One Wild Night in Klamath Falls (Part 2)

Mary and I walked over to the merch table to check out the band's stuff. Merch Guy had walked away for a moment. Like I wrote here before, I had on my favorite Gov't Mule shirt, a little short sleeved black number sporting the logo from the album "Dose" on the front with tour dates in Japanese from the '98 Japan tour on the back. Not something you'll find at Hot Topic or Spencer Gifts and I guess I got a little jamband street cred that night, because Merch Guy walked up behind us and said, "Hey, a Mule fan. Nice shirt, man." He introduced himself as Mikey. We talked a little bit about Gov't Mule and other bands, including the one he was working for that night, when he asked how we heard about the show.

I told him the story about how it was Mary's birthday the next day, heading to Reno, finding the band on Pollstar and checking out the band's website. He was really kind of blown away. I'm positive we were the only people there that were from out of town, much less out of state (besides the band and Mikey) and I'm pretty sure we were the only ones that actually searched out the band on the internet to see if it would be a cool show. Most others there looked like they rolled in after work or maybe even were there all day. So he was really pleased to hear all of this. In the grassroots-type of approach that these jambands take in promoting themselves, I could see he was happy that someone took the trouble to see what they were all about. Although I don't know if I could consider using such a modern tool as the internet as purely "grassroots", certainly they are not part of the mega-label propaganda machine that shovels and burns "Hot New Artists" of the week like lumps of coal into a locomotive.

Mikey asked where we were staying. When we told him we were at the Travelodge, his eyes lit up and said, "No way, so are we". Then he leaned in close and said in a hushed voice, "Hey, if you want, I'll give you our room number. Come on by after the show. We got some killer weed back there".

We didn't know what to say right away. I think there may have been a slight hesitation before we nodded and said, "Ohhh, okaaay.....". Now, if there was one person in that bar-----no, wait-----one person in that town that looked like a narcotics officer, it was yours truly. Mikey was a nice guy and he had faith in Mary and I, the kind of faith that says, "I'd like you to join us in an illegal activity after only knowing you for six minutes". In retrospect, it had to have been the shirt. It must have served as some sort of smokescreen to make him think I was a hippie, too.

The percussionist, Steve, came up to talk to Mikey about something and Mikey excitedly introduced us. He relayed our little story and Steve was duly impressed as well. Mikey turned to Steve and said, "They're at the same hotel, man", all the while nodding and smiling at us. Steve leaned in close and said, "Hey, you guys should come over to our room later. We got some really good bud back there. It'll be great." We thanked him and he had to get some stuff out of the van, so he left out the front door. Man, was that shirt gaining power; two hippies in less than ten minutes.

I bought a CD on Mikey's recommendation and a shirt that is still one of my favorites. It has cartoonish dancing frogs on the front with the band's name. Soon, the show was going to start. Mikey took his spot at the soundboard. (Come to find out that in addition to Merch Guy, he is also Sound Guy, Roadie, Driver and Whatever Else Needs To Be Done Guy). Steve and the guitarist, Charley, entered the bar and took to the small stage. Then they proceeded to take off their shoes. Mary recoiled a little at that, she's not a feet person. Then they started to play.

I have to say that I've never heard a band like this before. They were kind of spellbinding. They made a lot of sound for just two guys. Steve's percussion kit was really big and he stood to play and could easily move around inside the semi-circle of various drums. Charley sang with a lot of emotion and played a fine acoustic guitar, taking some real tasty solos. Mary and I really enjoyed them and even danced a little towards the end of the evening. (Someone else always has to break the plane of the dance floor before I get out there. I'm never the point man on that charge). The crowd, which I thought was indifferent at first, was very enthusiastic by the middle of the set. I was happy for the guys.

After the show, we retreated to the bar back in the restaraunt to try some more microbrews. After a while, we were met by Mikey and Steve and introduced to Charley. Since it was now after midnight and officially Mary's birthday, the band graciously had us drink on their tab. Charley asked Mary what she'd like as a shot for us all to toast her with. She called Jameson's. The band's tab wasn't really a tab, it was pretty much how they were being paid. Dinner and bar priviledges for them and guests. I actually used the line, "It's okay, we're with the band" when I ordered a round. We were partying like rock stars. At one point, Charley and I were ordering at the same time up at the bar and he said, "Hey, I heard you guys are staying at the same place we are. When we get back, you two should come over to our room. We're gonna fire up this great shit we got. You guys are welcome. It's really good weed, man". We had hit the trifecta. All three of them had invited us over for pot. What a time to be a cop, an Amway salesman or a serial killer.

While still at the bar, I was introduced by Steve to a lady that was described to me only as a friend of the band. She was a very nice hippy chick, but what struck me weird was that she had a beautiful, gigantic German Sherpard with her, in the bar, and nobody thought anything of it. Steve walked over to talk to someone else and I talked to her for just a minute when she said, "Hey, watch him for a second", and handed me the dog's leash. I had it in my hand as I watched her head out the front door and down the street. What the hell was going on here? I looked down at the dog, who was now laying on the floor as comfortable as can be. I petted him on the head and talked to him for awhile, feeling relieved that he didn't invite me back to the hotel to get stoned. People kept coming up to me and asking what the dog's name was, how old he was and so on. I was pretty drunk by this time and was slurring something about the hippy lady and pointing towards the door.

So here I was, drunk in a Mongolian restaraunt in Klamath Falls, holding the lead to a dog that wasn't mine. Mary came up to me and made a face that told me the words before she said them, "Whose dog is that?" and, "Why are you holding him?" I said something like, "da lady's dog and I'm holdin' him 'til she gets here back...here..." Mary was feeling fine at this point as well and simply replied with a shrugging, "Okay". Then we ordered more drinks.

