Until Saturday night, I was a Buffett virgin. In other words, I had never experienced the legendary debauchery that’s been going down at Jimmy Buffett concerts for decades. But I can now officially say that I have joined the leagues of the hula skirt-wearing, Porta-Potty loving, bad beer enthusiasts they call Parrotheads, whose fandom can only be rivaled by Deadheads.
Alongside my mom and dad, who have seen Buffett in concert ten times combined, I traveled one hour along I-95 to Mansfield, a suburb of Massachusetts I was unaware even existed. I knew I was in crazy-land when we drove into the parking lot and found ourselves surrounded by men in tropical bathing suits, dancing atop RVs and sedans to the tune of “Margaritaville” and “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” The three of us looked damn out of place as we tailgated with Brie and crackers and Sierra Nevada, while our neighbors wolfed down burgers with Bud Light after Bud Light.
The inside of the Comcast Center was highly reminiscent of Pennsylvania’s Hershey Park, packed to the brim with shirtless smokers and beer stands ($9.50 for a regular-sized, $11.25 for a large). It didn’t help that we had to sit next to a few Pittsburgh Steelers fans. But any animosity I felt toward the Terrible Towel mob disappeared when Buffett took the stage, filling me with overwhelming nostalgia of childhood summers when my dad would wake me up in the mornings by blaring “Fruitcakes.”
I’ll say one thing about Buffett – he’s lost most of his hair but hasn’t aged in voice or in spirit. More than 20,000 fans, who helped sell out the concert within five minutes on Ticketmaster, screamed for minutes on end as he took the stage. Dressed in red bathing suit shorts and no footwear, the 65-year-old “island escapism” songwriter smiled bashfully at his army of Parrotheads, stealing sheepish glances at longtime keyboardist Mike Utley.
After a few minutes of groveling to his northern fans, who, fueled by alcohol and serious adulation, ate up his every word, Buffett and his loyal Coral Reefer Band kicked off another round of the Lounging at the Lagoon tour. Never faltering in enthusiasm or vocal tenacity, the band went through fan favorites harking back to 1974, like Buffett’s first hit “Come Monday,” as well as “Volcano,” “Pencil Thin Mustache,” and of course, “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.” (The latter of which is slightly awkward to hear when you’re standing between your parents, and you’re all surrounded by hammered horny couples of all shapes and sizes.)
Not a soul in the arena hesitated to sing along with Buffett, which would have been annoying in any other environment, but managed to be oddly charming in this case. I was astutely aware that no other big name concert I had ever been to had boasted this kind of fandom, and I was committed to joining it. During the final song of his encore, “Fins,” as every member of the massive crowd put their hands together above their heads and swayed, their makeshift shark fins from side to side, I marveled at the collective elation of these Parrotheads. Even Madonna can’t inspire this kind of jubilance.
I’ve always been a Parrothead-in-training, but this experience cemented my appreciation for Jimmy Buffett. When I explain my love for this tropical-country star in the real world of Boston, I’m met with blank stares, even hostility. But at least for these two hours in Mansfield, I could party amongst the middle-aged with no judgment.
And I didn’t even mind the Porta-Potty.
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