Supergroup Blues (Velvet Revolver-Fresno '05)

I have found that as I get older, I really have to choose my battles when it comes to going out for the evening. At my age, I require a good night's rest in order to perform my job out there in the real world. I'm not curing venereal disease or saving kittens from burning soup kitchens, but my work is physically demanding and it takes all I have sometimes to keep mind and body working in synch. It has become a reality that I am not as resilient as I used to be, but as an old man said to me once, "Getting older isn't much fun, but if you're not gettin' older, you're gettin' dead and how damn fun is that?". So I will endeavor to get older and try to squeeze in some fun now and again. (By the way, my favorite quote by the same old man when asked if he wanted a diet soda; "Diet soda? Shit no! That's like kissing a tittie through a nightgown.")

In my younger days, I used to lament living here in Fresno when I'd pick up a Sunday San Francisco Chronicle or L.A. Times and see all the great concerts scheduled day after day. In Fresno, we'd get touring bands from time to time of varying degrees of popularity, but the dates seemed spread out enough to make them seem like big events. In the larger cities, clubs, theaters, and arenas appeared to have something amazing happening almost nightly. Back then, in my teens and early twenties, I'd claim that I'd be out every night if I lived in the Bay Area. Today, having skipped many concerts of moderate interest for whatever reason in my own town, I chalk up that boast as youthful ignorance. Now I feel a little beat up after just one night out in a row.

So when I awoke on Thursday, April 13th with ringing ears, somewhat bloodshot eyes, a puffy face, and my head feeling like a bag of sand, my mind almost instantly recognized the symptoms as that old reliable Post-Concert-On-A-Worknight Syndrome. The alarm was thumbing it's nose at me again after I had hit snooze twice. It was now 0345 hours. Three hours and 15 minutes of sleep, plus a few ten minute gifts from the snooze button. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed with a groan and stared at the floor. My wife, who was also getting up at this ungodly hour for work, asked, "Was it worth it?"

"Let me get back to you on that", I mumbled, walking stiff-legged towards the bathroom. A shave and shower did me some good. The ears were still ringing a little and that heightened the illusion of a hangover. I certainly didn't drink a whole lot. This was simply going to be a battle against fatigue. I got dressed for work and tried to remember which hole in the shirt my head went through. My brain was trying to put the noggin through one of the sleeves and I don't have huge biceps.

In the kitchen a little later, Mary poured coffee into her travel mug and asked again about the show. I was slamming a energy drink and gobbling a granola bar, shrugging. There was no time to really get into it, so I just told her it was okay and I was glad I went and yes, I guess it was worth it. But was it?

I couldn't have been more on the fence for the Velvet Revolver concert if I were a horny tomcat in an alley. I liked what I'd heard on the radio of the band. I had even had borrowed a burned copy of their debut album, Contraband, (before it was even released officially--don't ask me to remember how I got my paws on that) and liked it just fine. But it didn't really do much for me other than provide reassurance that someone out there was still cutting tracks of good ol' heavy rock and roll. I returned the burned copy and figured that I'd buy the official release eventually, probably a used copy in one of my favorite shops on the coast, but legitimately purchased nonetheless.

The Velvet Revolver show was announced far in advance. I wasn't jumping up and down upon the announcement, but was genuinely impressed that Fresno was on the tour, the first arena headlining tour for the band after many successful theater and festival dates. I figured that I'd make some calls eventually to see who among my friends was interested in going and take it from there. I had no feeling of urgency to get tickets. If it sold out, fine. Good for Fresno. If I sat in the nosebleeds, that's okay too. Done it before. So I clipped the ad out of the paper and put it on my desk.

Discussions about the show came up at work, at parties, and other social gatherings. My initial impression was that interest was very high and people were excited about the show. Initially, this made me just a little antsy about getting tickets on the first on sale date, but I never got a good follow up from anybody. So I'd wait it out. Weeks go by. Still no buzz. I wondered if it had sold out on the first day. But then I saw print ads more than a few times. This to me is always a bad sign as far as advance ticket sales are concerned. If the promoter is still pumping the show days away from the performance with taglines like, "Good Seats Still Available!!" or "This Wednesday Night!!", the enthusiasm of the tacked-on catchphrases rings hollow and stinks of commercial desperation.