The lady did come back and thanked me for watching the dog. Then Charley came over and toasted us again. I told him that I'd bought the shirt and he said that his wife did the design. I said that I liked it, but that I hated frogs (which I do). He said, "No man, those frogs are cool because they're stoned little froggies". I took the shirt out and I'll be damned if they don't looked completed baked. What is with these guys?

At about 1:45am, we passed on the invite back to their room and staggered back to ours. We crashed heavily until about 6:00am. That was when we learned that sometime between the last time Mary had eaten it and when she'd eaten it last night, she'd developed a severe shellfish allergy, but didn't know it. I won't go into too much detail, but just know that it was violent and relentless.

I was really hungover. But then again, I planned on getting much more than four hours of sleep. But I was in better shape than Mary. She couldn't even walk from the bed to the sink to get a drink of water without feeling woozy. This was no hangover for her. I felt pretty helpless. After a few more bouts with her stomach, she thought she could eat something. She had a weird craving for Danish. So I threw on last night's clothes and wobbled to the gas station next door. The only Danish they had was a huge, 12 roll variety pack. But that's what sounded good to Mary and when you're that sick, what sounds good usually is good. So I bought this multi-pack and some Gatorade and went back up to the room.

Now, when we reserved the room, we figured that we only needed a place to flop for the night, shower and dress in. It was an okay room, but not a place you'd want to stay for a long time, especially while fighting a food allergy. It was small, a little stuffy and the T.V. only got 9 stations and 6 of those were snowy. To make matters worse, NBC came in okay, but Katie Couric (who I have a thing for) was on vacation. So we waited it out in this depressing little cell of a room. Mary wasn't feeling much better and the Danish didn't take, if you get my drift, so we were actually considering staying there for another night just so she could work it out of her sytem.

She eventually won the battle and was able to travel. We showered and packed up the car. Throwing the bags in the trunk, we heard someone shout "hey" from behind. It was the guys in the band. Mikey was slowly walking behind them, obviously nursing a world-record hangover. He looked like a crime-scene photo come to life. We talked for a little while and thanked them for the great night out. They seemed genuinely happy to have met us and thanked us for coming out to see them. They gave Mary hugs and wished her a happy birthday and we started to get in our car. We saw the package of Danish on the seat and yelled to them, asking if they wanted them. For a travelling band on a shoestring, it was a godsend. They were beside themselves, thanking us over and over again for a $3.29 package of sweet rolls.

So after all that planning, the night turned into something I never would have bet on. I really thought we'd just have dinner and watch a band. Something to do to kill time on the way to Reno. We found out that Klamath Falls rocks.

Of all the Mongolian joints in all the world, we wandered into that one.......

One Wild Night In Klamath Falls (Part 1)

Stop me if you've heard this one before: Two squares walk into a Mongolian restaurant...................

In July of '01, my wife Mary and I planned a trip to visit her sister Ann and her family up in Salem, Oregon. This is pretty much an annual trek for us. Oregon is beautiful, especially in the summer compared to central California's dry, brown landscapes. We usually leave on a Friday afternoon and travel about half the distance, which lands us in Redding, CA. It breaks up the drive and we're not so beat when we finish the next leg of the journey. We'll stay until Wednesday or Thursday and then reverse the trip with another stop in Redding on the way home.

But this time, we'd be travelling home on Mary's birthday and I don't know anybody that wants to wake up on their birthday at the Best Western in Redding. So we decided to take a detour on the way home and head to Reno to spend an extra night playing blackjack and partying to celebrate. We'd have to find somewhere else to stay the night before.

Before our trip, we called Ann's husband, Randy, and he suggested that Klamath Falls, OR would be a logical stopping point between Salem and Reno. So we called ahead and reserved a room at the Travelodge in Klamath Falls. Now, knowing we'd be spending a night there, I surfed on over to Pollstar.com to see if any bands would be playing in town that night. Pollstar is a great resource that I use quite often when I know I'll be travelling somewhere. It lists venues and bands for pretty much any city you care to look up.

Only one band came up when I entered "Klamath Falls" and "July 25, 2001" and they were to play at a place called Waldo's. I won't mention the name of the band here so as to protect their privacy and you'll see why later. I had never heard of them before, so I checked out their website to see if it would be worth it see them live. Turns out that the band consists of just a percussionist and a singer/guitar player. Not usually my cup o' tea, but I thought I'd find out more. They had some MP3s that I downloaded (legally, so there RIAA--nyahh!) and Mary and I thought the band might provide a good time out.

During our stay in Salem, Randy set us up with a nice route to Reno which took us through some gorgeous settings. Bend was probably the largest city we passed through and the smallest burg had a one pump gas station and a post office. We decided to gas up there and I was looking around for Gomer the whole time.

We pulled into Klamath Falls in the early evening and happened to drive down Main Street, which was where Waldo's was located. Passing by, we couldn't tell much from the outside, but we did see what looked like a restaurant right next door. Cool, we thought, that we could eat and then walk right over to see the show. We continued straight ahead and our motel was only blocks away. Even better! We wouldn't have to drive and could cut loose a little with the drinks. (Cue ominous music here).

