the ocean

The Heart of Dixie

Let me tell you a little bit about attending a Dixie Chicks concert with your mother in the south suburbs of Chicago. First, of all, arrive early, as it took us about forty-five minutes just to get a parking spot and another half hour to get through the interest line, which can probably be attributed to the fact that their crack security team appeared to consist of three surly teenagers holding metal detector wands listlessly. But you probably don’t need to worry about the wait because, second, you need to be prepared to wait. The concert started at seven, but the Chicks themselves did not take the stage until well nigh nine. But this is actually not the worst thing, because it gives you time to, third, analyze the fascinating array of humanity in attendance. There were ladies in short shorts and “Cowboy Take Me Away” t-shirts, bros in “Keep Calm and Carry Guns” t-shirts (who had apparently missed the Chicks’ well-publicized trip to the left), and even big fat party dudes in “I Like to Snatch Kisses and Vice Versa” t-shirts. Obviously you will  want to make a trip to the make-your-own-t-shirt store after your concert visit. Fourth, don’t expect an uninterrupted listening experience, because the CSO this ain’t. We were fortunate enough to have a group of very drunk rednecks standing right by us, loudly conversing about everything but the concert and occasionally even shouting incoherently at the performers. But don’t worry, because security was ON IT, walking by occasionally and utterly ignoring the apparent auditions for Party Down South taking place right in front of them. They were probably distracted by, fifth, the single longest bathroom lines I have ever seen. We’re talking, like, women’s room at the New Kids revival tour long. Bring your phone, because you will definitely be able to knock off a few levels of Candy Crush whilst you wait. But don’t drop it because, sixth, all porta-potties are disgusting. On the plus side, seventh, the Chicks pretty much kill it in all respects. Sick ass fiddling, non-cloying Prince tribute, amazing Beyonce cover, major hits without any semblance of phoning it in. That will all come in handy when, eighth, it starts to rain and you must huddle under your blanket because umbrellas are for some unknowable reason not allowed. It was a wet, uncomfortably neo-Confederate evening, but ultimately well worth the price of admission!