GenX and GenZ Went to the Futurebirds Show and It Got Weird
It’s pretty adorable how live music brings the generations together.
A dear hippie friend posted that she’d taken her high schooler to witness Dead & Co.’s last jam in Atlanta last month, and I couldn’t get enough of their matching batik skirts swirling to “Althea.” The reels of dads throwing down with their tweens at Taylor Swift concerts serve pure joy, though their delirium may just be what comes from spending a thousand bucks on a single ticket.
Savannah’s own Basically Nancy has been assembling enthusiastic punk rockers of all ages for several years now, and while not everybody may consider this outrageously acerbic trio a family show, we’ve all learned how to avoid knocking out each other’s teeth in the mosh pit. (I hear the inaugural Dog Days Festival last weekend had heads banging; looking forward to the next one, creatures!)
In our rapidly decentralizing culture, it’s harder than ever for generations to find common ground. Bands are like little religions that serve as a collective holy hub, giving us songs and experiences that become memories and traditions when we all sing and dance along. When we share that with our kids—or rather, when they deign to share it with us—we forge a special connection, or at least the satisfaction of witnessing their shock when we already know the lyrics to the new boygenius album.
For our grandparents, this was hardly the case. Back then music reflected rebellion against rigid social roles, inspiring long hair and draft dodging and rampant chlamydia from all the unprotected sex in vans. There wasn’t much of that left to revolt against by the time GenX came of age with our latchkeys and endearing cynicism, and we raised our children with few judgments and expectations about who they had to become. You can grow up to be anything you want, we told them over their organic squeeze yogurts, just don’t be an asshole.
I’m sorry to report that some of them did not get the memo.
The mood started off as amiable at night one of the Futurebirds’ double gig at Victory North last week, everyone shaking off the unseasonably cool weather in anticipation of grooving with these sorta-hometown heroes after a sold-out national tour. Our town has buzzed hard for this Athens-based rock ‘n’ roll outfit since they headlined Savannah Stopover in 2016, and the lovely Ashleigh Womack sparkled with excitement to have her brother Daniel (aka “Womz”) back on a local stage.
These talented fellas began making music together while at the University of Georgia, earning widespread appeal and the fealty of so many Dawgs thereafter, including the current pups home for the summer and their peers. As opening band Leon III warmed up the crowd, Mark and I got a lot of deferential nods from newly-minted adults who we’ve known since they used to eat paste, the girls slinking by in scuffed Golden Goose sneakers and the boys calling out “hey Miz Lebos” as they stooped down over our heads.
Once everyone started to get a little sauced, however, some of these young’uns’ Southern manners began to dissolve like a cocktail napkin around a sweating can of White Claw. I’m not saying anyone has to curtsey to each other when it's time to dance, but there’s a certain etiquette to the floor of a music show. Even when hips are shaking and elbows are flying, you give the folks around you a few inches leeway, ‘cause orthodontia is expensive. And hey, aren’t we all here enjoying this together?
Yet the tall tots up front seemed to lack this basic spatial awareness, perhaps a side effect of having a screen two inches from their face for the majority of their lives. Pushing aside anyone in their path and treading over other people’s feet appeared to be completely acceptable. We watched a trio of young bucks in upside down visors cut in line at the bar without a trace of awkwardness, and after they’d drained their beers, drop the empty cans on the floor.
The generational divide was also on keen display in Victory North’s normally-pristine women’s restroom, where someone had decided to augment the decor by emptying the toilet paper rolls across the stalls. Holding the door for a squealing squall of flat-ironed hair, I met the eyes of another woman my age in the mirror.
“I mean, were they raised in a barn?” she muttered as she wiped down the dripping sink with a pile of paper towels.
Now, I remember being young and rude, and I’m not saying I didn’t destroy a few bathrooms of my own back in the day. But the worst part is that some of these kids didn’t seem to appreciate the music much at all, hollering at each other and staring at their phones like this was any ol’ frat party. Even the perfectly jangly cover of “Bertha” didn’t move them, though we finally managed to scoot around and shake our bones in sight of the band.
The Futurebirds’ second night, our own UGA sophomore attended the show with her dad, the latest in a long history of shared family music events. I was down the street at Sulfur Studios’ First Friday Art Fair hawking books and walked over hoping to catch the encore, but got waylaid by the rising full strawberry moon, its glow bathing the pretty courtyard.
I sat down with Mary McNaughton Haskins, who loves live music more than just about anyone I know but decided to miss the last few songs rather than endure another second of the pestiferous posse exhibiting the same bad behavior as the night before.
“Lawd, these kids!” she growled as a visibly trashed man-child tossed his drink on the ground.
Wiping his face with his golf shirt, the young giant stumbled over. “I’m gonna cop a squat here, ‘k?” he bellowed, pushing Mary’s purse off a chair.
“No, not ‘k,” I retorted, grabbing up the purse off the bricks and placing it back.
Exhibitive of a certain subset of his ilk weaned on the country club kids menu, this baby bro seemed confused at first that his will was being challenged. Then his lip curled and he spat, shooting a loogie right in front of my feet. I suppose he gets points for aim, but the “fuck you, bitch” that followed seemed overshot.
Now, no one wants to feel like they’re the old folks at the show, even if they are. Though it’s not really a problem for us GenXrs: Being in our 50s is hella better than it was for our grandparents, we still love the music as much as ever. And idk, I think we’re still pretty cute. Plus, we’re the ones who actually earned the money to pay for our tickets and those ridiculous $400 dirty sneakers.
Conversely, no young person wants to be judged for their behavior, even if they can’t hold their liquor and think yelling “Free Bird” all night at the band is hilarious. It’s hard enough to be an adult, especially if you’re new to it and don’t yet know that we’re all pretty much faking it.
But us elders had had enough of this entitled little chicken finger. Mary stood up on her tiptoes and gave him a hard look. Intergenerational togetherness be damned; it was time to play the ace card:
“Don’t I know your mother?”
Watching the blood drain from his face was honestly the most satisfying thing I’ve seen since the Dawgs clinched that second national championship. Baby BoyMan pinballed away as the Futurebirds finished up with David Bowie’s “Spaceface” and the hordes came pouring into the courtyard, whoopin’ it up.
“She’s gonna tell your mama about you!” I crowed after him, even after Mary confessed she actually had no idea who his parents were, but this is how you win the Southern version of Who’s the Asshole Here, Anyway?
Our own young adult came out to admire the moon with us for a few minutes before sashaying off with her friends, who were polite and sweet and assured us that not all, not even most, of their generation exhibits such lameass behavior, or at least not in the vicinity of other people’s parents.
“Anyway, the minute I act up someone would tell y’all,” said our GenZer, rolling her eyes.
She’s not wrong; society functions best when folks of all generations commune—the olds can check inappropriate behavior, and the youngs can serve new ideas and styles (however, it’s a hard no on those sneakers.) I’m certainly not giving up on enjoying live music with all ages, and I look forward to more shows as we all dance together down life’s long, loud stage.
But I swear to God if your kid ever screams “Free Bird” next to me, they may experience a well-placed elbow in the mosh pit.
Not tryna cause a big sensation, just talkin’ ‘bout my generation ~ JLL
Oh gosh, I especially enjoyed that your friend got up and said “I know your Mom”
Always was busted by my moms friends and neighbors 🤣we are talking late 60’s and early 70’s, hanging with the “hippies” across the street from the old Crystal on Victory 🐸
HA!