We checked in, washed up a bit and walked down to the restaurant. It was a Mongolian place called.........Waldo's---Waldo's was a restaurant, not a nightclub as I assumed. I saw a few of the band's tour posters in the window. "Huh. I guess they're playing in here later", I said, looking around for a stage of some sort. I'm a picky eater and at first I wasn't sure that I could do this place, but after checking out the situation, I took the plunge. It was set up so that you walked up to what looked like a salad bar or maybe a buffet and behind that was a chef with what seemed to be a huge wok. You filled your plate with uncooked entrees and sides, passed them to the cook at the end of the line and he prepared your meal at that time. (Your meal was served on a new, clean plate for sanitary reasons). You paid for your food at the register and went back to your table where a waitress would bring your dinner out to you.

We did all this and I went to the bar to get us a couple of beers. What a selection of microbrews this place had! We tried a local amber ale that was really good. But with over 20 micros on tap, we never stuck with the same one more than twice. Someone should have reminded me that tasting glasses at beer festivals usually aren't pints, because I tasted a lot of different beers that night.

Dinner was fantastic. I was able to get just the things I liked and even got a little adventurous. Mary had a larger variety of things than I did, but we both loved the shrimp. We asked our waitress where the band was going to play and she pointed to a set of double-doors in the back of the dining room. Through them was a fairly large room with a stage in the corner. After dinner, we made our way in to stake out a place to see the show. (By the way, the show was free, no cover even. Score!) Most of the small tables were taken up already, not by folks waiting to see the band, but by barflys. This, faithful readers, was where the drinkers at Waldo's went to be merry.

Scouting the room, we noticed that the crowd was a mix of loggers, mill workers, college-aged kids, a few neo-hippies and some actual hippies. With no place to sit at the time, we decided to shoot some pool. We also played some of that shuffleboard type game, even though neither of us really knew what we were doing. I just like scooting those discs down the board. We made it up as we went along. I think she won.

I noticed that someone was setting up a merchandise table for the band. I thought I'd go take a look at the wares. The fact that I was wearing a concert shirt of one of my favorites, Gov't Mule (check them out in my LINKS section up on the top left sidebar), changed the course of the evening a bit.

Check back with me later for the conclusion to this one.

Memories (and the lack thereof)

I scared myself tonight.

I have many more concert stories in the hopper, but I'm trying to pace myself. So I decided to look through my concert scrapbook that contains ticket stubs, concert reviews and other doodads for some inspiration to post up tonight.

I did see some artifacts that brought back memories and I recalled tales to tell on those pages. I actually laughed out loud when I saw the Stone Temple Pilots clippings, but that will wait until I talk to the other party involved so as to relay an accurate account. Teaser: it involves more moshing, although not by me.

I was flipping pages, smiling that smile that you get when the brain is retrieving images and sounds from a time not thought of for who knows how long, when I saw it; one of the most frightening things I've ever seen in all my life.



This stub is in my book and I don't remember a damn thing about this show. Not one note. Not one visual clue. Not one nuance or anecdote. I don't remember being there at all. Yet I know I was there because I only include items in the book from shows that I've attended. I went to so many shows at the Cadillac Club, that I have no doubt I was there but I can't remember a single moment of the experience. I can't even remember the pre-show excitement. What the hell goes on here?!?

I do remember April Wine. My friends and I used to crank up the LPs in high school. I remember they had a song that was a play on words and I thought back then that it was hilarious; "If You See Kay (Tell Her I Love Her). If you need to know the joke, say "If You See Kay" slowly and then think of a curse word, like the one used in my email address.

The only solace I find in seeing the remnants of that ticket is that the experiences I had on that night have probably blurred into all the others I've had at that forlorned nightclub, helping to form the rose colored memories that bounce around in my head. Memories of a time when I was young, rockin' and not worried about having to get enough sleep so I could work the next day.

If there is one thing that scares me more than what I saw in that stub is the thought that I've seen plenty of shows where there was no actual ticket. Some shows, I paid at the door and simply got a hand stamped. Some shows only required that you pay a cover at the door. And good Lord, what if I washed pants with a ticket stub in a pocket? Where are the memories?

Hopefully, by writing some of these experiences here on my blog, I will stir those ghosts of concert moments that lie dormant somewhere in the gray matter. I say this not only so I can provide more anecdotal stories, but I don't need another night like tonight, where I sat here saying to myself, "April Wine?", for 45 minutes.

Tony gets really into his Blog........

Please take note of some changes I've made to this page:

1. I now have the ability to post photos. I've re-edited the last two posts, plus the bonus story include here, to include scans (bought the scanner today!) of the ticket stubs for those shows. I will try to include pictures or clippings or any other items that I have that pertain to future stories. Fun!

2. I've included my email addy on the sidebar (over there <--). Email me anytime, but please continue to leave comments here on the page at the end of the stories when you feel like it.

3. Also on the sidebar are two new links to Blogs written by friends of mine, Chris Brown--whose Blog inspired me to start my own--and Steve Portela. Just a warning, it gets a little (whispering here) political over there from time to time. But they're always interesting.

4. Keep scrolling down. I posted a story here and another last Thursday night.

MANDATORY CONCERT EXPERIENCE CONTENT:

With our YES tickets in hand and the sound of gravel cruching under our feet, my wife Mary and I were making our way from the car in the makeshift lot to the Shorline Ampitheater in Mountain View, CA when we witnessed the following event take place between four young guys tailgating before the show. I'll warn you all that it gets a little blue here.

Dude #1 is searching the truck of a late '90s Honda.

Dude #1: FUCK!!

Dude #2: What, what!?!

Dude #1: You forgot the fucking cups!

Dude #3: Aw shit, man.

Dude #4: Dude.

Dude #2: So what? We can still drink without cups, man.

