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 35th 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?
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.
