I went to a Diana Ross concert with my mom (my dad was there too) — and I’m not ashamed to admit it was one hell of a show.

Tanner Lafever
8 min readSep 21, 2023

When it comes to attending live musical performances you might say that my historical ‘rolodex’ is pretty limited.

As best as I can remember — and including last weekend — the current tally stands at a whopping two.

Yes, two.

I’m sure I’ve passed by and/or through a number of others at various fairs/festivals in my lifetime, but I only ever recall twice walking through a ticket gate with the expressed purpose of attending a concert on the grounds inside.

The first, in Chicago some 16–17 years ago was to see my dad’s all-time favorite artist, the recently passed Jimmy Buffett. Alongside my parents and two sisters we got the whole Buffett experience, tailgating amongst the Parrot Heads in the parking lot before heading inside of the former Toyota Park (now SeatGeek Stadium) to get a taste of Margaritaville for a few hours on a summer night.

The second was barely a week ago in Milwaukee — this time on behalf of my mom’s musical hero, Diana Ross.

(Photo credit: Pabst Theater Group)

Now to be clear, this dearth of concert attendance on my ledger — appalling to many I’m sure — has nothing to do with some sort of pseudo-Footloose stance that I’ve adopted.

I do quite enjoy music for what it’s worth.

However, when it comes to live music performances there just hasn’t ever been a strong enough pull as to where I’ve felt compelled to attend in person. And even at the two aforementioned concerts I have paid a visit to I did so as merely a passenger upon a voyage being captained by a far more invested individual.

Last Sunday night that meant one Mary Mahoney Lafever was at the helm as we went to see her idol Ms. Ross — and it was up to me to simply hang on for the ride.

The setup

I should clarify that just as I’m not actively anti-concert I was also far from anti-Diana Ross, or even Ross-agnostic, going into the show.

This was not some instance of my being dragged kicking and screaming to something of which I had little-to-no interest/respect for.

Not knowing what might come of it (if anything) I originally gave my mom a heads up about the concert a month or two ago when a random event notice that tickets were about to go on sale happened to cross my path. A day later tickets had been purchased and I was told to set the date on my calendar and more or less prepare for her imminent arrival.

(Things moved fast, OK?)

In some respects, you could also say this was far from the first Diana Ross ‘concert’ I’d ever witnessed firsthand — being that my mom has intermittently put on her own tribute performances of sorts for the better part of my conscious existence on this earth. And whenever/wherever her music has happened to catch my ear, I’ve always enjoyed it.

So, to categorize myself as somewhat familiar with the material would be a bit of an understatement.

It also doesn’t hurt that one of Ross’ more famous hits also serves as the backbone to the soundtrack of an underrated all-time great romantic comedy, Maid in Manhattan — an opinion forged by an initial viewing as a kid while under the supervision of my babysitting older sister, and reinforced by repeat viewings ever since.

Criminally overlooked in the sphere of great rom-coms, Maid in Manhattan is an absolute gem of a film, and I will not entertain any arguments to the contrary.

Point being, I wasn’t walking into the theatre completely blind even if the setting itself was a bit outside of my natural habitat.

The show

When we did arrive — at least 45 minutes early just to be safe — it immediately became apparent that I would be on the younger end of the spectrum for the evening’s attendees.

And while we sat in our seats as the crowd slowly filled in, I was repeatedly, and almost excitedly reminded of this fact by my mom.

(Let’s just say that there weren’t many other 90’s kids in that audience come showtime, much less any younger than that.)

Finally, the lights went down and the show began.

Ross made her entrance to the tune of “I’m Coming Out” — the official ballad of the aforementioned Maid in Manhattan to yours truly — and we were off and running.

I can’t quite take you moment-by-moment through the entire 100 or so minutes of performance that followed, nor am I certain that would be the most entertaining dialogue to sift through here, so instead I’ll distill the memorable evening down to a few of my biggest takeaways.

At some point during the concert Ms. Ross informed the crowd that she was 79 years old, which, as one of the few (and perhaps the only) audience members to not intrinsically possess this background knowledge beforehand was an astounding nugget to learn.

She still sounded great and still seemed to give/draw great energy both to and from the room. After who knows how many thousands of shows performed over the course of a lifetime to still maintain that capacity to this very day made one hell of an impression all on its own.

Beyond that, the wardrobe dynamic was quickly emphasized to me by my emotionally jubilant, at times bordering on inconsolable mother as a defining element to the ongoing proceedings.

We had four, maybe five costume changes on the evening — another if you count a seemingly unplanned encore performance with sweats and UGG’s on, plus a jacket in hand — each drawing rapturous approval from the audience upon their reveal.