In an email exchange with my friend Chris "Lefty" Brown, the show came up and we discussed going. He'd pick up the tickets for us and another friend, Jason, at the venue in order to avoid TicketBastard charges. Plus, at this late date, we decided to get the general admission floor tickets because we couldn't imagine good seats in a package of three and they were a little cheaper anyway. I agreed to go, rationalizing that I could be a little tired to see what I'm sure was to be a loud, raucous night of blaring rock and roll. My last couple of live music experiences hadn't satiated my hunger for something you can feel as well as hear. Rod Stewart's show was fine, but too tame. Merle Haggard was a blast, but not loud enough and too brief. Velvet Revolver was likely to fill my prescription for volume.

I was going to meet Chris for dinner and drinks before the show. Jason was called away to work and couldn't make it that night so at Red Robin, in between sips of 22-ounce drafts, Chris and I worked the phones to find a taker for the third ticket. We'd alternately call a friend each so as not to simultaneously get a yes. It was like a cellular phone version of Go Fish. Most couldn't make it due to the late notice and others were unreachable. We left a couple of voicemails here and there. Then it occurred to me that my nephew Justin might like to go. At 18, he's certainly come into his own when it comes to interest in music, but in the past had borrowed plenty of my music and I figured maybe he'd like to join Old Uncle Tony for a concert. I called his house and my brother-in-law Pete said Justin was out, but that he'd call him on his cell and have him call me. My cell rang about a minute and a half after I hung up with Pete. Justin was down for the show and met us at the restaurant minutes later.

Justin's a fine young man these days. I knew he'd be good company and actually looked forward to having him meet Lefty since they both are into comics and movies more than I am. Chris and I had another beer and I offered to get something for Justin in the way of a soda or something to eat. He politely declined and it was then that I remembered that he'd recently become a vegan. I tend to forget that quite a bit because it seems like such a difficult commitment to me. I think I could be a vegetarian for a day or so, but I'd blow the vegan thing in about 20 minutes. I don't know how committed Justin is either though, because he works at Burger King. Goes to show how tough times are when a vegan is serving up flame broiled carcasses and deep fried chicken parts. Maybe he's a spy for PETA or something.

We paid the bill and took off to the arena. I rode with Chris and left my truck at Red Robin so as to save on parking costs. I figured Justin could take his own car since he'd be heading home in another direction than us. I tossed him a few bucks for parking and we headed off to the show a little later than we'd wanted, but still early enough to get a good spot and get in some prime people-watching. We were just a few blocks away from the Save Mart Center and traffic was light. I didn't know if this was good or bad. Good if we were just early, bad if we were so late that everyone was inside already.

The parking lot I usually get herded into wasn't even open yet. It looked like a gravel prairie. After paying the lot attendant, we were directed to a small lot nearest the doors to the arena. In past visits to the venue, I had assumed that this was a VIP lot because of it's location, but at least this time, it was simply for earlybirds. Nice to be here now, but the fight to get out might be like digging out of your own grave. We hooked up with Justin and walked up to the end of one of the two rather short lines to get in. A quick scan of the line population unveiled that I won the oldest guy in line award hands down. The average age looked to skew downwards of my age mightily. Also, checking out the lots surrounding the arena had us all wondering where everyone was. Was everyone just really late? Did we read 7:30 on the face of the ticket as doors or curtain? Or worse, did Velvet Revolver cancel and opener Hoobastank would still play to whoever wanted to stay? It was now about 6:45.

Doors opened and we made good time getting to the security check. I got a pretty thorough pat down. My favorite move is the one where they feel something in your pocket and simply ask "What's this here?" instead of asking you to empty your pockets. I told my hall monitor that I had earplugs and Chapstick. What was I going to say, some bathtub crank, a pineapple, and Mr. Sprinkles, my pet field mouse? You could smuggle plutonium past these people if you weren't dumb to enough to admit it to them.

We got inside and made our way around the vast, empty concourse. Aside from the show itself, I have the most fun during this time. Watching people trying to outcool each other and strut around makes me feel like some sort of cultural anthropologist. I study various subject's behavior intensely and try to imagine their backstory. To most people, that guy with the mullet might just seem like an everyday schmoe, but he has an interesting life and I wonder how he got to this point.

Nah, I'm just fucking around. He's just a stoner with a hilarious haircut.

