This is one of those stories it only makes sense to tell how it happened.

Getting older, I'd come to the opinion that shows and concerts were one aspect of life that had long been far too neglected on the grounds of self-imposed busyness and illiquidity. So slowly I've started to do a bit to redress most of the above, save the getting older.

I guess the name Wilson is second only to Smith in telling you nothing about the person. Despite that I had finally started to notice that Ross Wilson is a contemporary who has made an art form of what I once heard Red Symons refer to as "becoming their own tribute band". Ross is happy to front Daddy Cool or Mondo Rock whenever needed to complement his contemporary role with The Urban Legends.

Investigating further I discovered that Daddy Cool had a tour scheduled with those other rock Wilsons, The Beach Boys, which included a gig at the still to be renovated Palais last night. (Memories of The Palais from another lifetime focus on Roy Orbison and The Stones joint billing back when they were my two favourite acts in a dramatic understatement of things then to come. I've spent more time next door (through the big mouth, not in the recently burnt dive^Wshell).)

I wouldn't actually have forgotten all about it without the dates listing at the top of my text-only TODO file because Ticketmaster sent out a late advice urging outlet collection which led to a side story I might have to follow up with separately.

Slowly reestablishing my habit of not going anywhere without trying to fit in something else coming or going, I left home with hours to spare for book-related calls which are more than a side story, but in the finish only left myself 1 hour 15 to tram from Eric's to the Palais which should have been easy enough if I hadn't had a series of worst-possible connections and completely forgotten the "fast rail" route option until it was too late to switch. So I finished up missing nearly half of the show's third string Christopher Cross, not that the night wasn't to be long enough anyway.

Our local Wilson expressed optimism about the 24th of November and introduced Eagle Rock as our national anthem sans 'girt'. The audience overwhelmingly agreed.

But it was while negotiating amenities and refreshments queues in the upper foyer during intermission that the take home message hit me in the face. There I was face to face with another thousand aging blokes who in way too many ways for comfort were just like me. Born in the same era, weaned on the same music, each imagining our own rampant individuality. And all starting to struggle with at least the physical symptoms of being past our genetic use by date.

That was the message I took back to my seat, along with the mandatory Max and Nobbies, and with the jury in my head still out about whether to finally book my long anticipated night at Phantom and/or take up the current advance offer for Rod Stewart tickets.

Then the equally elderly Beach Boys line up rolled off six of their classic surf songs without pause and the mood had moved on. By the end of their 90 plus minutes, we were all cheering and stomping and almost content to let them go after the mandatory two song encore, satiated. I even dragged out the touch on public transport for the first time to recheck a couple that I had forgotten were Beach Boys compositions and relive a couple of others.

I'd even made my mind up that if they had had a second gig, I would have to go. It turns out they do have a second, but at Perth Zoo next Saturday night, and I'm already flying back from there on Sunday. But I'm gonna wait till I get there to work out who I might take before trying to get tickets.