Over the weekend, Cindy and I went to the Shinedown, Rob Zombie, Godsmack concert. Our primary reason to go was to see Rob Zombie, since we had seen another of his concerts a couple of years back and enjoyed it quite a bit. Besides, during a stressful time, it was a great chance to blow off a little steam. Now, I’m rapidly passing my mid-thirties, and I’d be lying if I said I felt like I’d be a little out of place at the show. I didn’t even wear a black t-shirt, for pity’s sake! I imagined myself as a ancient island in a sea of gothic teenagers.

To make matters worse, we had somehow managed to buy tickets for The Pit. The pit. No other words could have filled me with such dread. I don’t like the idea of slamming bodily into some shirtless, sweaty, hairy stranger for kicks.

I would, of course, like to thank all my friends and neighbors who, when they heard Cindy and I would be joining the ranks of the pit fiends responded by saying something along the lines of, “Oh, you two are gonna get slaughtered.” Really, I appreciate it. You made our drive to the concert so much more like a walk to the gas chamber than it would have been normally.

We were relieved once we arrived to find plenty of other people of our ages and general demeanors in the pit, some of whom appeared to be as nervous as we were. And while there was a few instances of shoving and slam dancing, we managed to steer clear.

Sure, a requisite number of drunken troublemakers made an appearance, chief among them a yahoo named Frank. The chubby, pony-tailed man seemed to think an annoying attitude would endear him to those around him. Or maybe he’s just such a miserable person that he had to try to ruin a good time for those around him. I’m not sure why he would fork over the cost of a concert (not to mention the $7 a beer he must have been forking over hand over fist. You should have been standing down wind from this guy. It was definitely Miller time … and White Castle time … and maybe even a hint of garlic bologna time.) just to make an obnoxious fool of himself. But to each his own, as long as he stays the hell away from me. He insulted the teenage girls around him (and I’m guessing this may have been the only time he’s ever talked to girls of any variety). He “accidentally” bumped into them a few times. Finally, he crossed the line.

Apparently, a lot of Avril Lavene lookalikes enjoy Rob Zombie’s music. The place was crawling with them. One in particular was described by my wife as “a girl who loves herself more than anyone else in the world.” It was this girl upon which Frank focused his bleary-eyed, creepy glare … and he wasn’t looking her in the eyes. When she finally had enough, she slapped him. Frank wasn’t quite drunk or stupid enough to hit her back, but he was whiny enough to fetch security, who promptly kicked Frank, Avril, and Avril’s dad out of the show. She paid a high price for her honor, but she got rid of Frank for us, so I salute her heroics.

As the show got underway, I felt a little sad for the state of heavy metal concerts. There I was, my ears being assaulted by the sheer volume of the music, surrounded by headbangers ranging in age from 14 to 50 … only I didn’t notice as much headbanging as I saw people struggling to snap picture after picture with their camera phones. It was almost as if they had forgotten there was a rock and roll show going on right in front of them they were so concerned with getting a few blurry, low-res pictures.

As for Rob Zombie’s portion of the show, I can sum it up pretty easily:

More fun than a Jaycee’s Haunted House.

Say what you will about his music, his videos, his comic books, or his movies, I get a charge out of the pure spookshow joy of his show. From the Halloween theme music at the beginning of the show to the living dead cheerleaders to the 9-foot monster stomping around the stage … the concert reminded me of all the things that went bump in the night for me back when I was a kid. Of all the concerts I’ve been to, the two Rob Zombie shows rank among my favorites.

I was so pumped, I went straight home and popped House of 1000 Corpses into the DVD player.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to see Rob Zombie in concert again or not. Rumor in the pit is that he’s turning his eye towards movies and his back on music. If so, I hope his films continue to offer the shot of creepy nostalgia that blasts my mind back to days of trick-or-treating, sneaking into the living room to watch the late-night horror show without my parents knowing, and being oh-so-afraid to look under the bed in the dead of night.

Dang … if this was the last time I’ll see him in concert, I’m gonna regret not having a camera phone on me.