Lessons in escorting a senior to a rock concert — the vision versus reality, with a few missteps along the way.
by CC Parker
What in the world does one give to their octogenarian father? Seriously, he doesn’t want anything. Christmas after Christmas, Dad graciously accepts his gifts. And then, like clockwork, the week after the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, he hands it all back — including the bags, the tissue and the ribbon. He knows that I have a week remaining to return these items for a full refund. Dad appreciates the thought, he says, but he does not need new workout clothes/a birdfeeder/dress socks/a glow-in-the-dark walking safety vest.
And yet, praise God, another holiday or birthday rolls around that I am able to celebrate with him — and I do not want to show up empty-handed. This past spring, as Dad’s 81st birthday approached, God smiled upon me doubly. Chicago, Dad’s longtime favorite band, was coming to Raleigh. And, even better, my personal favorite, Earth, Wind & Fire, was touring with them. Hallelujah!
Dad had seen Chicago live on a business trip to Denver in 1973 and been a fan ever since. That trip had been a milestone moment in Dad’s life: he was just starting out in business, had a beautiful bride and was a new father. The tune “Saturday in the Park” became the theme song of many happy Bailey family days.
Earth, Wind & Fire was an integral to my formative years. Play a few notes of “September” and I’m 15 years old in Marty Mitchell’s Five Points basement. It was the ultimate hangout spot: a basement suite consisting of a den, kitchenette, pool table, hot tub on the patio and a jukebox — all out of parental range.
The jukebox was stocked with Marty’s older brothers’ favorites. We girls weren’t particularly interested in The Who or Pink Floyd, but we rocked to Earth, Wind & Fire and Kool & the Gang. These were the Soul Train years, and line dancing was de rigueur. It was good clean fun, sometimes broken up with the mischief of a prank call or, better yet, a call-the-operator to “break in” on a call if the line was busy.
So I was pleased this concert could be a great gift for Dad. But I was concerned about logistics. Transporting my own children to concerts at Walnut Creek through the years, I remember the traffic jams, vested helpers directing our car in the wrong direction and the crushing lines to exit. Even with Uber, it’s hard to find your driver in the sea of cars.
For Dad, I wanted what I refer to as “Cinderella Experience,” which goes like this: A driver picks you up at home and in 10 minutes you’re entering Walnut Creek. There, friendly attendants use their light batons to direct us into a top-secret “back route.” At this exclusive entrance, there is no line to get in. In just a few moments I’m holding a cool pinot grigio in a private bar, having reapplied my lip gloss in a clean bathroom. We enjoy the concert in a little roped-off box. And at the end, we are whisked home in no time. Voila.
For my outing with Dad, I select seats in the middle portion of the covered area, on the aisle for easy bathroom access. I tick all the VIP options — VIP parking, VIP entrance, VIP lounge — which make our second-tier seats the same price as the very front row.
An auspicious start: our livery car glides right into Walnut Creek and the vested parking attendants wave at us. When we disembark at the VIP entrance, however, we learn that we are to go through general admission. I point out my VIP add-on and the attendant shrugs as we head towards the growing crowd. When we get to the VIP bar and bathroom, the lines are just as long as general admission. The intro music begins, and we have no time to spare, so we buy our beers at a general kiosk.
As we rush with the crowd to our seats, Dad says, nonchalantly, over his shoulder, “You know, I’ve never been a big fan of Earth, Wind & Fire.”
What?! How can a man that smart be that dumb? He loves Motown — how can he not love my favorite band? I am gobsmacked and annoyed. The Cinderella experience is a fail. It’s a steamy August night in Raleigh, but we’re comfortable under the massive overhead fans. Dad comments that he is glad to be seated on the aisle (score!). We settle in, but I begin to worry, because Earth, Wind & Fire is playing an instrumental song — and, basic that I am, I only want the hits. Verdine White, an original member of the group, performs a 10-minute bass solo. We clap politely.
But shame on me for losing faith. This is not the band’s first rodeo. They know their fans: they need a few extra minutes to grab their popcorn and beers, and do a last bathroom run.
When the first notes of “Boogie Wonderland” sound, the audience leaps to its feet as one, including my 81-year-old father. The band has brought its A-game; the pageantry and music are just as wonderful as I remember.
Chicago’s turn on the stage does not disappoint. They sound good! The band is well-versed and gives it their all. For one of their final numbers, Earth, Wind & Fire reenters for a horn battle.
Sitting with my father on that hot August night, with the music of my childhood playing, it is transcendental. I am so grateful to have had that moment.
At the end of the ovation, Chicago plays “Saturday in the Park” and it has never sounded better. Dad, smiling, says, “Ok, it’s time to go.” The evening is a success.
Always the gentleman, Dad has the driver drop me at home first. As the car is about to pull away, Dad, birthday cake firmly in hand, says, “Earlier today, I wasn’t feeling up to a concert, but I’m so glad I went.” And just as he’s waving goodbye, he adds: “Oh, and tonight Earth, Wind & Fire was the better band.”
This article originally appeared in the June 2025 issue of WALTER magazine.
