Throw Off Your Mental Chains
On September 6, my best friend Elisa (yes, same name) and I went to see Howard Jones, ABC, and Haircut 100 at the Paramount on Long Island.
It was my fourth time seeing HoJo. My first time seeing ABC and Haircut 100.
The last time I saw HoJo at the Paramount—nine years prior—I was able to afford second-row seats. This time I couldn’t even afford actual seats—Elisa and I stood in the back of the venue for three hours straight.
On the one hand, this made for good dancing time. On the other hand, standing-only is not good for plantar fasciitis. One thing midlife forces you to do is put function before fashion. I traded in my fab GenX studded boots for Skechers that night, and my feet thanked me.
Just a couple of hours before, at dinner with Elisa and another friend, the subject of caring for aging parents dominated the conversation. I’d spent the week tending to and spending time with my 91-year-old mother, and it wasn’t without its challenges. The three of us exchanged stories, stresses, and worries.
Not just my friends. A portion of Craig’s and my weekly FaceTime visits often turns to the topic of our parents. And when I stopped in the independent bookstore on the East End and caught up with the owner, she, too, shared the challenges of caring for her father.
We’re at that age.
Additionally, I was still reeling from the death of my tuxedo cat, Spatz. Following her diagnosis of terminal heart and renal issues in 2020, Craig and I knew that every day with her would be a gift. Especially since we had no way of knowing how many days she had.
And yet, I wasn’t prepared to lose her just one month into my relocation across the country.
I needed this concert. I needed music and friendship. I needed to dance.
Haircut 100 was fun—I likely danced to their songs at the Paris, New York club during my high school years.
ABC was fantastic and won the night for me—which is saying a lot, considering how much I love HoJo. The classic synths and the addictive got-a-good-beat-you-can-dance-to-it rhythms made me downright euphoric.
Howard Jones completed the evening; he was the cherry on the musical sundae. HoJo’s music has always been uplifting, its message being to simply hang in there. (I’m looking at you, “New Song.”)
And Howard himself is uplifting. At 70 years old, he still has childlike delight on stage, engaging the audience in call-and-response and partaking in self-deprecation when he messed up the bridge of one of his songs.
When my brother Mike and I saw him in 2014, after the show, Mike marveled: “I forgot how many hits that guy had. And all of them good.”
We received an additional treat courtesy of Nick Beggs, former bassist and co-founder of the band Kajagoogoo, best known for their megahit “Too Shy” from the album known by Duranies as “the one Nick Rhodes produced.” Nick (Beggs), HoJo, and company performed “Too Shy”—it was as joyful as the rest of the set, and for a fleeting moment I fantasized that Nick Rhodes would saunter on stage and man one of the synth racks.
When the song ended, Nick Beggs held his heart-shaped hands to his chest and “fell over” on stage from the bombardment of love from the audience.
The feeling was mutual.
The entire night, especially during ABC’s set, I allowed myself to forget about aging parents, long-distance marriage, grief, and loss.
I was present to the music. To the love. Didn’t matter that the music was forty years old. It was timeless.
I was timeless.
I danced all night, plantar fasciitis be damned.
Danced like Duran Duran had always wanted me to dance.
Danced with a friend who’s been with me through forty years of joy and sorrow, love and loss, marriage and midlife.
It had been a long time since I danced. Too long.
It had been a long time since I’d felt free—specifically, that kind of freedom. Free of those mental chains.
I returned to Massachusetts the following morning with a full heart and a recharged battery.
And an epiphany.
One that came from Howard Jones, ABC, Haircut 100 and, believe it or not, Dean Butler.
The guy who played Almanzo Wilder on Little House on the Prairie.
I know. One of these things is not like the others.
I started following Dean Butler on TikTok last year for no other reason than he seemed like a nice guy. Not that I ever came close to being a Prairie fan, but hey, I am a GenXer, and I watched the show on Monday nights at 8:00 like just about everyone else my age did.
Dean Butler revels in being part of the Little House legacy. He speaks about the show, his former castmates, and his role with joy and gratitude and reverence. He honors and appreciates its fans with the same joy.
Which brings me to the point.
They all saw their peak of fame and success in the 1980s. Ditto for Duran Duran.
Haircut 100, ABC, and Howard Jones played music from 40 years ago. Night after night.
Imagine playing the same songs night after night after night for forty years.
As Daryl Hall said to Kenny Loggins regarding “Danny’s Song”: “That’s the curse of writing a good song.”
But they played these songs with love and pride and enthusiasm. They played them for an adoring, grateful audience.
There wasn’t a single complaint about no one being interested in their musical catalogs or acting credits past the 1980s.
No lament about the size of the venue (the first time I saw Howard Jones was at Nassau Coliseum in 1986—a sold-out show of about 16,000 people; by contrast, full capacity at the Paramount is about 1,500).
If you’ll allow me a moment of comparison—and by comparing, I am certainly not equating myself with them—my “fame” and success didn’t peak as far back as the ’80s, but it’s been ten to fifteen years since I saw dream-come-true numbers of book sales and royalties.
I’ve spent the better part of those ten years grieving the loss of those numbers (and dollars).
I’ve grieved how the books I’ve written since then have struggled to break one thousand sales units in a year, much less in a month.
Until September 6 at the Paramount. Until a few TikTok videos.
Regardless of how any of them feel off-stage or off-camera, HoJo, Nick Beggs, Martin Frye, and Dean Butler showed me unconditional gratitude and appreciation for what came before. Acceptance of where they are now and how their fans feel about them.
I’ve been so busy focusing on the loss that I’ve lost sight of that joy.
For five years, I had a success that some authors would sell their souls for. Never mind that it didn’t last. It happened.
I’ve wasted a lot of time lamenting the loss when I could’ve celebrated that it happened.
I’ve always celebrated and appreciated the readers and “fans” who have supported me from day one and would read a shopping list if I wrote it, but when was the last time I celebrated and appreciated the success unconditionally?
Celebrated that my books still sell, regardless of the size of the numbers.
Celebrated the work.
My debut novel Faking It continues to be my best seller nearly fifteen years since it was a Bestseller (capitalization intentional). From a craft standpoint, I’ve written much better books since. But that doesn’t subtract from the love I and others still have for this book and its characters.
I wrote it. And it’s sold over 250,000 units worldwide, in multiple languages.
Like, wow!
In comparison, my most recent novel All of You has sold… er, modestly. That is to say, some months it doesn’t sell any units at all.
Doesn’t make me love it any less. In fact, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever written.
Thus, I’ve not only changed the way I think about it but also the way I talk about it in public and on social media. Taking a hint from Dean Butler’s videos, I’m starting to share the joy and reverence for that time of my life. Like Nick Beggs, I’m showing heart-shaped hands to my audience in gratitude for the magical ride.
And as a result, I’ve thrown off my mental chains. Finally made peace with what no longer is.
Which, in turn, makes room for what can and will be.
The writing, of course. The work.
Put another way, the music still in me.
This kind of freedom feels good.