Concert Bummers (part 1)

Seven years ago, I posted a list of the best concerts I ever attended. Now, inspired by Speedy and his estimable blog So Many Roads to Ease My Soul (and keeping in mind that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery), I am going to share the worst.

Thankfully, it is a much shorter list.

So many things can go wrong at a concert. Traffic. A fight with a girlfriend. A fight with your buddies. A crappy sound system. Crappy seats. The people around you. A tired, intoxicated and or disinterested performer.

It's a wonder more don't go off the rails.

So without further delay, here are my ten worst, most disappointing, most regrettable concert experiences:

10. The Moody Blues Poplar Creek 7/18/81 I had always enjoyed the Moody Blues. So when they regrouped, recorded Long Distance Voyager and went on tour, I agreed to accompany a Moody Blues fanatic-slash-friend of mine to an area show.

There was just one problem: we had gone the night before.

That had been a fine show. Entirely satisfying. The band had even received word beforehand that Voyager had gone to number-one, so they were over the moon. But however much I enjoyed both performer and venue, I didn't need to see either two nights in a row.

But my friend craved them. They were his Springsteen, his Zeppelin, his Who, his Dylan and his Stones all rolled into one. He could not move forward with his life without seeing them again.

So I caved.

It was like going to the same movie night after night: same setlist, same dialogue, same everything. Not the best way to discover your Moody Blues threshold.

It was part of a pattern in those years. See a good show and return again within days, weeks or months, only to be disappointed. This slot could have been filled by any one of half a dozen shows: ELP in '77. UFO and Bad Company in '79. The Kinks in '85. The J. Geils Band in '82. Even Bob Seger in 1980.

But we do these things for our friends, don't we?

9. Stu Daye/Derringer/Jeff Beck/Aerosmith Comiskey Park 7/10/76 If sitting in an antiquated baseball stadium with seating that pre-dated airline's current coach configurations in one-hundred degree heat while one of your favorite bands cavorts on a stage five-hundred feet away at three-thirty in the afternoon is your idea of a good time, then this was the show for you.

You either like the communal buzz of outdoor rock shows or you don't. Personally, I just wanted to be immersed in the guitar interplay of Joe Perry and Brad Whitford and the stinging, loose-limbed funk that emanated from the era's Aerosmith records.

There is no specific criticism I can level at the performers (indeed, all concerned made heroic efforts to give us our money's worth), my seatmates, the PA or anything else, but this was a big, giant non-event. The definition of anti-climactic. It was like watching people attend a concert in the dull, flat light of mid-afternoon.

Afterwards, dismayed by the throngs waiting for buses back to the Loop and irritated by the mediocre show, my buddy, his girlfriend and I decided in our adolescent wisdom to walk downtown. We were already at 35^th street—how far could it be?

That depended on whether you were measuring in miles or socio-economic strata.

After locating State Street we began the walk north. What we didn't realize was that our route cut through the heart of the city's largest housing project—the Robert Taylor Homes. And being a wretchedly hot and humid day, the majority of the project's population was out of doors.

There, they could better observe the two rail-thin long-hairs and the female accompanying them (dressed in the era's halter top—no bra—and short shorts). We passed block after block of young males honing their gangster lean against parked cars with only a “What 'choo all doing down here?” to show for our efforts.

Not that I'm complaining.

Once in the relative safety of the Loop, I wasn't sure it was the byproduct of our walking that darkened the armpits of our t-shirts.

Can you say young and stupid? 

8. Frankie & the Knockouts/Point Blank/Loverboy UIC Pavilion 5/31/82 At the risk of being drummed out of every music site on the Internet, I will admit it: Yes, I saw Loverboy. Paid to do so as a matter of fact.

As do so many tales of regret, this one begins with “There was this girl...” Followed by be careful what you wish for.

After finally getting “Karen” to go out with me, we endured an awkward dinner together before spending a beautiful spring evening listening to Frankie & the Knockouts and Loverboy yelp about all manner of things. Love, falling in love, falling out of love, sex, break-ups, broken hearts, love etc.

