Last fall, I was stunned to see an advertisement in a local newspaper for an upcoming live performance by Taylor, one of the original hot ladies of the eighties, a childhood favorite. Taylor had inexplicably fallen off the music charts after releasing an album with her last (to date) U.S. hit single in 1993, and unlike some of her notable contemporaries, Madonna, Mariah Carey, Paula Abdul, and Janet Jackson, she had completely dropped off my radar.
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As the months passed, I resisted the inevitable urge to binge the infectious hits that I'd once owned and played repeatedly on cassette tape (remember those?) during my childhood days, wanting to re-experience them live during the show. In the meantime, I checked her social-media pages and found that she had scheduled several performance dates - starting in spring and stretching through the fall - on a national Tell It to My Heart tour (named after her best-known hit, released 30 years ago). Love, perhaps, had led Taylor back to the music world.
And I was ready for it. On the long-awaited show date, I packed an overnight bag (having thoroughly learned that lesson) and drove an hour to an inexpensive motel in an undesirable part of town, rushing inside, checking in, and bolting the door before I was mugged (or worse). As is often the case with lodging, I got what I paid for: a cheap room reeking of tobacco and smoke (despite its non-smoking label) that made my head ache and made me regret being so incessantly frugal.
I took a quick shower, changed my clothes, ate the picnic dinner I'd packed, popped a caffeine pill (since I'd be out past my usual bedtime), and summoned Uber for a 10-minute ride to the concert venue, arriving at 7:30 for the 8 p.m. show. I attempted to smuggle a water bottle in my purse, but it was confiscated and unceremoniously tossed in the trash by security, so I returned to the lobby to purchase a $3 bottle (not bad as far as show snacks go) from the concession stand. After that hiccup, the rest of the evening was seamless.
Meghan Linsey, a runner-up contestant on The Voice a couple years ago, came on stage with an acoustic guitarist/keyboardist/co-writer guy and warmed up the audience with her bluesy pop songs (a mix of originals and covers) and passionate vocals. I wasn't bored during her set, but, of course, like the rest of the crowd, I couldn't wait to see and hear Taylor.
Finally, at 9 p.m., after a brief intermission, the lovely Miss Taylor Dayne strolled out in a sequined catsuit and rocked it (both the outfit and the stage), starting off with "With Every Beat of My Heart" while the projection screen behind her played vintage video clips, a brave choice for an artist 25 years past her heyday, but truthfully, the 56-year-old version didn't look or sound all that different (maybe a decade or so older) than she did then. Whatever the reasons for her stalled music career, she hasn't lost the soulful voice that took her to the top of the pop charts.
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Through it all, I was entertained by a pair of irresistibly enthusiastic superfans, two middle-aged men, one of whom arrived with two shrink-wrapped classic '80s records, holding up and waving both through every number of her set, clearly having the best time of their lives.
As for me, I restrained myself from doing more than clapping and swaying (precisely the extent of my public performance repertoire), but it was the most purely enjoyable evening I'd had since my last concert - Tori Amos - the previous fall. After the show, I returned to my smelly room and barely slept before I got up, scarfed down something resembling breakfast, and drove home, but after all that excitement, who needed sleep?
