Loretta Lynn

At 24, I feel old. It’s not the random gray beard hairs. And no, it’s not the all-day hangovers. It ain’t even busting out of college’s regiment into the fog of adulthood. It’s my choice of entertainment.

You see, this past weekend was special. Not because Wilco played the Joint Friday, even though Jeff Tweedy and the boys rarely come through Vegas, and make up one of the best bands on the planet (this is a fact, not opinion). And it wasn’t special because my new favorite local band The Lurks! played the Double Down Saloon. They play there all the time. And it wasn’t even special because the nice girl working at a place kitty-corner from the Double Down, called Red Room, offered my friend and myself 50 percent off services when we stopped in to see if it really was what we thought it was. We’re pretty sure it is (the “nice” charade ended once we politely declined).

I feel old because this past weekend, both the queen of soul and the queen of country music graced the Las Vegas area with their presence — and I couldn’t have been more stoked.

I’m not going to lie. Missing Wilco to see Aretha Franklin at Primm wasn’t the easiest decision I’ve made, but fortunately I hadn’t bought a ticket for Wilco — which would have set me back about $50 more than I need right now — and my buddy had free Franklin tix. And a room. And he was driving. I probably would have made the decision on that information alone, but the fact that every time I decline to see one of these legendary performers they drop dead less than a month later, really greased the rails that much more.

Seriously. James Brown played Vegas right before he died. I didn’t go. Then George Carlin. I didn’t go. Then, most recently, Jimi Hendrix’s best drummer, Mitch Mitchell. Didn’t go. I know there’s gotta be more I’m either forgetting or not aware of, but I’m pretty sure I killed these dudes by denying myself the opportunity to bask in their awesomeness. I wasn’t gonna kill Aretha. No way Jose. And I sure as shit wasn’t gonna kill Loretta Lynn by not seeing her Saturday night at Texas Station (Jack White — who made an album with Lynn — would be totally pissed, and he’s, like, my favorite dude). I was turning over a new leaf.

So, yeah. I went to both shows. They were great. Both ladies were elegantly accentuated against a backdrop of rock solid musicians — Franklin in a red, strapless gown, and Lynn in a seafoam, high-necked, Western dress — and conversational, as anecdotes and humility abounded. Real class. And though I felt like the 67-year-old Franklin’s voice was slightly overpowered by her massive band (including a horn section) and back-up singers, it was enough for my friend to claim that he was making a resolution to only see black musicians from that point on. (If he would have gone to Lynn’s show with me the next night, I’m sure he would have reconsidered.) Lynn’s voice — though she jokingly complained about it — is still beautiful and surprisingly strong at 74 years of age, and her band — also with back-up singers (this time male), but a pedal steel guitar in lieu of a horn section — was right down where it needed to be to let the Coal Miner’s Daughter and fam do their thing.

Actually, one of the most noteworthy things about both shows was the family factor. Not only do you get the feeling from the audience at these kind of shows that everyone — most having been fans longer than I’ve been alive — is family, but both artists actually had family members in the band. While both queens had a son on guitar, Lynn — whose country music royalty is traditionally known for being family-oriented — had her guitarist son Earnest Ray, daughter Patsy, and even Patsy’s husband open up the show singing a few jams. And when you thought that was gonna be all, midway through her set, Lynn smacked me in the face with the wild card. When she introduced her granddaughter — who came out and sang my favorite Lynn song, “Rated ‘X’” — as a “little girl,” this is not what I was expecting. Talk about royalty. Tayla Lynn, I heart you. Thanks for the unsolicited hug. (Note: And for what it’s worth, I have never in my life seen someone hustle their CDs as effectively after a show. Hotcakes from now on will be called Taylas.)

When I met up with some friends for sushi after Saturday’s show, none of them even knew who Loretta Lynn was. When I met up with some more friends at a bar after sushi, few of them did. I don’t know why. I don’t know why the queen of soul and the queen of country music are playing weird off-strip venues. I don’t know how the chasm between greatness and commercialism opens up. I don’t know why I have gray hairs in my beard and not in my hair. I don’t know exactly what those girls are doing in the back of Red Room, or how it doesn’t get shut down. And I don’t really have any way to gauge if it was creepy to offer Tayla Lynn a tour of Las Vegas (I may be naive for thinking her interest was genuine and that they really had to hit the road). But sometimes, when you are getting older — or even just feeling it — you do things strictly based on the principle that you may never have another chance.