Don't knock it till you try it: Lesley Gore live

Monday was my first day back from Vietnam, and in my jet-lagged state I saw in the Star Tribune that Lesley Gore, one of my favorite "girl group" singers, was performing that night at the Dakota in downtown Minneapolis.

I was exhausted and didn't really want to do anything except go home, drink wine and eat nachos, but the rational part of my brain told me I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't drive straight to the venue after work to secure a $40 ticket to this show of the decade. Lesley Gore songs were an important part of my early music education. When I was about eight years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable which they installed in our cold, damp basement in south Minneapolis.

Without an older sibling to guide my musical choices, I relied on my dad. Every now and then he'd take me to Great American Music in Bloomington to purchase 45s. Some of the songs that I remember from this era (my "only child in the basement" era) are "Wishin' and Hopin'", "Runaround Sue" and of course, "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

This early indoctrination instilled a deep appreciation of all that 60s girl group stuff. In my advanced age I now find "It's My Party" to be kind of annoying, but I truly love "Maybe I Know" ("Maybe I know that he's been a-cheatin'/Maybe I know that he's been untrue/But what can I do???") Indeed--I mean really, what can you do? 

Anyway, so I like Lesley Gore, and I rushed down to the Dakota promptly at 5:30 when the box office opened. I'd never been there before (has anyone?), so I didn't know that's it's basically a restaurant and if you buy a single ticket they're going to match you up with another single person with whom you will have to make stilted conversation for what seems like hours. No one stands around like they do at normal rock shows, so there's no escape.

I approached my seat at the two-person cocktail party feeling like a clumsy call girl. My "date" was a gentleman who seemed to be about my dad's age, or older (mid-60s). I was by far the youngest person in the place, and "Ed" pointed this out. "You're too young to remember Lesley Gore," he said. I explained the thing with my dad and the 45s. "Oh," he said. We were off to a great start.

As a personal challenge (I'm socially retarded), I attempted to make conversation about music. He was polite, but not super talkative, and I noticed that he didn't waste much time making reference to his "girlfriend." This made me paranoid. "Does he think I'm hitting on him?" I wondered. Everyone knows that girls only reference "the boyfriend" when they're trying to rebuff the advances of some pushy dude.

Maybe I was reading into it too much. Luckily, Lesley came on soon, and I was relieved of my small talk duties.

Lesley kicked off the night with a song I'd never heard--probably one of her more recent songs that could only be described as "adult contemporary." I started to feel grateful that I hadn't pressured any of my friends to come with me. (This feeling was confirmed later when she performed a "jazzy" version of that Bryan Adams song "Everything I Do...I Do it For You.")

But this is starting to sound catty. Lesley was actually really good! But there is something a little off-putting about seeing someone who looks like your mom's stylish-but-practical best friend belting out teenager pop hits from the 60s. "Maybe I should have stayed home and watched this stuff on youtube..." I started to think. But then again, what was I expecting? 

The audience loved it, however. White women in the sixties "shimmied" self-consciously in their chairs. Older men in button downs and sweaters folder their arms across their chests, occasionally tapping a foot. All in all, it was much like the scene at an indie rock show, but older.

One funny thing happened--during "It's My Party" Lesley went out in the audience to accost a particularly jubilant table of 50-something women. When the chorus came around, she shoved the microphone into the face of one of the women. (I hate it when performers do this; it's so embarrassing! But I guess it only happens when you're at a Monkees reunion show or something.) Anyway, the woman couldn't sing at all. "Well, you look good, but you sure can't sing!" said Lesley. 

After the show, I saw the bad singer in the bathroom. "Oh, you're the singer," said one of the other women in line. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Yeah," said the bad singer. "Lesley said I had a bad voice. But she apologized later and said she didn't mean it."