By Andre Torrez
I heard the opening drums of “Going to a Go-Go” as I entered Oakland’s ornate Paramount Theatre. My friend and I arrived just a few minutes tardy, and I was agitated as she decided to go to the bathroom at the last minute. The girl lines always take longer.
So I waited in the lobby and I listened to Smokey Robinson’s opening number for what would be an iron-man two-hour performance with no support from any other acts. I paced in the hallway impatiently, eager to peer at the legendary voice of Motown from behind the velvety curtain. A calm came over me once my friend resurfaced, and we were ready to find our seats.
Thankfully the Paramount is a classy joint and they have ushers that guide you. No time wasted, we were in and I had a panoramic view from the cheap seats in the balcony of golden walls and fellow fans of Detroit soul. Down at the center of it all, there he was. A man well into his late 60s, soaking in the spotlight, wearing a white satin suit and diamond earrings that glowed even from the my vantage point. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything less – after all, he is an icon.