Van Hagar '04 Part Two: Oh, The People You'll Meet

Jean zipped along the rows of parked cars in the lot, kicking up a pretty good dust trail. I know that Mary secretly was happy that we took Jean's SUV instead of her precious Solara, of which I'm convinced she loves maybe a bit more than she does me. Veering left now, Jean really didn't slow down much approaching Mark's parked car. When we pulled up next to him, our cloud of dusty grit had followed aggressively and overtook both vehicles. I was sitting in the back seat with a perfect view and laughed as Mark made a "What the Fuck?" face before recognizing me through the window.

We all exited the cars and went through greetings and introductions. Mark's buddy had made the journey down from Reno to see the show. He'd made good time on the trip and was celebrating by chain-slamming beers. We sponged a few Budweisers from the duo and hung around standing in between the parked cars, watching more fans pour into the lot and race around, defying the guidance of the yellow-jacketed lot attendants. The chaos, complete with music blaring, engines roaring, and dust flying everywhere made it look like a climatic scene to a Mad Max movie. I was talking to Mark and Scott when I heard Mary laughingly yell out, "There's Sammy!" I looked in the direction she was pointing, but only saw a Jeep fishtailing into the sunset through the haze of suspended gravel particles in air. "That guy looked just like Sammy", she said.

"He wouldn't be out here", I told her. She knew that, but insisted that this dude was a dead ringer for The Red Rocker himself. I shrugged and returned to what I'm sure was an intelligent, well presented, and meaningful discussion about football, or more likely, some chick's breasts.

After a while, we decided that we'd better make our way into the arena. Faithful readers here already know that I like to be in the venue for a concert well before showtime so I can people watch, get a drink, and look at the band's ridiculously overpriced wares at the merch table. But when I see shows at the Save Mart Center, I also like to make time to check in with my with my inside source at the arena. This gal, who I'll call "The Cat", works in the building and sometimes hears the soundcheck, gets inside dirt on the artists, or even sees the celebrities themselves as they're escorted through the secure catacombs of the edifice.

We walked across the lot and upon remembering our Fleetwood Mac experience, Mary and I suggested that we get our "over 21" wristbands at the stands outside. We sauntered up to the end of the short I.D. station line and watched as the security folks checked licenses without really paying much attention to anything except the birthdate. "Geez, they're not even looking up to see if the picture matches the person", said Jean. I think it was Mary that suggested we all switch I.D.s to test them. I hesitated at first, picturing a scenario with much confusion and alcohol-addled explanations if by chance we were caught. But after seeing person after person adorned with the precious paper bracelet that allows consumption without so much as a glance upward of the presenter, I saw no risk in goofing around a little.

Scott and I traded licenses and so did Mary with Jean. So nobody remotely resembled the face on the I.D. they handed over to receive a wristband. Even with Mary and Jean being sisters, there was a distinct difference of appearance from license to license. And Scott and I look nothing alike other than we both sport goatees, his much fuller than mine. Mary and Jean went up first and breezed through, laughing all the while. They waited near the entrance to the arena as Scott and I got checked. Scott handed my license over and the lady looked at it with a little squint. She passed it back without looking up and Scott was awarded a wristband. He chuckled and strode over to Mary and Jean. I held out Scott's I.D. between my index and middle fingers, trying to act casually. The lady took it, focused in on the birthdate and said quietly, "Okay". As she was handing it back to me, she suddenly looked up at my face and gave the card a second glance. I shot a look over to Scott and the sisters and they all giggled. "How're you doin' tonight?", I asked the lady in an effort to distract her. She looked up again and absent mindedly replied, "Okay, I guess". With that answer, she also robotically handed me back Scott's I.D. and the guy next to her placed a Coors Light bracelet around my wrist. Good thing I'm not with Al Qaeda.

On a side note; while I'm a fair haired boy, I do have somewhat hairy forearms. Aside from a good parking spot and getting to the concert on time, one of the telling signs to a good night out at a show is if the wristband presenter puts one on me without trapping untold numbers of hair follicles between the adhesives ends of the band. This was a to be a good night.