Dude #1: How in the hell are we supposed to drink Seven and 7 without cups?! You had one fucking job and that was to bring cups. CUPS!

Dude#4: Dude!

Dude#2 (to Dude#4): Fuck you!

Dude#1: Cups! Now there's no Seven and 7.

Dude#2: Well.........

Dude#3: Fuck it, man. Give me the good 7.

With that he grabs the bottle and wrestles with the top. As I looked back over my shoulder, he was chugging straight from the bottle and it appeared that Dudes numbered 1, 2 and 4 were lining up to take swigs. I'm pretty sure that the two liter bottle of 7Up stayed sealed all night and all hard feelings were left out there on the gravel of the Shoreline parking lot.

The Snake and The Ring

I was hitting my stride in the fall of '84. I was a senior in high school, a starter on the varsity soccer team, had a pretty nice '76 Pontiac Sunbird and had my hair at the longest length Clovis High would allow. What else could a boy want?





One afternoon on one of the first days of school, a girl I knew somewhat from the year before started paying a lot of attention to me. I wasn't really interested and wasn't the best at reading into these things anyway, so I didn't think much of it. After some of her giddy friends came up to me a few days later and gave me the old "Guess who likes you?" routine, I asked her out. But I still didn't really have any real interest, I just went along with the flow, feeling obligated to do the high school thing and have a girlfriend.

Don't get me wrong here; I liked her just fine. We had some okay times, although we really didn't click. But we did the boyfriend/girlfriend thing; she wore my lettermen jacket and my class ring. We passed notes between classes. I felt like a headbanging Richie Cunningham.

She was a bit strange at times, too. A friend of mine on the soccer team had grown up in the same neighborhood with her and told me a story that gave me a little insight to her past. It seems that she would board the school bus while eating pancakes or french toast (with syrup) with her hands, making a huge mess of her hands and face and she'd pretty much complete the school day like that. I laughed and told him that we all did stupid things as kids and he replied that it was the 8th grade bus she pulled this on. I guess my face dropped a bit because that wasn't so long ago and he piped up with, "But she's cool now, man."

I know what you're thinking. "I thought this blog was about concert memories". Okay, keep scrolling.

My friends and I got the news that Whitesnake was coming to town. That was the good news. Whitesnake's album, Slide It In, was pretty much the anchor to the soundtrack of my senior year. Seeing them live would be a great kickoff that year. But they would be the opening act for Quiet Riot. That was the bad news. Quiet Riot, in my mind, squeezed a lot out of being the band that had previously featured Ozzy's guitarist Randy Rhoades. And, I'm pretty sure their album Metal Health was the precursor to the pop-metal explosion of the late '80s. I always thought that if I could go back in time, like some heavy metal Terminator, and kill Quiet Riot that Poison would have never happened. Quiet Riot's fun loving, MTV ready, radio overkill sound made it acceptable to almost everyone in their teens, including........my girlfriend. Shit!

My buddies and I already had our tickets when she "mentioned" one day that she loved Quiet Riot and wanted to go, too. We groaned a little, but I thought it might be cool to have a girl there at the show. So I bought her a ticket and she talked excitedly about the upcoming show for the next few days.

On the day of the show (September 23, 1984), I picked her up in the ol' Sunbird and we jammed down Clovis Avenue on the way to Selland Arena. I was really jazzed; I was gonna see Whitesnake! We were to meet my friends at the arena and I couldn't wait to buy a shirt and program. I was even thinking I'd buy her a shirt, if she wanted a Whitesnake one--I wasn't giving Quiet Riot any more of my money that I had to.

Completely happy (as I usually am still on the "Day Of Show") and making the turn on Tulare Street, I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Zeppelin's "Fool In The Rain", all the while babbling about where to meet the guys, where to park, where we should sit (in the good old General Admission days) and so on. Then she did it.

"We need to talk", she said.

My naive dumbass said, "Okay, what?"

She pulls my class ring off of her finger and hands it to me. "I think you better take this back", she said.

We didn't say much after that. It wasn't like some movie where there is a lot of explanation into what went wrong. With me, it would have been; what went, period? I really didn't care that she was breaking up with me. I was really indifferent to the whole experience. But the reason I went silent was that in my head I was screaming, "YOU WAIT UNTIL WE'RE ON THE WAY TO THE SHOW TO DO THIS? THE SHOW THAT YOU KNOW I'VE BEEN LOOKING FORWARD TO FOR WEEKS? THE SHOW THAT YOU HORNED IN ON? YOU COULDN'T WAIT UNTIL TOMMOROW? ARE YOU COMPLETELY OUT OF YOUR MIND, YOU PANCAKE-EATING-WITH-YOUR-HANDS-PSYCHO?

After a while, we were approaching the Selland Arena and she asked if I was alright. I almost laughed out loud. I didn't care. I felt nothing. But I put on the act and gave her the sigh she wanted with the "yeah". We walked inside, found the guys who were saving seats for us and sat down. When she looked away, I caught the guys' eyes and pointed to the ring on my finger and they each gave me the "What the?" look. I shook my head and waved my hand as if to say, "No big, man".

The lights went down and Whitesnake hit the stage. The guys automatically stood and took a few steps down the stairs towards the standing room only floor of the arena. They paused and looked back at me. I thought to myself, "What am I doing up here?" An evil, gutteral chuckle emerged from my throat and I leaned over to the girl and told her that I'd be back up later. I bounded down the stairs and rocked out with my brothers.

