In the fall of 1992, I was sitting on the couch of a friend's house awaiting the arrival of the strippers that would provide the entertainment at my bachelor party. I was nervous because, as the best man at my best friend's party a month previous, I'd gotten two strippers to completely humiliate him and I was positive that he'd taken strides to pay me back in spades. Some day I may tell the tale of how badly I was accosted that night.
Chuck, the owner of the house, was more of a Neil Young kind of guy, but he let us positively assault his stereo system by turning up Z-Rock to 11. A commercial for the upcoming Pantera concert came on and my pal Chet was insisting that we go. I was game as I liked the radio stuff enough. Other attendees couldn't care less about Pantera, they wanted beer and naked women and were unable to focus on much else.
Chet bought tickets while I was away on my honeymoon. The show was going to be at the late, lamented Wilson Theater in Fresno. At one time a grand old house for the arts, the Wilson was only known to me and those of my generation as a somewhat weathered but sturdy two-tiered venue for heavy metal and hard rock acts. Come to think of it, I don't remember any other type of band or performer playing there but rock bands. Good shows, too. Here's a partial list of bands I saw at the Wilson Theater:
Blue Oyster Cult (one of the loudest shows I ever witnessed)
Yngwie Malmsteen's Rising Force
Living Colour (with Primus opening)
Tool (twice)
Soundgarden (Badmotorfinger tour--on the brink of the Seattle boom)
Live (they filmed a video that night for a song that escapes memory--pretty cool; they played it twice to get more footage, once during the set and once after the encore. Take 2!)
Pantera (twice)
I don't remember who opened for Pantera that night, but they were loud and fast. Not my cup of tea at all. Their set was mercifully short. As we waited for Pantera's road crew to finish setting up, I noticed a migration of bodies down towards the stage. I didn't understand it at the time, but the moshers were collecting down into the small orchestra pit. It wasn't an actual sunken pit (thank God---that would have been a bit too Christians vs. lions), but just a space between the stage and the first row of seats. It wasn't large enough to be considered a dance floor, but was conspicuous enough so that few could resists standing in front of the first row of chairs. As it turned out, no one sat through the show anyway. They all went apeshit simultaneously.
Pantera hit the stage like a tank bursting through a brick wall. It was incredibly loud and aggressive. Phil Anselmo leapt about with his mic like a maniac. He was wearing shorts and boots, had his head shaved to reveal a tattoo on his skull (ouch) and was already shirtless. He was pretty muscular and made for a guy looking for a fight. His weapon of choice? His voice.
Dimebag Darrell and the bass player, Rex Brown, were much less demonstrative, but lashed out with their instruments none the less. The drumming was like cannon fire with bursts of smaller artillery fire sprayed about. Every once in a while, when the stage lights would illuminate the crowd, I looked down to make sure I hadn't been hit by shrapnel.
The singular trend that I will never forget about either Pantera show I saw was the pure energy given off by both the band and the crowd. When you're at a concert and the band breaks into their first song, there's a rush of excitement with cheers, whistles, clapping, and fist pumping. It usually settles into a lesser energetic collective motion with head bobbing (or headbanging as the song may call for), the occasional whoop or whistle, and even some swaying to a ballad or two. I haven't mentioned the mosh pit here intentionally. As I've stated on this site before, the pit is an entity unto itself, with it's own laws and customs. It rarely follows a flow determined by the band's performance except at the beginning of a song. The start of a tune usually gives the pit a little boost before it settles back into a human tsunami.
But Pantera shows were always just a little different. That insane cheer that goes up when a band charges onstage happened at the beginning of every song and the appreciative clamor that arises at the crescendo of the night happened at the end of every song. I've never experienced that at another show for any other act. The fans were like starved goldfish and Pantera held the little can of flaky fish food just above the surface of the tank between every song.
1995
When Pantera returned to Fresno in March of '95, Chet and I had to see them again. Not so much because we were huge fans, but to experience that rush again. Chet was still in college and funds were pretty low, so he was on the fence until the last couple of days before the show. Another friend of ours, Randy, had gotten a ticket and so did I. It wasn't until the day of the show that Chet decided that he could go. The three of us went down to the Wilson a little early so that Chet could buy a ticket and saw that the line was already around the block. This was a bad sign, but I attributed it to the fact that these cretins simply came early to secure a place in the pit. I wasn't concerned as we planned on sitting in the second tier of seats, comfortably away from the blood, sweat and fists.
