My date with Neil, or something like that

A few weekends ago I went to see the Neil Diamond tribute band known as Super Diamond. I’ve always had a soft spot for Neil due to his popularity with both my grandmothers, and recently my love has surged during late night karaoke sessions.

Irving Plaza was transformed into a glittery Neil love fest. We spent over 20 minutes inching forward in the block and a half long line to the entrance. The coat check was filled to capacity and shutters closed. Women were shouting obscenities from the quarter-mile long restroom line as a bouncer pushed to the front to pull apart a catfight over the last roll of TP. A fan in a twisted tube top was already passed out on one the velvet couches outside the bathroom, using her cell phone as a pillow. This was a show to end all shows.

The set was much as expected slowly tracing the Neil canon. Fake Neil was breaking hearts, and all the band members took his namesake literally in shiny synthetic suits with sequence. The platform shoes lifted the entire band up half a foot. Most of the women in jean jackets with airbrushed Neils were leaning over the balcony railing, while the hipsters and crush-party-goers were located front and center, with me swaying in their midst. Occasionally a crush-party girl would hop on stage and scream hands above her head for a photo op, then continue to bop slightly embarassed while Fake Neil stepped around, and a bouncer tiptoed up from behind and escort her away.

The crowd really knew they were part of something. During the encore, Super Diamond concluded with a raucous "Coming to America," one of the guitarists started waiving an enormous American flag and then turned it around to a machine-gun grip, shooting confetti out of the top. The fake Neil took his bows among flittering paper bits and grabbed the ladies hands in the front row. I haven’t washed mine since.