I Wish They All Could Be California Boys

With the Labor Day weekend upon us signifying the last days of summer, what could be better than to celebrate with the Beach Boys, at a fabulous open air concert in Ravinia? (For British readers, think Ken Wood only bigger and more sophisticated).
Those of us of a certain age, even in England, grew up with the Beach Boys: those fresh faced all-American college kids who spent their summers Surfing USA or eyeing up California Girls.
We followed their careers over the years through splits and tragedies, and summer wasn't summer without their unique style of music.
Now I'm not stupid. Since the boys were a little older than me, I realised they would have aged a bit since the Sixties. As it turned out, the only original left seemed to be Mike Love. They still sound fabulous and are nearly as animated as their audiences, but nowadays look more like a tribute band. Quite frankly it is a little creepy to see an old man singing songs about being proud of your school and sitting alone in his room!
Anyhow, following our picnic on the lawn (ok, on the bench, we're getting on a bit ourselves now you know), we took our seats with a forum full of former teenagers looking for their lost youth.
Five minutes in, the old lady next to me nudged me.
"Do you have a Kleenex?" she asked.
"Er, yes. Hang on," I rummaged in my bag. "Here".
She promptly ripped it up and pushed the two halves into her ears.
"If you don't like the music, why are you here?" I shouted.
"It's too loud," she said.
She then settled back, fell asleep, woke up and left half way through.
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