Meredith’s Musings | Head Over Feet

article by Meredith McKinnie

I’m not what I would call a music person. I have a blind spot for relevant artists, album titles, and whatever is the “it” genre at the moment. Other than my girls’ Taylor Swift obsession, I’m clueless. But in high school, amidst much less responsibility and the freedom to discover, I did lean into certain artists and the anthems of my time – late 90s to early 2000s. I didn’t go for the boy bands (still don’t), but I idolized the Spice Girls, The Notorious BIG, Madonna, and U2. By proxy, I digested Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson from my mother’s aerobics class mixtapes. But if there was one artist who defined that period for me, the one who articulated the angst and frustration of budding womanhood, it was by far Alanis Morissette. She was mad, and she said so – effectively, and in a way that rubbed many the wrong way (my kind of artist).

Flash forward to early May, and by happenstance, I was sitting at a table with a friend and her acquaintance. They mentioned an upcoming Alanis concert in Dallas; they had an extra ticket. I audibly gulped, and when they suggested I join them, I jumped at the chance. After my trip with Mom to see The Judds the year prior, I had been meaning to attend another concert. Nothing was going to keep me from this event. In the following weeks, our concert foursome started planning where to stay and where to eat, and my newness to this group made me feel icky about how much to share about myself. I’m not really a “Girl Trip” girl. I like spending time with friends, but I have no interest in sharing a room or the intimate parts of myself that would be exposed in shared overnight spaces. Could I back out of the hotel and not offend anyone? I was ecstatic to be included, and I didn’t want to be a problem, but bunking with three other women was a hard “No.”

Luckily, these new people (two I know fairly well) took it in stride, encouraged me to do whatever made me comfortable. I booked a room at the same hotel, one all to myself. I was elated. Just confirming the reservation sent shivers down my spine – a whole night alone – glorious. As Husband, the kids, and I were already in Fort Worth days before the concert, I met the ladies at the hotel a few hours before our dinner reservation. I sat in their room while they sampled outfits, then soberly walked to my room of solitude to prepare for departure. We sampled wine and appetizers at a swanky little bar downtown, exchanging stories and laughs with that freedom of having somewhere to be but plenty of time to get there.

When we walked into Dos Equis Pavilion for The Triple Moon Tour, we saw people of all stripes. Alanis has fans from my stepdaughter’s age to what looked to be grandparents. The merch stands ensconced the outdoor venue. It was hot in June, but the vibe in the place meant it didn’t matter. You could see on people’s faces that they felt a kinship for adoring the same artist. We felt like we knew each other, at least knew something about each other. The sense of community was instantaneous. Joan Jett and the Heartbreakers opened the show, and Wow – Joan Jett defies the stereotype of how an almost-70-year-old woman spends her time. When the opening chords of One Hand in My Pocket belted over the speakers, I strained to see the stage. Alanis bounded across the floor, arms ripped, dressed all in black. She personified the 90s – then and now. Her long locks framed her face as she sang every chord as if she wrote it the day before. The audience knew every line, and while it might normally bother me that people were singing along, I was right in there with them, yelling as loud as I could.

I don’t have to explain to my fellow concertgoers the feeling of elation that comes from being in the room with an icon and her adoring fans. I felt it in my body. I was both there and elsewhere, both 42 years old and 17 again. The lyrics were the same but the resonance had shifted – the lines meant more now, they had teeth, laced with experience, more angst, and less caring what others thought. I raged with Alanis for 120 minutes – quintessential catharsis. The memories flooded back – riding in the back seat of cars, yelling out the window at whoever would listen, the knowing exchange with my best friend when the right lyric met the moment, the screams from my parents to “For God’s sake, Meredith, turn it down.” I felt it all, and it was like reliving it again. What’s that saying? The music of our generation resonates not because it’s the best, but because it reminds us of what it feels like to be young. I don’t desire to be 17 again, but I did enjoy feeling the hope of being 17.

I don’t know who your Alanis is, but I do recommend you find an outlet for your 17-year-old self. She’s probably a lot closer than you imagine.