I saw Ringo at the Les Schwab Amphitheater last week. At 74, he was still personable, vibrant, lively.

In low light, from the right angle, with 20-40 vision, he looked younger. Still slim, dressed in black with tassels hanging off his coat, he wore round, dark glasses. Though follically challenged, his hair was still long. He had an electric smile that could light up a small city. He was confident, jocular. He knew his crowd loved him.

It was a concert all others would be measured against. On this night, he extended the expiration date on my youth. If it weren’t for memories and mirrors, I would have thought I was young again. The songs by Ringo and his All Star Band took me back to the ’60s when my buddy and I, cologne saturated, carefully groomed, went cruising on weekend nights, top down on his convertible, music blaring, looking for girls. Anything was possible.

Good music has gone the way of the albatross. I wished there were more teens and 20-somethings there to hear these songs from the “Golden Age of Music” rather than the rubbish they listen to today (Lady Gaga, 50 Cent).

The demographic was mostly older folks in their late 50s, 60s and 70s (The Bulletin would call it “All Ages”). The crowd around my wife and me, who sat in the “disabilities section” (OK, her aching knee was a stretch) was particularly geriatric. It was a consort of people waiting for the next thing — folks who recognized that heart-breaking gap between what they were and what they are now. But a lively group they were on this night — standing, swaying, smiling, belting out their old favorites with gusto. Even better, there was no new stuff (“something I wrote myself”) and minimal talking. Though a different band member asked the crowd “how we were” about a dozen times. (We were always great).

The concert started at 6:30 and ended by 8:30, giving the doddering crowd a chance for a 4:30 early-bird special, and then home to pop an ibuprofen and on to their pillow-top mattresses by 9. Ringo needs his sleep too — aging, yes, but with the shelf life of your grandma’s fruitcake.

During “Act Naturally,” one octogenarian, feverish with joy, was pumping his cane in the air above his head while bouncing on what was probably his good leg. A creaky, handicapped lady in a wheelchair, when asked to “put her hands together” for Yellow Submarine, made an attempt but mostly missed her claps. God bless her, she was trying. A large crew-cut guy, in aviator shades with beanbag-chair buttocks, danced through the aisles high-fiving people. Another fellow bobbed wildly, his eyes squeezed shut, flailing his hips while his thinning hair blew in the breeze. Older folks, so often invisible to others, with empty days to fill, rediscovered their passion on this night. There was a lovely sense of community, of connection. Ecclesiastes’ writer was wrong — there is something new under the sun. Watching all this, a little part of me came alive inside. Can heaven be other than this?

My mellow, careful, conforming wife stood up and started swaying her hips and swinging her arms above her head. I feared she might throw her granny panties at the “Great One.” When Ringo rang off with “Give Peace a Chance,” I felt like ripping off my shirt, putting a rose between my teeth, grabbing a goblet of champagne and jumping on stage to sway about with him — this with an alcohol content of 0.0. I squished down that desire.

Not much awes me anymore. This did.

— Rick Burns lives in Bend.