We walked up to the front of the line towards the box office when we saw the sign. SOLD OUT. The two lousiest words in the English language when you're not holding a ticket. Chet's shoulders slumped, but Randy and I tried to assure him that someone out there in line was holding an extra ticket for sale, even at a premium. We all had some cash in our pockets and we'd chip in if we had to. I was trying to make Chet feel better even though I had no faith that any of these gorillas would part with a ticket. But we had to try.
So we walked back down the line asking for a ticket for sale. You have to understand that this wasn't a Grateful Dead show where Deadheads hold up a finger or two in a manner to suggest that they need a "miracle" (meaning, they need someone to simply give them an extra ticket for nothing) as they trod up and down the people in line. I guess that works from time to time because as folklore grows, I see more and more of these freeloaders at jamband concerts. Hey pal, get a job--get a ticket. It's just that simple.
Most of the Pantera fans simply laughed when we polled the line about an extra for sale. Some said that it had been sold out for weeks and what did we wait for? Others sent us on wild goose chases that led to one burnout after another. One strung out, meth addled dimwit almost took us up on our offer, which had reached fifty bucks by this time. Behind his wild eyes, I could almost see the rocks in his head tumble as he struggled with the math. He'd make a cool 30 and get his twenty buck face value back and in 1995, that bought what I imagine was a bunch of bathtub crank. He told us to get back to him. I was almost relieved because I think this idiot would have taken our money, given us his ticket, and then stood at the front doors not understanding why they wouldn't let him in. After all, he'd bought a ticket.
As more and more cro-magnons appeared from the surrounding streets after getting loaded up on whatever it was that fueled (or quieted, in some cases) their internal demons, it occurred to us that we had to now work in shifts with one of us securing a spot in line so we didn't miss any of the opening act. Type O Negative intrigued me with their heavy sound coupled with the singer's deep, droning vocal style. It was all a little cartoonish, but I secretly kinda dug it and really wanted to see them pull it off live. So while Randy held down the fort near the end of the line, Chet and continued the hunt.
The doors opened. I was easily 100 yards from the gate, but I was sure of it because there was a roar and the line surged forward about a foot. I caught Chet's eye and he pursed his lips with a look on his face that told me hope was slipping away. The line actually moved pretty quickly (bless the Wilson with their half-assed patdowns and sketchy security) and we now had to keep an eye out for Randy as he came closer and closer to the doors while still hounding people for a ticket. When Randy got about 20 people from the doors, Chet told me to get in line. I told him I'd stay out there with him, but he insisted and said he'd find us inside. Like jumping into a boxcar on a moving train, I slipped into line with Randy and we were corralled into the doors, all the while looking back at Chet. As we crossed the threshold of the theater's glass doorway, I absentmindedly gave my ticket to the taker for her to tear in half. I took my stub and turned around to find Chet outside looking at Randy and I. It was like the cliche` scene in any submarine movie where one guy can't get a hatch door open to a flooding room in which his buddy is trapped. There is a look of panic on the face of his buddy, then calm acceptance and he nods to the first guy to go on and save himself while he can.
Randy and I stood in the lobby just inside the doors watching Chet unsuccessfully try to find a way in. I even asked a security guard if he could look the other way for just a second like that scene in Zeppelin's The Song Remains The Same film, but he just gave me puzzled look. As the last of the folks in line appeared under the flashing marquee, Chet found our gaze and shrugged. We couldn't communicate with him verbally, but we waved as he shuffled off into the night. "Good thing he brought his own car", said Randy. "Oh yeah", I exhaled. I hadn't even thought of that. If he hadn't, most likely he'd have to wait for us to exit after the show and there weren't exactly any decent places to hang out for two hours in downtown Fresno at the time.
Randy and I watched the show from a couple of good seats up top just in time to see Type O Negative's show. They were okay, but the crowd was really just getting amped for Pantera, just like I'd seen them do a few years earlier. When they came on minutes later, it was just as intense as I remembered, if not more with the massive crowd on the main floor reacting wildly to the newer songs from the recent album sprinkled into the set. Another Pantera show, another assault on the senses. This time, it was like seeing your favorite team score the winning touchdown with no time left on the clock in the Super Bowl. For ninety minutes straight.
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I regret that I'll miss the chance to see Pantera perform again since the loss of Dimebag Darrell. I have no doubt that the energy would be the same and the ensuing mayhem would restore my faith in the fact that untamed young men have an outlet to release the rage that they possess. Especially since most of them don't know why they have this rage and don't know where to direct it. I wonder if that rage is what caused the young man in Ohio to direct it towards what I'm sure was a hero of his. Like most people, I can only ask, "What the hell.....?"
