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.