Of all the milestones in one’s life, there’s nothing like that first concert. Sure, I’ve been around. At the grand old age of 45 I’ve had my share of shows. Melissa Etheridge, Adema or The Sadies, you name the act, I’ve probably done ’em. I’ve seen American Pearl in Los Angeles and Crash Test Dummies in DC. In fact, I’ve seen so many concerts that, well, at times I make other people blush with tales of my exploits.

Some people think I have no shame. That I only go to concerts like Buju Banton or Deep Purple so I can brag about it the next day. They claim that I have no real great love for the band, and that the show is merely just another ticket stub for my collection. They claim that I’m just carving another notch on the turnstile, another checkmark on my mental list of concert conquests.

Hmmm… maybe.

But when those house lights dim and I feel the collective energy of the evening deep within my loins, I know I’m in for an experience like no other. Tinsley Ellis, Marcy Playground or John Tesh, it makes no difference, each one brings a new kind of excitement to my life. Every show is like my very first time.

Of course, some of you may think I have a problem. That I’m relating to concerts the way most people relate to sex. But I could never talk about that. I could never compare a moment so intimate, a time in one’s life so delicate and special. Sure, I’ll see Sons Of Maxwell and The Strokes and boast about it the next day, but I’d never discuss a private moment between two people. Yes, I’ll tell everyone about Summertime Slaughter, Jill Scott and Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros, but sex? No way. That’s much too confidential to discuss. I could never talk about that “first time.” Besides…

I’m still waiting for it.