I don’t use words like shred or wail – they’re not part of my musical vocabulary. Words like those feel foreign, like they’re from a time I never belonged to. My time fell somewhere between hair bands and Vanilla Ice so go figure…I’m more comfortable talking about the running man or even the friggin’ Macarena.
Now, I love a cute pop-rock girl band as much as the next ex-Bad Religion fan turned thirty-something professional who is mourning the methodical unraveling of her youth.
Haim makes me dance. Haim connects me musically to my twelve year old daughter, and also to my thirteen year old son. My husband and I mostly agree on music, and have co-sponsored plenty of family dance parties while singing, “Baby, Don’t Save Me” in unison at high volumes.
When we heard Haim was playing the Fillmore, we thought it would make a fun Thursday night after-work date. I felt slightly guilty that we didn’t invite our daughter, and wondered if we’d be the old kids in a crowd of twenty-somethings whose musical taste spanned from Bruno Mars to One Direction but segued into hipster-pop because it made them feel more cultural.
I was pleasantly surprised. We ran into several of my husband’s friends/ex-coworkers, who were at least his ripe old age of very-not-twenty. Ageism aside, we loved the show.
By the time I’d slugged back a couple hard ciders, the band began dropping f-bombs, and the adorable girls next to me began dancing and making out, I was not only glad we didn’t bring our daughter, I was ecstatic my husband and I were having a real night out. This was clearly not a fizzy pop-rock show, and Haim just kept wowing me.
Alanis Morissette hair, Stevie Nicks swerve, and super sexy Zeppelin-esque guitar solos are no fucking joke. And I’m not kidding when I say Haim delivered it all: heart-thumping drum beats, hip-swiveling bass lines, pelvic- thrusting guitar solos.
I was stunned, my husband was stunned, the guy next to me looked surprised and said it was easily one of the best shows he’d seen. The show made my hubby’s top five – up there with the Black Keys – and even beat out Cake for a top spot.
My inner feminist kept rejoicing: the world has actual female rockstars again. Real ones. Yes!!!
And now, I don’t care how cheesy it sounds. I don’t need to be rescued from a pop-coma. Baby, don’t save me, I’m officially a Haim fan.
Rock on, bitches. Rock on.