I heard a rumbling noise coming from the second floor of my house. Since we almost never go up there, I thought that one of our dogs might’ve cornered a squirrel that got in through the attic. I made my way up the stairs, walked in the bedroom and saw enough stuff laying on the floor to have a yard sale. It was my wife Carol rummaging through a closet.
“What in the Wide World of Sports are you doing?” I asked.
She gave me a look of disdain and said, “I’m going through our old albums. I’ve got to find a couple to take to the concert.”
I should’ve known. Tonight, we were going to see Herman’s Hermits, featuring lead singer and Carol’s teen heartthrob, Peter Noone. For about a week, I’ve felt the anticipation building. Several times I’ve walked in our house and heard “I’m Henry the Eighth I Am” playing on our sound system. I have been constantly reminded that posters of Noone, aka Herman, were plastered on the walls of her teenage bedroom. I also knew she could sing every single word of every song by heart. And that she bought Tiger Beat magazine any time he was on the cover.
Consequently, when we discovered they were going to be appearing near us, I was threatened with a kitchen utensil until I vowed to buy tickets. Not just any tickets either. These had to be as close to the stage as possible, no matter the cost.
“You may not want to get that close,” I said. “He’s not going to look or sound like he did 60 years ago.”
She gave me a look with bug zapper eyes. “Get tickets close to the stage.” She didn’t say, “…or else,” but I understood. If I didn’t comply, she might pour ammonia in my c-pap machine while I was sleeping. It’s obvious the embers of a teen crush had once again been fanned into a raging flame. She wasn’t alone. The evening of the concert, the venue was full of little old ladies who, like Carol, were amped up to see their former teen idol.
I didn’t say a word, but I knew old rock bands could be hit and miss. We’ve seen McCartney, The Stones and The Eagles in the past few years – all of them were great. However, there are other 60s and 70s groups who should’ve hung up their microphones a while back.
Finally, Herman and his Hermits took the stage. My first thought was, “Wow, this guy must have an excellent plastic surgeon,” because he looked good. Trim with nice, flowing hair. And when I heard the first notes of (something tells me) “I’m into Something Good,” I was quite surprised. His voice, while not the high pitch of his teen years, had aged quite well. I began to relax and enjoy the concert, which was a mixture of hits and banter with his fans. Herman worked the audience skillfully, talking to them with an easy, down-home charm. He even belted out a couple of songs from the aisles.
The former teenagers, now little old ladies, were lapping it up like a dog eating Gravy Train. One lady gave him roses. I thought I saw someone throw her granny panties (or maybe they were Depends diapers) at Herman while he was on stage. Dozens of women reached out to touch him. I even heard a collective sigh when he began crooning “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter,” although it might’ve been more appropriate to sing, “Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely walker.”
Finally, he asked if anyone had one of his old records. Carol shrieked, jumped up and said, “I’m going down there!” With that, she barreled toward the stage, waving her albums like a flagman on a road crew. Unfortunately, another woman got there first, so Carol, shoulders slumped like a scolded child, ambled back to her seat. Naturally, I did what any sensible husband would do – pretended I didn’t know her.
However, life is full of second chances. As the concert wound down, Herman announced that he would be signing autographs after the show. The minute they sang their last song, Carol bolted for the lobby. I didn’t think a woman with two titanium knees could move that fast.
The autograph line grew shorter and she began saying, “I’m sooo nervous, sooo scared.” I kept quiet and shook my head.
When her time came, she handed Herman the album covers and a newly purchased T-shirt, then sat down beside him and said, “I think I’m gonna cry!” He smiled genuinely and said in a British accent, “Don’t cry, luv. It’s all right.”
At once, I begin snapping photos. Of course, I was told in no uncertain terms that the pictures must be perfect. I even got a tutorial on how to operate an iPhone camera – and I have an iPhone.
Within seconds, it was over, and we headed for our car. But Carol’s teen-like behavior continued. She kept chanting, “I can’t believe I just met Peter Noone! I can’t believe I just met him!”
Finally, I could take no more. “Good grief,” I said. “He’s a singer in a band. It’s not like he’s Nick Saban.”
She gave me the bug zapper look and said, “You’re so immature. Nick Saban’s just a football coach. How many albums has Nick Saban ever sold?”
I answered, “How many championships has Peter Noone ever won?”
It was a quite ride home.
Joe Hobby is a barbecue-loving comedian from Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: https://mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com. Follow him on Facebook at Joe Hobby Comedian-Writer.
