Deciding how much you should dance at a rock concert is always troubling. It was the same last Thursday when I went to see the Black Keys in Denver. My lady friend bought me a concert t-shirt, and rather than carrying it draped over my shoulder, I immediately put it on.So I was suddenly in the distressing predicament of wearing the actual concert shirt while still at the concert. In the 80s, this type of transgression could cause socially extinction. Down in the General Admissions section frequent plumes of white smoke trumpeted up into the thick Black Keys atmosphere. The smoke looked like whale spouts off the California Coast. The smell of pot was outrageous. It brought to mind 1984, when my brother took my friend Greg Glover and I to see the Talking Heads at the Hampton Coliseum. We loved the Heads, listened to them with an almost autistic loyalty. But when they came on, Glover and I huddled in the back on the crowd. We would not dance, or even sway. We were paralyzed by the enormity of the event. We begged to go home early. Thursday night was similar. I wondered if I should stand during certain songs, whether or not I should yell, as did so many others, "Hell Yes!" at certain times. Should I get my hands out of my pockets at least? There were people having, apparently, so much fun they verged on seizures. Me, I just marked the various whale spouts of smoke and thought about Moby Dick.