A point of note about Whitesnake's set; during what would be the last song of a very strong performance, the power to the sound was cut and the lights came up. Very strange. The band looked around at each other, bewildered, and shrugged. They were not happy. I have to be honest and say that I don't remember the song they were playing, but I'd put odds on "Slow An' Easy" from Slide It In. I say that because after a few moments of confusion, in defiance of the situation, drummer Cozy Powell started drumming and singer David Coverdale kept singing. The crowd sang the words in unison, building momentum gradually until even those that didn't know the words were at least cheering or whistling in support. (Slow An' Easy just pops into my mind for this kind of thing). At the end of the "song", they waved wearing appreciative smiles and left the stage. To this day, I don't know the reason for that to happen. I don't know if 'Snake played too long and were cut off or maybe there was a malfunction somewhere in the arena. But I have heard and believe to an extent that Quiet Riot had the plug pulled because they were being upstaged. I may never know. If you ever run into David Coverdale, ask him if he remembers what happened that night in Fresno. (No, not the breakup thing.)

After Whitesnake's set, I went back up to the seats and sat with the girl. Her and I, along with my friends, decided to go back to the floor and stand for Quiet Riot's show. They came on stage and the crowd loved it. The girl was into it and I just stood there, doing time. My friends left after two or three tunes and I wanted to go with them. It was awful. So I watched the show basically as a driver waiting for my passenger to finish up her activities.

Months later, we ended up going to the prom together. It was really a convenience for both of us. I danced with my friends' dates more than mine. I never really kept in touch with her after that.

I think she's a lesbian anyway.

Just Another Quiet Sunday Night (Book III--the finale)

For those of you that have trekked this far, you've found yourselves at the beginning of the end of the Metallica journey. This, I promise, will end here.

As I left you last, Godsmack had taken the stage and we took our seats. I looked around the arena to see that the impressive crowd was really into it. Scott and I were too, because the energy was palpable. The sound wasn't so great where we were sitting, but we still got great effect from the stage setup. The stage was indeed on the arena floor, but was not simply a round stage like I'd seen Yes or Rod Stewart perform on. This behemoth was rectangular and took up at least the square footage of a basketball court. Godsmack's four members (Or was it five?--shit, I don't remember or care) each took up positions on one of the four sides of the stage and played to that side of the arena's audience. It was pretty interesting to see them each playing virtually alone instead of side by side. I wondered if that took some getting used to. The lead singer or lead guitar player had enough stage presence to captivate the crowd because, frankly in a band like this, that's where the action is. Every once in a while, they'd all switch sides. But when the poor bass player played to your side of the stage, it was like being at a really hopping party and being cornered by a boring friend-of-a-friend while he/she talked about some sort of work related nonsense, all the while you're looking over their shoulder trying to hear/catch a glimpse of the good times. I think if I was in the pit, I'd probably try to "rock out" more when Mr. Bass was on my side just out of pity.

As for any kind of actual performance related review here, I thought Godsmack was really good. No, seriously. In fact, I would pay to see them again and would hope they were headlining so I could see the full set. I don't know if I'm interested in buying their CDs, but I came in with low expectations and they blew them out of the water. I can see the band reading this (yeah, right!) and high-fiving each other with, "Alright! We impressed the dork in Fresno whose approval we pined after".

I should mention that as we made our way to our seats, we passed by--in our row-- Kimberly, a friend of Scott and Jean. Scott entered the row first and had to say the loud "excuse me"s to the folks already sitting down as we scooted by them, which left me the luxury of checking out the show while he navigated. There was a pause; I only noticed because the guy whose view I was blocking stood up to ask me "what was up". I shrugged to him (a very common loud music response) and looked ahead to see Scott hugging a blonde woman and wondered how I was going to explain this to Jean. But it was Kimberly and we were able to get by to our seats after brief re-introductions.

Back to the rocking-out. We're digging the show just fine when we saw what appeared to be a huge Party Animal looking to negotiate the pass between us and his tribe. He approached and as we stood to let him pass, he greeted us each with vigorous handshakes, the likes you have when a long-lost buddy sees you at the high school reunion. He shifted by us and took his seat with...... Kimberly's party. Scott and I, because of the loud music, leaned into each other and simultaneously yelled, "Who was that?" We each leaned back to acknowledge that we heard each other and then leaned in again to yell, "I don't know, I thought you knew him". We laughed, shrugged and waved down the row to Party Animal, who had been staring at us since he'd taken his seat. He gave us a "thumbs up" and I thumbed him back, thinking "Rock on, Psycho".

After Godsmack's set, we set out to drop off some liquid and pick up some more. We knew we had to be quick, because the signs at each stand stated clearly: NO BEER SALES ONCE METALLICA TAKES THE STAGE. (I wish now that I'd taken one of those signs for the garage poster collection) Once again, getting a beer was no problemo and faithful TONY readers will know why. We ran into Kimberly and Party Animal (who has no other name that I can remember) in the concourse. During the usual, "isn't this cool--these/those guys are great--I saw them last time they came here--" concert talk, we heard that sound again; The Roar.

Upon returning to our seats, I now noticed that the stage looked a little different than before. Godsmack played on a stage that looked a little like a house on moving day. Tarps were covering things. Certain areas were not in use. Now, it looked like a loading dock on a Star Trek series like DS9 or TNG or BLT--whatever. Very uncluttered and open, like some kind of heavy metal sundeck. It also had various trap-doors that the band members could sneak off into. After awhile, I began to see it as some sort of human-scale Habitrail.

