So I went to the Social Distortion show the other night here in Montreal. My original plan was to bring the perfect girl: a little angry, somewhat jaded, and a lot of tattoos. But that didn’t work out, so I waited to the last minute to find someone else with boobies to take with me, and ended up dragging along a drinking buddy instead.

The Opening Acts

We got there for the last song of the opening act. No one applauded or cheered when they were done, so  they told the crowd to get some whisky and cocaine to wake up, but they sounded like the soundtrack to some shitty hipster YouTube long boarding video.

Credit: Eva Blue

The next act was Lindi Ortega. She played an acoustic guitar against an electric band and had this raunchy rock n’ country sound that made me wanna jerk off to her even more than the sight of her prancing around stage in that short black dress, fingering those acoustic guitar strings.

Then, right before Social Distortion took the stage, I ran into a friend who told me that she’d just run into my ex. I knew there was a chance my ex might be there (which is why I wanted a hot piece of ass hanging off my arm), but knowing for certain that she was somewhere in the crowd put me in a cocksucker of a mood.

Mike and the boys took the stage just a few minutes later, but I was already back at the bar muscling through the line up for another drink. There was only one way I was going to deal with this: the mature way.

The Social Distortion Set

Now, Social D was tight. Maybe the tightest band I’ve ever seen performed live. No, definitely the tightest. If it hadn’t been for a few thousand screaming fans, I would’ve thought I was sitting in on a private studio session.

In between the first couple songs, Mike had this geeky, crowd-pleasing alacrity that guys in their 50s (like your dad) has when he finally gets a captive audience that has to listen to them. But then he slipped into it, and it was listening to him 24 years ago, Live at the Roxy.

Credit: Eva Blue

The only problem is that I couldn’t enjoy it. I was brooding and on a mission to drink heavily. I was heartsick and feeling angry and violent, and I was pissed that my ex had somehow managed to ruin for me what might probably be my last chance to see one of my favorite bands live.

Until, that is, I was sitting in a local dive bar the next night, smoking a joint with a smoking hot barmaid who’d been at the show the night before. She was reliving it with such passion and lust and conviction that I realized that what ex had done was taken that ~$160 night (2 tickets + drinks) and let me experience all the carnal and guttural angst of so a Social Distortion song.

At first, I tried to not let her Drag Me Down, but it was no use and I ended up drinking like a Ball and Chain and brooding like a Sick Boy. I missed nearly half their set going outside to chain smoke, and I felt as lonely and lost and confused as if I’d been stranded in Bakersfield.

For a few hours, I felt what I think it’s like to get inside Mike Ness’s head — at least when he’s inspired to write. It was brutish and overwhelming and enraging and humbling because I know I will never have the strength or courage to channel that kind of anger and fury and rage.

The Morning After

Needless to say, I don’t remember much of the night after that. I tallied maybe somewhere in the area of 15 drinks and a two joints, and I might’ve even sent a late night angry text that I regret more than anything because it went unanswered. Then I woke up this morning and had it all come back to me before I could even muster the courage to get up and take my morning piss.

And you know what I realized?

I realized that maybe I’m fortunate that I wasn’t blessed (or cursed) with the strength or courage to channel that kind of angst and frustration because that’s the stuff that rock n’ roll legends are made off, and rock n’ roll folklore often doesn’t end with a happily ever after. Even if those legends immortalize the brave and tortured souls that perpetuate them.