I am a bit of a head-banger. I’m also pretty sure that term is not used anymore, but who cares, you get the idea.  I am that lady you see driving down the road singing (and I use that term loosely here) to Van Halen, Def Leppard, or insert hair band of choice here. Pulling into my daughter’s school I have to remind myself, “Turn it down, you are a grown up now, this is a place of education.”  But honestly, I would rather be a few minutes late for pick up than miss the end of Photograph.

I love all types of music, but the heavier the better for me. This love of crazy guitar riffs, big hair, and tight leather pants began a long time ago and has settled deep into my DNA.  I once dated a guy who picked me up in his car listening to Erasure. I think I laughed at him and then asked if he was on his period. I like it loud.

Just ask my mom. During my early high school years you could not find an inch of white wall in my boudoir because of all the posters. One would think a pimple-pocked thirteen year old boy resided there, if not for the girly bedspread and playbills from A Chorus Line and CATS.   A life-size photo of Jon Bon Jovi hung on the back of my door (you know the one), posters of Ratt, AC/DC , Ozzy Ozbourne, Dokken, Poison, and of course, Mötley Crüe adorned my lair.

As a kid I moved around, a lot. No, not because I was on the lamb, but because of my father’s job. The one thing that helped me feel safe, accepted, and pretty damn good was music. Not just any type of music – straight up Rock. If I had a crap day in Algebra, if the boy I liked did not ask me to Homecoming (you know who you are!), or if I got food stuck in my retainer, I could slap on my headphones, press play on my sweet-ass Walkman, and let Ozzy carry me away….far far away from my hideous perm.

I was enamored of these rock gods. They had millions of adoring groupies, got to ride in pimped out tour buses from city to city, and their eyeliner never seemed to smear. When you’re a kid who is not yet legal to drink, dependent upon your mom to drop you off at the mall, and still wearing the My First Bra, the rock lifestyle seemed magical.

One of the highlights of my heavy metal-loving career came the summer I was turning fifteen.  My friend Amy and I had tickets to see Mötley Crüe and Whitesnake. It was their Girls, Girls, Girls tour and we were giddy at hell.

I tried to find the sluttiest clothes I could, which proved a severe challenge since I had limited civilian-wear (Catholic school my whole life) and I was fourteen. I did my best with a black mini-skirt, an old tank top from eighth grade P.E., and sprayed my hair with so much White Rain and Aquanet that a buzz saw could not penetrate it. Perfect!

Locating our seats, we were disheartened to find they were in the nose-bleed section. Seriously, when Whitesnake performed it looked like a bunch of ants with curly wigs.

“We need to get down there,” my friend Amy said to me.

“I know but how?” I responded, wondering if the couple making out next to me (Jesus, she had to be pregnant by now) would notice if I chugged their beers.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Amy said. So we swooped up our purses matching our flats and began our descent to the first floor.

Once on the ground floor we hit a roadblock. We had to get past the guard.  Ugh, so close to floor seats! I could smell the sweat of bad-assness from where I stood.

“Hey there, what’s your name,” I heard Amy coo to the guard.

“Miguel.”

“So can we get onto the floor Miguel?” Amy was doing her best to be seductive, with her braces…and some bad eye shadow.

“Do you have a ticket?” Miguel asked, clearly mesmerized by the lights pouncing off of her teeth.

Bam! That’s when it happened. Amy started macking down with this guard.

I remember thinking, Eeeeeeeeeeeewwww you’re fourteen and he’s like 30, or 40, or 60 whatever he can shave – gross.  Then I remembered she went to public school.

Miguel, clearly appeased, swung open the gates of heaven [insert religious music here]. We scurried up to the fourth row, jumped up onto the chairs next to some random dudes and the rest was history.

To this day, I thank God my friend Amy was a skank. How else would I have been able to see, up close, Tommy Lee downing a bottle of Jack Daniels while his drum set rotated during Wild Side? How else would I have been able to dive onto the beer-sludged floor to catch a guitar pick (I didn’t really, just tried, and then was dog-piled – but still awesome!)?

Of course my tastes have grown as time has progressed. There are so many amazing bands out there. For instance, I will forever pledge allegiance to United States of Foo [Fighters].

I don’t care how old I am, I will never change this aspect of myself, ever. Music is amazing, transcending, and downright kick ass.

So pump your fist into the air and bust out the rock sign because Rock n Roll will never die!

Well… maybe some of the lip gloss and mammoth hair can go.