Some thoughts on seeing Jimmy Buffett at the Sprint Center
It is with every ounce of my being that I urge the Millennials and humans of Generation Z to see Jimmy Buffett’s Son of a Son of a Sailor Tour. Attend with your parents (you know, those people you should call more often) if you must. Request a press pass (as I cleverly did). Overdraft your miserable excuse for a savings account. You owe yourself the privilege of basking in the same spectacle I did on Saturday night at the Sprint Center.
Though well aware of the parrot-and-palm-tree campiness I was walking into, I wasn’t prepared for the exceedingly surreal nature of attending a Jimmy Buffett arena concert in the year 2018. Caroline Jones, a singer-songwriter on Buffett’s Mailboat Records, was given a brief opening slot before the man in charge took the stage. During Jones’s performance, about which I have little to say, the massive high-definition screen behind her displayed a simple cursive logo of her name over a black backdrop. When Buffett appeared, that screen … changed.
As Buffett launched into his songs of sailing and escapism, the screen jumped from stock footage of tropical islands into senior citizens shaking their hips in hula skirts at a pre-party earlier that day at the Power & Light District — a party I sorely regret missing. Later, a realistic-enough looking shark tracker (preceding the song “Fins,” of course) gave the Buffett loyal a real kick-and-a-half. And a Kansas City-themed slideshow coincided with a rendition of Coral Reefer Band member Mac McAnally’s “Back Where I Come From.” The levels of civic pride on display when images of Kauffman Stadium and the World War I Museum hit the screen rivaled those I’ve seen at Tech N9ne hometown gigs. And the jingle-style listing of veggies and condiments during the bridge of “Cheeseburger in Paradise” and the “Salt! Salt! Salt!” shouts midway through the chorus of “Margaritaville” were megachurch-worthy.
Not every song Buffett and his band trotted out was a success. A bluegrass medley and a cover of “Brown Eyed Girl” began to drag within moments of their first notes. But a majority of the songs from his “Big 8” hit list were executed without a hitch. As Captain Buffett steered the Son of a Son of a Sailor ship on steady course for most of the two-hour show — lots of dad jokes; lots and lots of dad jokes — many attendees grew relaxed enough to interact with their fellow Parrotheads. One man bestowed upon me a proud smile-and-thumbs-up combo as I whacked away my first beach ball. Another gentleman turned toward me and lamented the fact that his family could not attend the show. He then asked if my girlfriend was my mother. He then asked if we were siblings (we’re both 21). When we informed him we were a couple, he insisted that she and I share a smooch. “You’ve got a good one there,” he said.
Is there a lesson here? Probably not. But here is something: Go to a Jimmy Buffett show. Arrive at your local arena a few hours early. You are likely to find a dad in a Hawaiian shirt whose family “suddenly became busy” the night of the show. You are certain to witness one of the most enchantingly bizarre rock shows of your lifetime.