Metallica will kill you if you're weak. I think they like this thought. We were way out of reach of any physical harm and I still had my guard up. The pure battery of beats, thumps and hyper-speed guitar riffs could make an unsuspecting person think it was a nuclear bombing duck-and-cover drill. For the first 35 minutes of the show, all Scott and I could say was, "damn".

When you're at a show with about 12,000 others, you have to realize that with that many people, you could populate a small town. And in that town, you'd have neighborhoods. After Metallica had played a few songs, our neighborhood started taking shape. On our left was Kimberly's block. That was a place to party down righteously. We never did get to know the people to the right. I think they were a bit stuck up. Behind us was Shady Rows Retirement Community. They were a bit quiet and were probably just happy that something exciting was happening around their parts. Of course, down in the Valley of the Black, things were happening by the minute and the smart buyer wasn't going down there until the time was right.

We lived in nice place I'd like to call Latecomers Hollow. Those of us who waited to buy tickets ended up with this parcel of land. Decent folk, mostly, who paid fair coin for fair seating with no argument for their procrastination. Right in front of us was a father and son that I watched with amusement as the cub learned to head-bang from the bear, not from direct instruction, but from careful observation. Cute, I suppose, in the way that baby alligators are cute, but with a careful eye knowing what they will grow to become.

Also in our neighborhood were guys seated in front of us. Scott thought it was another father/son, but I was never convinced. The younger of the two rocked hard, head-banging away and flashing the Dio devil-horned salute. You know the one; kind of like the "hang loose" thing, but you put your thumb over your folded middle and third fingers. The other guy was much more reserved, but he had the hair. Man, did he have the hair. Feathered, parted in the middle and reaching down to the middle of his back. I've heard this style described as a Kentucky Waterfall and I wish I'd come up with that. He rocked too, but only nodded approvingly when nudged by his excited younger counterpart.

After ahwile, Scott and I dreamed of greener pastures. We had a great view of an open plot down in the Valley. Not too populated, not too busy and what looked like a quick commute to the pit. What we needed was a way in and a good reference wouldn't do it. What we needed was a wristband.

It turned out that the General Admission ticket holders entered through a seperate entrance and had their tickets examined closely. They received a wristband, not unlike the over-21 wristbands you might get at some venues, which enabled them to get down to the arena floor. I really felt the urge to get down there and we decided we'd try to fake our way on the floor.

At first, we thought we could just walk right down and blend in. But upon arrival to the base of our first stairway, it was an obvious mistake. The guy in front of us was trying to bluff his way onto the floor and was turned away by a very big man that was not interested in this guy's plight, genuine or not. We looked down a few more stairways, only finding men that matched or exceeded the first guard's mass. Not to be denied, we plodded on.

We finally found a stairway that looked like a way in; there was a woman security guard at the bottom. Say what you may, but I saw it as a possible break in the wall. We started down the stairs and Scott waited at the halfway point for my signal. I delved deeper into the stifling air, row by row, until I got to the female in the yellow "STAFF" jacket. She had just dismissed another guy and he headed back up the stairs, but I was not deterred. What follows is a transcript of our exchange as I approached the gate to the arena floor. Keep in mind we are yelling at full tilt so as to hear each other.

Her: Do you have a wristband?

Me: What?

Her: Do you have a wristband?

Me: Ahh, no. But does this get me two? (I show her a folded Twenty)

Her: (smiling) No. You need a wristband.

Me: Oh, c'mon. Look over there (pointing to obvious square footage on floor). It's not like me and my bro are gonna put you over the fire limit.

Her: My supervisor's looking at us right now and you gotta go back upstairs.

Me: Who, that guy? (Pointing at some spot in the distance over her left shoulder) I know that guy (I didn't). Tell you what, I'll go talk to him and straighten him out on the deal, okay?

Her: Uh, no, he's over there (pointing to a spot over her right shoulder) and you really got to get back up those stairs (then pointing over my left shoulder).

With her having called my bluff, I smiled, turned and headed back towards the top the stairway where I was met by Scott. He was smiling and simply said, "No, huh?". I told him that she was a humorless bitch and that we should move on.

We watched more of the show from various lookouts around the arena, all of which were better than our original seats. Once in a while, an usher would send us on our way and we'd find another place to view the show like squatters. At the end of the song "One", there was a series of loud, concussive explosions that actually had me covering my ears for the first time in all my concert going days. It was as if Metallica said, "Okay, you took all we could give you by playing loudly, but can you take this?". I seriously hope nobody suffered any hearing loss from that because it was unexpected and relentless.

I figured that had to be the end of the show and Scott agreed. We called Jean and started to make our way out of the building. Jean picked us up at the freeway offramp and we made a clean getaway with no traffic.

Come to find out, they played three more songs, including Queen's "Stone Cold Crazy", which I would have liked. If you know me at all, you know I never duck out early for any reason. Not work the next morning, not traffic (it's Fresno, c'mon), not nothin'. But for some reason, we felt like we'd seen all that Metallica had to offer and took off. So I blew that one all the way. The bright side is that I did download the show today from the band's website, so we can hear what we missed. Bittersweet, I suppose, but I have no real regrets because we missed what was sure to be a destruction derby in the parking lot after the show.

The lessons I learned that night I will keep with me from now on; $20 don't go as far as it used to, be happy with the seats you paid for and (this one I learned many years ago but somehow forgot that night) it ain't over 'til the house lights come up.

Just Another Quiet Sunday Night...(Book II)

Okay, I missed my deadline yesterday, but I'm here now with some time to continue the story and try to keep this one from becoming a trilogy.