Inside, we got some beers and wandered over to the merchandise stand. I rarely see a shirt that I would wear anymore. I've got to really be into the band and I don't really wear black that often anymore. (It gets over 100 here fairly often and wearing a black T-shirt is like becoming a walking solar panel.) Lately, though, Mary has been on a pretty strong run of concert T-shirt buying. Now that bands (or rather, their merch brokers) are putting there logos on "girlie tees" that have short sleeves instead of the tiny "rock grrrl" spaghetti strap tops that were fashionable a couple of years ago, Mary has found some pretty cool duds. While she will never catch up to me in total purchases, lately she has outpaced me by far. But then again, I just wouldn't look right in that pink top with Van Halen's logo across a tattoo heart design, so she's welcome to the surge of late.

She bought her shirt and we only got about 30 feet away from the stand when we bumped into Mark and his buddy again. This time, they were talking to a couple of fellas they knew. We joined in on this conversation for a minute when Mary spied the Sammy guy again. She yelled out, "Sammy, Sammy!" I cringed a little when people started looking our way, but I knew what she was doing. "Sammy" smiled and waved a little wave towards us. "I gotta go say hi to this guy", she said, and walked over to a group of guys standing around laughing with "Sammy".

Just before she reached him, two drunken girls screeched and giggled upon seeing "Sammy". They hugged him and he smiled wide, nodding at his cronies. The girls left and Mary stepped up telling him, "Y'know, I was just messin' with ya, yelling like that. That was me screaming in the parking lot, too". He gave her a huge grin and replied, "Yeah, I know, but I love it anyway." I stepped over to take the cellphone picture of Mary and the Faux Red Rocker and ended up talking with a couple of the guys. They were all pretty cool and one dude from a Central Valley band and I exchanged websites. (Tre geeky, no?) The band is called The Well and because he checked out Tony's Hazy Concert Memories, I'll return the favor to him by recommending that you check out their site. I surfed over there and I liked the sample tunes enough that I'll be looking for them when they play locally. Click here to head over to the The Well's site and tell them that "the dude that writes about concerts" sent ya. Be sure to check out the influences for each player in the bio section. Cool, varied mix of musical tastes.

I guess the "Sammy" guy has been to a few shows and gets alot of attention. At first, in the lot, I thought it was kind of nerdy that Mary saw a guy trying to look like Sammy Hagar, but when I met the guy, I realized that it was all in good fun and rooted firmly in the spirit of Rock and Roll.

We moved on after some handshakes and searched out my inside source, The Cat. There wasn't really any groundshaking news. I asked if the Van Halen crowd was as drunk and obnoxious as the Fleetwood Mac baby-boomers and surprisingly, she said no. I guess real rockers know how to party righteously (or there were just a bunch of professional drunks there this night). The other thing she told us was that the soundcheck was loud. Really loud. I discarded this remark with some sort of hand flip and a "feh". What did The Cat know about loud? I'd seen Blue Oyster Cult a half-dozen times, for Chrissakes. That's loud.

We said our good-byes to The Cat and got another round of beers. My internal clock told me that it was just about showtime, but Mary and I both had to hit the bathroom. Better now than later, we decided, and dove into the lines at the Jane and John. Scott and Jean chose to head down to the seats and meet us there. While in the John, I overheard a snippet of conversation that I've heard at every concert I've ever been to. What these conversations could be about, I will never know. But the following seems to be a universal substitute for actual give and take:

Dude: Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?

Bud: No fucking way, man. 'M serious.

Dude: Get the fuck outta here.

Bud: Swear to fuckin' God, Dude. She.......

Dude: Fuuuck. Really?

Bud: I'll show you. Here.....

Dude: Fuck that, man!

I finished my business and tried not to laugh while washing my hands so as not to interrupt Bill and Ted's Excellent Mensa Meeting. I met Mary outside and we started the way towards our seats when we heard the crowd roar. I took a quick peek through the black curtains at the top of the nearest stairway and confirmed that, indeed, the lights had gone down. "C'mon, let's go", I said to Mary. We hightailed it through the deserted concourse on around the internal perimeter of the building to our section, but didn't get 20 yards before we heard the oh-too-familiar opening keyboard fluff of Jump. I stopped dead in my tracks. "They're starting with Jump?", I asked to nobody in particular. Mary had gone a few feet in front of me before realizing I was standing in the middle of the concourse mumbling with my head cocked to the side like the RCA dog. "Who cares?", she blasted. "Let's go!" She grabbed my hand and yanked me forward to our section placard.

"Yeah, but Jump?", I whined. "They fuckin' opened with Jump".

Cellphone photo of Mary and "Sammy"

Next Up: Van Hagar '04 Part Three: A Phoenix Rises In Fresno