I eventually retreated into a semi-conscious state not dissimilar to a coma while my date was standing on her chair, having the time of her life.

Can I have a “Woo-hoo”?

By the end of Loverboy's encore (a fifteen-minute rendition of Working for the Weekend punctuated repeatedly by “Lemme hear you all the way in the back!”), I suspected we weren't destined to be soulmates.

This was confirmed when she criticized me afterwards for my reaction. I confessed to being unaware that I had compromised her enjoyment of the show in any way.

Strangely, there never was a date number-two.

7. Black Oak Arkansas/Molly Hatchet/UFO Alpine Valley 5/22/81 Sometimes, the worst concert is the one you don't see. No external intervention is required.

Even though punk, reggae, new wave and R&B by now dominated my turntable, I maintained a soft spot in my heart for UFO. It didn't hurt that their latest—The Wild, the Willing & the Innocent—was, to my ears, their best LP since the seventies.

So a buddy and I rustled up a couple of tickets and made plans. With no interest whatsoever in Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet, we decided to arrive late—just in time for the evening's star attraction.

After all, the concert's promoters listed UFO first in typeface three times larger than either Black Oak Arkansas or Molly Hatchet. They were likewise the featured band on radio spots. Was it not entirely logical to assume they would be headlining the show?

You see where this is headed, don't you?

A fragrant spring breeze carried on it a familiar tune as we handed over our tickets. A mounting sense of panic enveloped me. Every step confirmed my worst fears as the music grew louder and more distinct.

We entered the pavilion just in time to see UFO wrapping up their set. “Goodnight Alpine Valley! It's been fun! Rock on!”

The applause felt like jeering. I wondered if the ghost of Ronnie Van Zant hadn't taken umbrage with our plans to bypass Black Oak Arkansas and Molly Hatchet in favor of the English headliner and switched the bill.

We were crestfallen. Alpine Valley was in a remote portion of southern Wisconsin and had taken a two-hour drive to reach. It was the only time in thirty-four years of concert-going either of us saw this happen.

I wrote angry letters to the facility, the promoter and Ticketron. They were made moreso because it wasn't my first bad experience at the venue. It was my second—in two visits.

To no one's surprise, all went unanswered. But it was the last time I bought a ticket for an event at Alpine Valley.

6. John Mellencamp Rosemont Horizon 1/31/92 It has been said that you can't choose your relatives. The same holds true for the people surrounding you at an all seats reserved concert.

Having missed Mellencamp's epic 1987/88 tour in support of The Lonesome Jubilee, I especially wanted to catch him this time around. As was my girlfriend. We were made happy when a pair of main floor seats opened up.

Come the big night, we were filled with anticipation when we discovered our proximity to the stage. The lights went down, the band came on and we were swept up in that opening blast of euphoria when a long-awaited concert finally kicks off.

All was well until an usher's flashlight illuminated the six empty seats in front of us. It wasn't that the attendees had finally arrived. No, it was that they were deeply and profoundly intoxicated.

They stumbled to their seats and promptly stood on them. Then they fell off them. Then they stood on them some more. Even during the slow, ruminative numbers.

Understandably, they were pelted with debris. Since not everyone in the audience was gifted with an arm like Joe Montana's, some of the debris hit us. The half-filled cups of beer were especially annoying. Especially to those of us who wore glasses.

Ecstasy had turned to agony. (And the drunkard in front of me hadn't even fallen backwards over his chair yet.)

I cornered the first usher I could find, a young lad who had yet to touch razor to skin. The specifics were likely lost, but my gesturing, strained sternocleidomastoids and bulging eyes left no doubt as to the urgency of my request.

Several songs later, a half-dozen beefy males in black windbreakers with 'SECURITY' stenciled across the back arrived. The drunks were removed, kicking and screaming, to the applause of the section.

But the damage had been done. Half the show had been spent either protecting ourselves from flying projectiles or fending off stumbling shitheads.

I didn't attend another arena show until REM's 1995 go-round in support of Monster.