Scott and I entered the Save Mart Center and decided that we should find out where our seats were so that we weren't stumbling in the dark later, possibly spilling precious $7 beer. It was a good decision. As I feared, our seats were way up high in the corner of the arena. We were just below the summit and neither of us saw any Sherpas to guide us the rest of the way, so we charged up the steep stairs. Standing in our row, we gazed down upon the Valley of Black, so named for all the black concert shirts and black Levis of the pitdwellers. The slope of the section seemed to be a sheer drop, so we sat down in our seats and that eased the vertigo a bit.

After we adjusted to the oxygen level, we went to get a beer. Surprisingly, the line for beer was non-existent. We were greeted and served by the entire staff of the concession stand. One took our money, one poured, one checked I.D.s, one watched and one seemed to have the job of chatting us up a bit. I felt like Julia Roberts in the dress shop in Pretty Woman. I figured that would be the last beer we wouldn't have to wait for, but I was wrong. Scott and I couldn't figure it out until it dawned on us that most of the crowd was too young to enjoy the tall drafts. Huzzah! More for us. Too bad kids, you should have brought some goldfish crackers and your sippy cups.

We walked around a bit to take in some good ol' people watching. Mostly, I can't say what I saw that night. Not because I don't wish to, but I can't find the words. Folks of all ages, mostly young, mostly a bit haggard and some easily into their '50s. Actually, I suppose the people that appeared to be 50 could have been 20-something Carnies on their night off. We saw some obvious father/son pairings and I thought that was pretty cool but a little strange. Some of those kids looked like they should have been at Disney On Ice, not Metallica. But then again, maybe all that smoking stunted their growth and they were older than they appeared.

We were on the concourse near our section entrance when we heard a sound that still gives me a little rush; the crowd cheering as the lights go down. The opening act, Godsmack, was taking the stage. Time to rock. And don't ask me what Godsmack means because I don't know. I guess it sounds cool if you're 14. We made our way to our seats as lights strobed and sound boomed from the stage below.

I have to leave you hanging in the lurch again here, folks. But in the spirit of Tolkien, Lucas and Rambo, it's gonna have to be a trilogy. I'll try to get back to this one in the next day or so.

Thanks again for stopping by. (Have you bookmarked this site yet?) Leave any comments and please forward this link to anyone you think would enjoy it.

Just another quiet Sunday night......(Book I)

Metallica.

The name alone brings forth dark imagery to most minds. They bear the mantle of Heavy Metal Royalty. They were to the last generation and remain to the current one, all that is heavy, fast, loud, mean and appropriate to get all f***ed up to. (That's my censorship there with the stars--I've got relatives that haven't heard me swear that read this. But in the future, if I use a direct quote, I'm fucking using curse words. Ooops, that didn't last long.)

Metallica rolled into town Sunday night (March 14th, 2004) and while I'm not a fan by any means, I was happy to see another big ticket act on the schedule for the new arena. The Save Mart Center (named for a large Central Cali grocery chain and located on the campus of Fresno State) is a new facility that dwarfs the concrete cavern downtown known as Selland Arena. It's managed by SMG, a company with a proven track record for being aggressive when it comes to booking acts. So far, so good; they've landed and scored with Kiss/Aerosmith, Britney Spears, Elton John and most impressively, Andrea Bocelli. Coming up are dates with the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac and Shania Twain.

As I said, I'm not really a fan of Metallica, but I know they put on a good show because I saw them up in S.F with Janet last summer. (That's another tale altogether.) I was on the fence about seeing them this time around. Mary's sister Jean's husband, Scott, and I talked about going when it was announced, but it really never came up again.

A few days before the show, I checked out the band's website to see if there was any info on the tour. I found out that the stage was set up "in the round", meaning it would be on the floor of the arena instead of at one end. Also, the band would change their setlist every night and I gave them instant credibility for that. So many large acts play the same set every night, it was refreshing to hear this. Another very cool aspect was the fact that virtually every night's performance would be available to download as an official bootleg recording from the band's website. So I started leaning towards going. I called Scott and he was down with it.

I bought tickets online Thursday before the show and ended up with the scraps. These two seats would get us in the house, but that's about it. My nose started bleeding just from looking at the online seating chart.

Jean drove us to the show, which was very cool of her. Well, actually she drove us to the 7-11 a couple of blocks away so we could buy 32oz Miller Lites and pour them into 32oz Big Gulp cups for the wait in line. My wife and I came up with that move waiting in line to see acts in the old Wilson Theater years ago. It shows a bit more dignity than the ol' paper bag around a Forty. Just a little bit.

Walking up to the arena, we heard the ritualistic sounds of car stereos blasting Metallica while people (I use that term loosly here) milled about, drinking, smoking and generally revving up for the night's action. Walking through the parking lot reminded me of Bartertown from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, only I wasn't so sure that these mutants had checked their weapons at the gate.

The lines to the various entrances snaked all over the place and there were alot of people (again, generous description) in them. While there were some General Admission floor tickets and the holders of such would be there early to dash to a prime moshing spot, I was surprised that many others were in line just to get to a seat that was waiting for them. Turns out, the doors were not opened in time and the lines just got longer and longer. We thought briefly about sneaking into a line somewhere, but I didn't like the prospect of explaining the missing teeth the next day to Mary. So we used the same logic that gets you served faster at the movie snack counter; go to the middle line. The lines on the edges are always long because people walk up to the nearest line (usually the two outside lines) and stand there like they were there seeing a movie to celebrate a successful lobotomy.

It wasn't long before we were inside and that's where I'll take leave of this yarn for now. More to follow tommorow. Thanks for checking in--I hope you're enjoying reading this tripe as much as I did living it. Please leave any comments you have by clicking on, uhh, COMMENTS below.

