I promised my sixteen-year-old daughter that I would drive her to a rock concert last summer. It was taking place at one of those open-air venues, where you could buy lawn-tickets and sit on a blanket under the stars on a warm summer evening with a few friends and enjoy the music. The headline band was REM, the grand-daddy of breakout indie-alt-college bands. My daughter Sophie was more interested in the opening act, Modest Mouse, a band which obviously appealed to a more youthful audience. To be honest, I was never much of an REM fan, but I figured if I’m driving her all the way to this concert, I might as well make the best of it and join in the fun.

As we got our tickets checked and enter the park, I was a little surprised by the magnitude of the crowd. What are all these people doing here? Scanning the faces and bodies pressing all around us, I notice a disturbing trend: maybe one out of fifty people look vaguely similar to me in age. There were some older teens, lots of college-age and twenty-something’s, and a smattering of real adults, most of them couples in their thirties. A gnawing anxiety started to slither into my gut. And it hits me: I am definitely too old for this. Look at me! A 47-year old gray-haired, wrinkly faced, hunchbacked man at a rock concert! What must these young, smooth, hip people think of me?

An uncomfortable self-consciousness began to set in. In an effort to re-orient myself, I tried to recall the last real true rock concert I went to. It couldn’t have been that long ago. I am still relevant, aren’t I? I start working backwards in time. OK, let’s see. I do patronize plenty of jazz and folk concerts. Does that count? No, no, no. 100% over-the-hill crowd with mellow sounds attended by true music aficionados is not anything close to a rock concert. I reach further into my memory banks, and begin happily recounting the many Broadway shows and theatre acts I’ve seen. I loved that scene in Wicked when she sings about Defying Gravity and elevates into the sky! Nothing will ever top that! And what about Circque du Soleil – Those acrobats are amazing, aren’t they? And it’s a bit avante-garde, even! My theatrical retrospective abruptly ends as my inner punk steps in and whacks me upside the head. "Idiot!" I admonish myself. "What, Is Liza Minelli the next act in your lame-ass lineup?" Yes, I must get a hold of myself. These freaks would kill me, roll me and smoke me in a pipe if they knew that I was reminiscing about show tunes. I snap back into the shameful reality of my situation: it’s been so long since I’ve been to a true rock concert that I can’t even remember. I think it was Blue Oyster Cult in the late 70’s.

Sophie is running ahead of me, talking to her friend on the cell phone, trying to figure out where they will meet. We eventually locate the friends over at the sunscreen-sponsor tent, and then she immediately bans me from their presence. Okay, she's sixteen, and I’m used to this by now. But I still put up a little fight.

"Well how am I going to know where you are? There are like twenty thousand people here. What am I gonna do all alone?"

"Da-ad! You are NOT sitting with us! Alexa’s dad came too, and he just went somewhere and found a place to sit. Why can’t you be like him?"

"I just want to see where you guys are  sitting." What I'm really saying, is "I just want to see if your friends are going to drink beer and smoke pot."

"Dad, go away. I’ll call you when the concert’s over and we’ll meet somewhere."

This went on for a while. I finally pretended to leave, then went all stealth and followed her and her friends for a while to see where they were sitting. Modest Mouse was noisily playing their set in the background.

Once I sawwhere they were seated, I took stock of my situation. I don’t like it. I’m just not up for this anymore. The smell of cigarettes and pot, the crowds, the scrappy-looking new-age hippies who think they know everything, the noisy loud music, the throngs of young people without a care in the world other than spending $35 to hear the bands they love. And then I remembered something: isn’t the lead singer of REM, Michael Stipe, a militant vegetarian with a big political mouth? I hate that. If I come to a concert, I certainly don’t want to be politically preached at. Especially not by a militant vegetarian.

This odd but familiar feeling creeps up on me and grips me tighter. I am a total outsider. I don’t fit in and everyone can see it. My mind goes all paranoid. I imagine that all these "kids" are looking at me and laughing.

Go ahead, dudes, laugh all you want. I could kick your ass in a Boardroom. All day long. And I’m not wearing Khakis. I am wearing cargo shorts I bought from Kohls, and a very comfortable golf shirt. And I’m carrying a backpack filled with items that I thought we would need for our father-daughter experience in the park: two ponchos in case it rains, bottled water, a blanket to sit on. Just the basics, friends.

I fumble through the crowds with my backpack, hop-scotching over little segments of people on chairs and blankets to find a tiny square of lawn in between all the happy couples and random groupings of youthful friendsters, where I can park my middle-aged ass and pretend to enjoy the concert, alone. I sit down and find enough space to lie back with my head on the backpack. I’ll close my eyes and think quiet thoughts, that’s what I’ll do. The lawn is already damp. The dank smell of beer is heavy in the air, and I listen to the idle chatter of the annoyingly young people surrounding me. Damn these kids who are so optimistic and upbeat all the time. I bet half of them are still living at home.

