excited about the concert. Instead, I'm just worried about the wedding tomorrow. I have to set up at 11 a.m. Do I have all the right music picked out? What if I sleep thru my alarm? What if my car breaks down? This is irresponsible, Brown. 

1:30 p.m. - For no good reason, "A Horse With No Name" by America has popped into my head. In an attempt to dislodge it, I am now listening to America's Greatest Hits. I'm confident I am the ONLY person driving to a concert of seminal counter-culture musical icons while listening to 70s soft rock. I'm way cooler than someone who listens to America. I click off the album and fire up my Spotify roadtrip playlist I created for such an occasion. It contains 6500 songs of all genres, styles, and cultures, and is a living testament to my superior cutting-edge musical tastes. I hit random shuffle, and the first song it plays is... "A Horse With No Name." 

2:00 p.m. - I stop for a stretch at the Belvidere tollway oasis. Multiple fast food options await me, but I instead opt for a chicken shawarma wrap from a food cart vendor. It is utterly delicious. And also utterly stupid, because I'm well aware of what happens when my stomach meets food it's not used to. I cross my fingers and wonder if there's Imodium in my glovebox. There is not.

4:00 p.m. - Having made it to my friend's house in the suburbs, we depart on a leisurely bumper-to-bumper rush hour voyage to the concert venue. The show is downtown at the Huntington Bank Pavillion, right along the lake on the former site of Meigs Field. Stuart has secured us a prime parking spot in a pay lot conveniently located 1.6 miles from the venue. My feet are never going to speak to me again.

7:00 p.m. - We make it to the show. It is amazing -- except all I can focus on is the wedding, the rental gear, the drive home, and the fact that it is NOT starting promptly at 7.

10:40 p.m. - Every song gives me chills. Or maybe it's just the bitter cold wind blowing in from the lake. New Order mean more to me than most bands. Their posters still adorn my bedroom. I hang on every word from frontman Bernard Sumner, awaiting some sagely counter-culture nugget that will justify my roadtrip and reaffirm my musical superiority. "Thank you, Chicago," he says, leaving the stage. "We love your pizza!"

11:15 p.m. - My feet are DONE. There's no way I can make it back to the car. "Leave me here to die," I tell Stuart. Instead, we hail what can only be described as a disco rickshaw covered in LED lights and blaring New Order songs from massive speakers. I'm convinced it's a feverdream, but it is not. It costs a fortune to ride this embarassing contraption back to the car, but it is worth every penny and eyeroll from strangers.

12:45 a.m. - My original estimate had me getting home about now. Instead, I am just now leaving the suburbs.

1:20 a.m. - "This was dumb," I tell myself. "GROOOOOOINK," agrees the chicken shawarma wrap from somewhere in my small intestine. Once again, I visit the scenic and exciting Belvidere toll plaza. Dinner this time are bottles of Frappucino and Imodium.

2:45 a.m. - In an effort to drive me completely insane, semi drivers along I-88 have spaced themselves just far enough apart that I can't ever use my brights. That's okay, because fog has rolled in. I see imaginary deer every 2-3 miles. It is a miserable drive home. I become convinced that the Quad Cities has somehow moved further away from Chicago while I've been up here. 

I got just after 4 a.m. In the words of Danny Glover, I am definitely too old for this you-know-what. Somehow, I woke up at 9 the next morning (well, the SAME morning,) and made it to the wedding powered on sheer willpower and the maximum recommended dosage of Advil. It is somehow a resounding success by most accounts. Lesson learned. I am no longer 25, no matter what my brain thinks. If I had to do it all over again, clearly I would do the mature thing and... oh, who am I kidding? I would DEFINITELY do it all over again. New Order rule.