It’s five years last Sunday. Five. Every year, as the anniversary of Ken’s death approaches, I vow to have a normal day. If success is measured by survival, every year I have succeeded but if it’s measured in tears? Well, that’s a different story, isn’t it?

BUT … a couple months ago, I saw a billboard announcing that Colin Hay would be doing a show in Pittsburgh on March 30th and something about that just felt right. So, I bought myself a single – five rows back from the stage! – and went to see him last night. 

The show was at the famous Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead. It only seats about 1,000 people and the acoustics are wonderful. Maybe 8 years ago, Ken and I went there with friends to see Joe Jackson – probably the last performance Ken saw live actually. And Joe was wonderful, of course. Older than I expected but then again so am I.

The same is true of Colin Hay. If you look closely, you can see the 80s music icon in the grizzled older man. He’s funny and surprisingly Scottish for a man who has spent more years away from his birthplace than in it. 

According to Colin, most of the world is unfamiliar with his music post-Men At Work. When he mentioned a particular album and the audience cheered, he joked to us that everyone who had bought the album was apparently in the audience last night. Personally, I think his newer stuff is better than his last Men At Work album, more thoughtful, less glory-seeking.

I wasn’t expecting him to talk about grief and loss but discovered last night that most of his music is rooted in his childhood and his grieving. Dour Scot, right?! But it resonated with an audience of mostly graying fans. He told a story about carrying the ashes of his parents and his sister around with him for years and as someone who has two sets of ashes in my house right now, I totally feel that. 

And eventually he sang “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You” – a song I happen to know very well – and I cried and missed Ken so much. Why couldn’t I be seated next to him instead of the overly chatty stranger (poor man just didn’t know what to do about the grieving woman next to him). Awkward but it was dark and I’ll never see him again.  

I am equally glad that I won’t see the very amorous couple who was seated to my left. Talk about inappropriately Barry White-ing a performance … though it does make me wonder if Barry White ever had any problems with his audience. If only I’d gotten my concert neighbors’ names.

Colin Hay got a standing ovation at the end – after he finished his callback song. It was lovely. He kept bowing and putting his hand on his heart and smiling so wide, even though it was obvious how tired he was. Finally he gestured that he was leaving, but the audience kept applauding until the venue brought up the house lights. 

Much love.