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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Archives Revels Classifieds Real Estate Menu Guide Wedding Weather Subscribe Contact Us July 28, 2005 Downtown Britt defines an enjoyable evening for the middle-aged Andrew Scot Bolsinger JACKSONVILLE — Darkness descends on the hillside amphitheater as Marc Cohn’s soulful voice fills the hot night air as if dancing with the crisp guitar chords and a steady bass beat. Some seated on benches, most strewn around on mini-chairs and blankets, the crowd, a decidedly middle-aged bunch sways, claps, sings and cheers. The Britt Festival is entirely about us; us, being the not-so-young anymore, who still feel pretty young at heart even though our bodies testify against this at every turn. Britt is mother lode in a mountain mineshaft. It’s a gem of a place where the adults can be adults, and still feel very much a kid at heart. Britt works because we don’t have to pretend, like we do at most other concerts. We don’t have to work through the concert mob outside with people half our age. We don’t have to mosh. We don’t have to stand the whole damn time even though we paid good money for a “seat.” We don’t have to pretend we can hear each other while wincing from the incredibly loud strain on our ears. I know, I sound boring. But it’s not that. It’s just what I like. I don’t like loud concerts packed with crazed teens. I also don’t like snobby wine parties where we act oh so mature and share nothing but boredom: equal parts mediocre wine and dull conversation. I like having fun, but my kind of fun — not teenaged fun, and not adult boredom. Britt is one place I can do that. It’s a pure delight. At Britt, we can drink wine, and eat cheese slices and even hear ourselves chat, while still casting ourselves in a positively youthful glow. The bands, mostly, are our bands. Those incredibly cool rock stars of our youth that we never dreamed of getting close to, are right up there in the Britt stage, close enough to almost touch. And we cheer the loudest when they talk about playing the “oldies.” Those are our oldies. That’s our band. This was our youth. In our youth, we had Pat Benatar and Tears for Fears and Marc Cohn. Britt lets us have them again. They have gotten older, just like us, but they still sound as incredible as they did when they were climbing the charts. We still love them, but we are just a bit more sedate about it. We are perfectly content to listen comfortably while reclining on our blankets and eating delightful snacks. The organization truly gets who it is and why it is so successful. They sell full bottles of local wine at a reasonable price. They allow you a short chair in the middle, or heck, bring a tall chair just sit off to the side. In our youth, we would never settle for such nonsense, cramming our way as close to the front as we can. Now, it works great. We are willing to sit back a bit in exchange for some personal comfort. The ushers bug people who stand up all the time, which irritates my wife to no end. But I am grateful. Last year, I went with her to a Duran Duran concert that remains for me the epitome of why I like being a grown up. The crowd of obnoxious, screaming women made hearing the music impossible, despite the volume being so loud it rattled and buzzed like a bad radio signal. The obnoxious lighting burst and popped like Chinese water torture on the eyes. The seats were so crammed together I was constantly jostled by screaming, dancing middle-aged women who didn’t want to admit they were middle aged. I felt myself contract inward throughout the concert as the yelling got louder and the little area in front of my seat got smaller. By the end, I felt like Tommy Boy, singing, “fat man in a little space.” Britt is the Ego to the typical concert’s Id. My blanket offers me room to breathe. The stars above and the twinkling lights in the city beyond create a natural beauty that’s more like sitting in a baseball stadium than a rock concert. The volume is tolerable but not deafening. The attitude is fun, but decidedly grown up. The music actually sounds great. Britt lets me be me, the middle-aged me, not the teenaged me. While I sometimes catch myself thinking back 20 years ago as if those were the days, they really weren’t. I am having too much fun now. At Britt, I am young, while acting my age. Andrew Scot Bolsinger is the editor of the Daily Tidings, and is comfortable calling himself middle aged. Contact him at 482-3456 x 3025 or [email protected]. 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