'No Time' like youth: Reliving the soundtrack of nostalgia

For certain kinds of concerts, you know the deal going in. There will be aging.

That's the way it goes with rock 'n' roll in particular, when the bands and their fans stick with each other as they grow old together. The lessons about the time's passing are sobering. But there also is a lot to learn about how to react to aging — on concert stages and in life in general.

I was reminded of that earlier this month when we went to see The Guess Who at Jones Beach Theater. The group was a favorite from our teen years,  but the band's mainstays had not toured together in more than two decades and had not released any new music together since 1975. Our memories were carved in half-century-old vinyl.

It was a beautiful evening with just enough of a breeze to carry the heat of the day out to sea, making room for waves of cool nostalgia. We settled into our seats with anticipation but also genuine wonder. We knew what was coming in general terms — "American Woman," "No Time," "Laughing," and a bunch of other hits from the band's heyday. But the specifics of what we would see and hear remained a mystery.

So it was an absolute delight that the show was wonderful. The music that erupted from the stage recalled long-ago times lived to a youthful soundtrack. But the performance unfolded with some dissonance, too. Keyboardist/singer Burton Cummings and guitarist Randy Bachman, The Guess Who's frontmen, are 78 and 82, respectively. Bachman still can shred but he sat on a stool for the entire show. Cummings' voice still is strong but he no longer can hit all the high notes. 

You see that kind of diminishment first in professional athletes. In music, it's usually in the singers. And it's important to note that there is no shame in acknowledging that you just can't reach the notes you once did. It's not a failing of character but a change in biology akin to the number of concertgoers that night who wore hearing aids. Vocal chords thicken, get stiffer, become less flexible, and one's range drops. Mick Jagger, in other words, is a rarity.

Then again, none of us are what we were 50 years ago. The number of concertgoers who struggled up the steps at Jones Beach was a reminder of that. The difference is that most of us get to age in relative privacy. The number of people watching us change is comparatively small. Performers — whether they're on a concert stage or a ball field or soccer pitch — must do it while being observed by thousands or, often, millions.

It's an inevitable process that calls for grace — the grace found in understanding that the people you admired in your youth are not the same as they were back then. The grace inherent in accepting that you are not the same, either. And, crucially, the grace in being able to find in a moment of imperfection a spark that evokes a time when everything was right. The grace, in other words, of understanding that one need not be perfect or exactly what they once were. They just need to meet the moment.

That's what happened during The Guess Who show. Cummings would sing under a note he used to soar for, and I would hear that, and it wouldn't matter because his passion and conviction already had taken me back to 1972, driving with my friends as we belted out "No Sugar Tonight" or lying in my bed after midnight quietly singing "These Eyes."

Both Cummings and I were cheating the years. And it might not have been perfect. But it was more than good enough.

Columnist Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.

By Michael Dobie

michael.dobie1@newsday.commwdobie

Michael Dobie is a retired member of the Newsday editorial board.