We walked for a bit and decided to check out the merchandise table. Man, are T-Shirts getting pricey. There were some decent designs, but at an average of $35, I could easily pass. For that kind of jack, I could get two shirts with buttons and collars. Jesus, I'm getting old. We went down to the floor to secure a good spot before any possible crowd might show up. Walking down the steps to the floor, we saw an almost entirely empty arena. What was going on here? It was about 40 minutes to showtime and there was no loud pre-recorded music blasting over the P.A., no yelling, no frisbees, no fights, nothing interesting at all.

We stepped onto the arena floor and started towards the stage. I wasn't interested in Hoobastank at all, but thought I'd check them out and keep a good spot for when Velvet Revolver came on. I noticed that almost everyone waiting up front was sitting on the floor. I didn't think much of it, but when we stopped walking and found our spot, I felt a little strange looking down on all these people sitting Indian-style. The looks we got from below were as if we were doing something wrong. Just then, a yellow-shirted security guy walked up to us.

I wondered what this guy could possibly have to say, since we'd just gotten there and were about the three most unlikely people to cause a problem. He took a spread-legged stance and said, "Hey guys, can you do me a favor and take a seat?".

"What?", I said, a little confused.

"Yeah, we're asking that people sit down before the show starts", he told us with a little more authority, but still politely.

Chris twisted his face up a bit. "On the floor?" he asked incredulously. The guard nodded and Chris said, "I've got a back condition and I'm not sitting on concrete". The guard offered that Chris could take a seat in the first row of one of the regular sections and then come down when the show started.

I spoke up at this point. "Doesn't that defeat the purpose of getting here early to get a good spot?" He only shrugged. It was apparent that he hadn't encountered resistance on the matter yet, even mild mannered such as ours was. "What if the person that bought that seat comes? Is he to move around as people show up? Man, I'm 37 years old and I ain't sitting on the floor", I told him as I glanced at the young people who were now watching the discussion with their necks craned.

"If you guys could maybe just sit for a while at a time, that would be cool", the guard said. I started to reply, but nothing came out and my mouth was agape. This approach made even less sense. "Not the whole time, but just now and again". He realized the inanity of his request, us rising and squatting at various intervals, and was trying to be cool about it. I saw this as an opportunity to diffuse the whole thing.

"I'm not trying to give you a hard time here", I said calmly, "but why are they having us sit on the floor? Is it for crowd control or something?"

"Yeah", he replied.

"Like a prison yard", I said.

This made him chortle a bit and he then said sheepishly, "Man, this is what they're telling me to have people do.

Chris then said, "I could understand if it were a madhouse in here, but look around. There's all kinds of space in here."

"Yeah, I know", the guard agreed. "Nothing like the Korn show. That was insane."

Another opportunity to let him be human about this. "Oh, you worked that show too, huh?", I asked. He went on to describe how crazy the crowd was and how Jonathan Davis, Korn's lead singer, just about incited a riot by telling the crowd to do whatever they wanted. The guard then smiled widely as he proudly related the story of beating down kids that got too aggressive.

"I can tell that you love your job", I told him. Chris and Justin laughed, but the guard just enthusiastically nodded and grinned. Now we were just guys talking and hanging out. The longer we could keep this guard talking, the longer we could stand and not have to sit like pre-schoolers at storytime. He moved on and thanked us for our cooperation. We shuffled about for a minute or two. I looked around to see if anyone had a beverage down on the floor. With the weird rule about sitting on the floor, I could easily imagine the staff not allowing food or drink down there. But then I saw a couple of guys walk right past a guard with beers.

"Fuck this, I'm gonna get a beer. Wanna head up there with me?", I asked Chris and Justin.

Chris nodded. "Yeah, let's go".

We were about half-way up the stairs to the concourse when an usher asked me if we were going up to get a beer. I was a little surprised at her question. She was older, had stark black hair worn in some sort of Young Elvis ducktail, and her dark eyes were surrounded by heavy mascara. I wondered why an usher was concerned with what we wanted for refreshment up on the concourse.

She asked again if we were getting beer and when I hesitantly told her that we were, she waved us over onto the landing of a small stairwell at the side of a luxury box.

"There's a bar right down there", she said pointing down the steps. "You guys can get a drink in there".

Next Up: Part Two