Okay — true confession time. I lost my shirt at the Peter Gabriel concert at the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia last night. During Sledgehammer, I found myself tossing off my shirt and dancing around in my bra. I did leave my pants on but they managed to slip down a few times. Thankfully, I was wearing knickers.
So, why did a completely sober and reasonably quiet 42-year-old depressive strip like a teenager and gyrate for a 62-year-old mostly bald Brit with a paunch?
Right now I suppose you are expecting a really inspirational and profound answer as to why I danced in my bra at the Peter Gabriel concert. I’d love to write you one, but I would be lying.
I fell in love with Peter Gabriel in 1986, when I was a teen. Even then I’d look in the mirror and realize that with my lack of looks, I had absolutely no shot with PG. I’ve never been a good-looking gal. I’m the type always described (after a pause) as “cute.” (Pause cute = you’re one notch above a goat.)
No, I’m not a fan of my personal appearance. Hey, I know I’m ugly. I’m at least 30 pounds overweight, my hair is so unruly it should have its own Social Security number and I STILL have teenage zits. Makes a great counterbalance to my wrinkles. I don’t even shave my pits ’cause it makes them itch like hell.
But for an hour or so last night, I didn’t care. Peter gave me a show and so I gave him one (And yes, he did see me because I was in Row 4 center stage. Didn’t phase him one bit, darn it. Made bassist Tony Levin and drummer Manu Katche laugh, though!)
People with depression tend to hate how they look. I still know I’m ugly, but when the opportunity presents itself, there are times when you can forget this.
Thanks to Tony Levin for not posting any photos of me in my shirtless state on his blog page — although there is one of me in a soundcheck audience photo and this photo of PG. I’m the dark-haired woman with glasses under PG’s butt. (Hmm — that would be a good epitaph.)