There does, however, exist some controversy regarding a purported custom of Ross’ to wear red for the final act of each of her shows.

I, of course, took this as fact during the heat of the moment when my mom leaned over to inform me as to what to be on the lookout for as the night carried on. But when it didn’t ultimately come to pass even as Ms. Ross exited stage left for the final time my sports brain immediately began to connect the dots and a question arose:

“Mom, did you confuse Diana Ross’ wardrobe strategy with Tiger Woods always wearing red on Sundays?”

A concrete answer was never given, even upon further probing after we’d made our eventual exit. Meanwhile, further internet sleuthing has only cast additional doubt upon the original premise, not that I fault my mother in any way for the (possible) slipup.

Truth be told I’m impressed that she was even able to put any two words together in that moment beyond the song lyrics themselves based on the overwhelmed state of elation she was in.

And considering the esteem with which my mom holds the music icon it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she would consider Tiger Woods oh-so-fortunate to be called the ‘Diana Ross’ of golf.

Proof that Ross has in fact donned red during a previous performance — the 2019 GRAMMY Awards in this case. (Photo by Kevin Winter/Getty Images for The Recording Academy)

Getting back to the performance itself — NOT THAT THE AFOREMENTIONED COSTUME CHANGES WEREN’T AN INTEGRAL ELEMENT — it was clear from the jump that she both had the crowd in the palm of her hand and knew exactly how to wield that power.

After decades upon decades of packed houses I’d imagine it’s more or less second nature at this point.

Even so, to have an audience skewing 50 and older (oftentimes much older) on its feet for that long and hitting each and every note and dance move on cue was an absolute achievement.

When you consider what a jaded, cynical world we live in one couldn’t help but appreciate the harmless, unadulterated joy of a group of people jamming out together to the woman they’d all traveled there to see.

Having a great time myself, I recognized even more songs than I would’ve anticipated entering the evening — again, all but certainly a byproduct of my mom’s playlist preferences over the years. And even when I didn’t, there’s something to be said for just being in the vicinity of others finding their own personal moments to latch onto.

For instance, an older gentleman sitting next me had arrived with his date maybe 20–30 minutes into the show, and while she was immediately and indefinitely into every song and dance number, he stayed seated for a long time thereafter.

Just as I did in that moment, anyone could be forgiven for assuming that his evening was doomed to be an exercise of endurance rather than enjoyment.

And then the strangest thing happened.

Ross began to sing a rendition of Billy Holiday’s 1946 release “Don’t Explain” and with each passing verse I felt a stronger and stronger foot tapping from the seat to my left.

Soon enough it wasn’t just a foot tap, but the full-throated sing-along of a man who was all in on the performance at hand.

It was as though he’d been standing outside of a revolving door that was spinning at such a rate as to make him reticent to hop inside. But in that one moment with that one song, it slowed just enough for him to find his entry point — and from there he was all the way on board for the ride until concert’s end.

Odds are I’ll never run into that man again, nor recognize him if I ever did.

For about a half hour on a Sunday night in Milwaukee though, I enjoyed the heck out of being in the presence of his unbridled delight, all of it thanks to Ms. Diana Ross.

Filing out

As I wrap things up here, I’d be remiss not to also give a quick shout out to my second-favorite on-stage performer of the night’s ensemble, saxophone player John Scarpulla — whom you can watch alongside Ross here.

Again, as hardly a connoisseur of live musical performances, I can’t speak to the technical expertise I witnessed. But I can say that it was abundantly clear to me with each and every solo riff that Scarpulla was playing the coolest instrument on stage and having a damn good time doing so, all the while I was having an equally great time listening to every note.

And last but not least it wouldn’t be right for me to sign off without paying tribute to my original Diana Ross — my mom.

I wouldn’t be here — as in literally be here alive to type these words — without her (brush up on your biology, folks), just as I wouldn’t have been at this concert without her either.

We’ve known each other for a long time — you know, thanks to the customs of parenthood and all — and we’ve had a lot of fun, yet this was one of the moments of most genuine happiness that I’ve ever seen her in.

Without her even knowing it, the night quickly became just as much her chance to shine for a captive audience (me) as it was for the woman on stage barely 30 feet away whose name adorned the marquee outside of the theatre.

By the end of the proceedings, I realized that comparatively speaking everyone else in the audience had only received fifty cents on the dollar for their tickets compared to mine.

It’s not that the experience they had wasn’t worthwhile in its own right.

(Let me assure you good times were had all around.)

It’s just that I walked away that night with more than an all-time great musician’s performance seared into my emotional memory. I also did so having witnessed one of the people on this planet whom I yearn to make the happiest spend the better part of two hours seemingly on top of the world.

And what more could a person possibly hope for than that?

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