Modest Mouse finishes their set, and the crowd, in solidarity with the band’s namesake, offers up a Modestly enthusiastic applause while the band exits the stage. The roadies begin to set up for REM. Some kind of eclectic indie-alt-rock music is now being piped out to the crowds, all the songs sung with the same ironic apathetic tone of youth, with frequent and casual use of the f-word woven throughout the lyrics of the various songs. I’m not familiar with any of the music. This alienates me even further. My quiet thoughts are derailed completely.

I text my younger daughter Lilly, who is at home.

"i m so bored. wut r u doing?"

Lilly texts back right away.

"hi dad. Wut band is on?"

I explain the concert set-up. We exchange a couple texts and then there is nothing left to say, so she doesn’t text me again. I don’t know how kids can go on and on for hours texting and cell-phoning and Face-booking, talking about basically nothing at all: friends, gossip, clothes, celebrities, hanging out, hooking up, making plans for more concerts. Everything in the world to them but nothing at all to me.

I think of REM and am surprised that they would draw such a huge crowd. I guess they were pretty big, back in the day. Although I never quite latched on to them as a band to follow. My loyalty tended towards the more refined, lesser-known artists. I still to this day have never bought a single item of music from any of the platinum classic artists, like the Rolling Stones, Dylan, the Beatles…or REM. I don’t know, I just haven’t been compelled enough by their music. Instead I have a huge collection of everything ever recorded from artists like Bjork, Radiohead, Joni Mitchell, Beth Orton, Kate Bush. And then I have a big mixed bag of pop-rock-folk-jazz-classical. I am reveling in my superior taste in music, and I pretend to text Lilly again, just so that I will look relevant to the demographic of the crowd surrounding me. I continue to be taunted by the overwhelming need to fit in. And I am thankful that although I am old, at least I am not fat.

Then the crowd starts clapping and making some noise. REM is walking on stage. Everyone jumps up cheering as Michael Stipe takes the mike and the band launches into "Begin the Begin." I remain seated. Ho Hum, REM. Yeah, I know what he sounds like. I’ve seen the videos. About twentyyears ago, in fact. I have a slight view of the top half of the stage, gaping between the shoulders of the standing crowds, and I notice this incredible light-video show going on behind the band. It’s huge. And it is extremely well done. It’s like a moving electric Andy Warhol-esque exhibit. It reminds me of the repeating Campbell Soups or Marilyn Monroe’s, but with changing lights and patterns and colors displayed on a huge video checkerboard screen interspersed with multiple views of a choppy black and white live feed of Mike Stipe’s head as he sings. It’s way cool. I like it. But I remain firmly seated. Because, after all, I am still irritated.

The crowd goes wild cheering after the first song. Right away the band gets into the second song. A girl moves right in front of me, blocking the only view I had of the top half of the light show (I was okay as long as I could see Michael Stipe’s head on one of the top boxes). Down in front! No way was she going to sit down or move, even if I yelled at her. I stood up.

Now I see that Michael Stipe is wearing a very nice suit and tie. Very nice, Michael. I like this guy more than I thought. He’s got some class, coming out to do a rock show wearing a crisply tailored suit, surely a European cut. And you know what? The music is not too loud. It’s just right. Powerful, but not overpowering. This just might work for me. And this song rocks! Must be from their new album. I like the way Michael Stipe puts his whole body into the singing, with all the desperate, electrocution-like jolts and convulsive jerking movements of his arms, feet and heads. Oh, sorry, he has just one head. But on the screen behind him it’s multiple heads. I gradually get pulled into the whole scene – the songs, the crowd, the light show. It’s a very community artistic sensory experience. And like I said before, the songs rock.

Michael Stipe restrains himself from ranting about politics. He announces that he promised some family members who are in the crowd, that he wouldn’t do it tonight. Thank you, Lord. Instead, he continues to do what he does best. Rock.

Towards the end of the show, I text Sophie to meet me at the gate before the encore, so that we could duck out before the hordes. She cooperates. As we walk back to the car, I tell her how much I enjoyed the show.

"Really?" She asks. She is pleased with the potential dad-cool factor of me enjoying a rock concert. "Yeah, I thought they were great!"

We get a head-start on all the traffic and get out with no delays. I am still feeling the energy of the music, the light show. It makes me feel young and old at the same time. Old, because I realize how long it’s been since I’ve just let loose and taken in something so loud, so mobbish, so artistically huge. Young because it felt great. It made me feel light and happy in the way that only music and art can do. It reminded me of myself. I became one of the Shiny Happy People, as REM would sing it.

The next day I bought tickets to Coldplay. It’s the favorite band of both my daughters. This time, we’re going as a family. My family will definitely rock. And I will be the first one to stand up when the band walks on stage.