It was just before 9 o'clock last Thursday night at our village's Pikes Peak Center. Famous singer Jackson Browne was pounding out his 1980s classic "In the Shape of a Heart" and I was watching him — I am not kidding — through the thinning hair on top of the head of the big guy sitting in front of me, a guy with a prodigious cranium that was "in the shape of a trash can."
I was actually looking through the man's sparsely treed melon forest because I could not get a clear view of the singer or even the stage by looking over or around his vast skull. I knew it would be a long, long night.
So Jackson Browne was singing right there in front of us, I guess, and I and the people around me had to settle for the audio version because the guy with the rhino head brought a friend with an even larger gourd. Together the two oil-freighter-sized heads killed any hope of actually seeing the performance.
The guys with the big heads came with a regular-sized pharmacist who spent nearly the entire night playing with his iPhone and a fourth guy, a chiropractor — my chiropractor, actually. The back doc is a good guy and a big guy, too, but not as big as his two friends with the pumpkin heads who, perhaps because they've grown weary of listening to their chiropractor buddy talk about the need for good posture, spent the entire evening sitting up all nice and straight and tall.
Jackson Browne kept on singing, and those of us directly behind the guys with the huge heads — frankly, the last time I saw anything with a head that big was on the National Geographic Channel and it was being chased by a Japanese harpoon boat — had for the most part given up hope for any unobstructed view.
So I settled for looking at the legendary singer and songwriter through the wispy hair of Godzilla.
The guy to my left was pretty perturbed by all of this. He was 6-foot-4 but still had no chance of seeing Jackson Browne because of the Volkswagen head on the second guy, the guy sitting in front of him, who had white hair and to be honest, the last time I saw anything that big covered in white you had to get to the top of it on a chair lift.
The wife of the tall guy next to me had been in the seat now occupied by her husband. But she elbowed him and switched seats mere seconds after the two guys with the monumental blocks plopped down in front of us. There was no way she was going to see around these partially hair-covered planets so the husband obliged his wife because, well, that's always the best thing to do.
My pleasant next-seat neighbor and I tried to be nice. Twice I asked Big Head Todd and Bigger Head Todd if they could, possibly, just slide or slouch down in their seats a bit, just a tad even, so we could see something other than their Herculean noodles.
The guys with the mammoth beans responded by snickering and sitting up straighter and because they were maybe 260 pounds each and I didn't want to end up rolling around in the aisle with them during "Tender Is the Night," I accepted my night's fate — listening to Jackson Browne from behind the Hindenburg.
Later, when Jackson moved into "Take It Easy" with that still-smooth voice, the place rocked, which the Astro-domed guy in front of me took as a signal to sit up straighter and use his iPhone for 15 minutes — perhaps checking his e-mail to see if the ship carrying his $1,200 custom-made golf cap had made port.
Anyway, that was about it for the Jackson Browne concert. He was great, his songs and his voice and classic guitar filling the night. Or at least the small part of the night that the jumbo noggins were not filling.
Rich Tosches (firstname.lastname@example.org) also writes a Sunday column in the Denver Post.
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