Too tired to conjure up any golden memories in detail, but I will give you all some coming attractions. Just try to envision the trailers for these upcoming editions:

Tony loses his glasses in the moshpit.

Iron Maiden makes Tony laugh (and not for the reason they make you laugh).

Rollins Band guitarist hits Tony right in the mouth.

And hopefully many more enthralling episodes to follow. Thanks for checking in and remember; Rock and Roll never forgets. (God, I hate Bob Seger, though)

Tempest has become a live favorite for my wife and I. Celtic Rock band that comes through here (Fresno) quite often. Quite fun to drink and dance to. Years ago, we saw them play an event put on by the Fresno Downtown Association having to do with St. Patrick's Day. After many pints of Harp, Bass and other appropriate for the night Irish ales, I danced a jig, or an approximation thereof, all night long. My calves were extremely angry with me the next morning and protested any kind of activity for two full days.

The most recent Tempest show we attended was just a few weeks ago. Great show with an energized new line-up that includes the original fiddler who happens to be a local boy and a new gal on bass that just laid it down all night. They have a loyal following, play great and generally keep on keeping on. But Leif, the lead singer is quite the prima-donna. It's a little sad, but mostly just amusing. I'm sure he's happy making a living at what he's doing, but it reeks of the high-schooler who won't give up the dream, get a job and move on. In some ways, that's admirable because as I said, they're a pretty damn good band and I'm glad they're around.

The moment of the night came with the encore. One of my oldest and best friends, Chet, was there with his wife Jennifer. As the band returned to the stage to finish the night, we heard vaguely familiar notes of a song not heard live before. I looked over at Chet and I could see that his mind was racing madly like mine was, searching the depths of that musical knowledge database that occupies probably too much grey matter in our skulls. The guitar player, who is Scottish I believe, used his accent to his advantage while speaking the opening lines of...........Spinal Tap's "Stonehenge"! Unbelievable! Chet and I were blown away. I always thought Tempest had a sort of Tap quality to them anyway and now this. Did they realize the campiness of their own existence and capitalize on it? Maybe they just thought it would be a great gag. Or, God help them, they genuinely thought that "Stonehenge" was a really kickass tune.

Anyway, if you've ever seen the movie "This Is Spinal Tap", you know that during the live performance of "Stonehenge" there is a moment where a prop of the monument is lowered to the stage as midgets (or small people/wee folk/whatever) do a jig representing the druids. Chet and I don't get together as much as we used to, but at that moment of Tempest's rendition, we both knew what had to be done. With a simple nod to each other, we went up to the (very empty) dance floor and jigged. We didn't just get up and hop around. No. We played the part from the movie to the teeth, bumping into each other on cue and circling the imaginary miniature monolith. We got a good reaction from the audience, but I doubt that most recognized the tribute we were paying the band. I'm sure a few wrote us off as drunk and/or gay.

After the show, we spoke to some of the band members, including His Majesty Lord Lief, and they were thrilled that someone "got it".

Who cared? We did. And it was just another moment that will last longer than the buzz, longer than the ringing in the ears and longer than the pain in my calves.

Well, here goes nothing. I figured I'd try to document somehow the memorable moments I have had at concerts, both recently and way back when. This blog will not serve as some sort of concert review source. I find that very boring. I may mention moments from the performances from time to time, but most of the time I remember specific events during my personal experience that don't pertain to what's happened on stage at all.

For instance, I really can't recall much of what happened onstage during my first concert---Ozzy, Selland Arena, Fresno Ca, Jan. of '82--, but I do remember it was then that I found out my best friend's little brother smoked pot. I was astonished, but tried to play it cool, even when he offered me a hit. I said something like, "Thanks man, but emphasima runs in my family. I just can't." Really lame, but in that moment, I got the concerned nod from the stoners as if they lamented the fact that I couldn't (should read: was scared to) partake.

I also remember that my mom drove me to and picked me up from the show. What else was I gonna do? I was a freshman in high school. Looking back, it was pretty cool of her. In the days before the show, I was excited and played the 45 I had of "Diary of a Madman" over and over. My dad listened in with me one day and just shook his head. Rumors flew around my high school campus about pig's blood spraying into the crowd and, of course, everyone just knew that Ozzy worshipped Satan and we'd all be subjected to some sort of sacrifice.

I bought my first concert shirt, a quarter-sleeve jersey, for $13 and a program for $7. This $20 pattern continued for the first two years of my concert going experience and the quarter-sleeve became a sort of trademark for me.

I also found that wearing the concert shirt the very next day at school was a badge of honor. While wearing mine with pride and getting new found acceptance from a certain faction of the student body, I strutted around that day like a heavy metal peacock. While standing with some friends at break, some hardened upperclassmen metalheads hanging around a few feet away were staring at me. I was thinking to myself that they obiviously were impressed by my shirt and recognized that I was, in fact, so very cool because I had attended the previous night's show. One of them said to me, "Hey, you went to the show?". He was smiling and I saw this as some sort of opportunity to pull a Jane Goodall and mingle among the primates. I said, "Yeah man, I was there", turning so he could see the full effect of my glorious jersey. His faced changed into a scowl and he fumed, "Fuck you, he sucked!" I didn't know what to say to this. It was my first show ever. Maybe Ozzy did suck that night, but how could I possibly know this? I laughed and nodded and gave him a look that conveyed a fey, "Oh you!". His disgusted look shot through me like the lasers at Dio shows I would attend later.

I had a lot to learn.