The 3 Strangest Things Ever Seen at a Rock Concert

 
 February 20, 2009  

 In descending order:

(3) The Jesus and Mary Chain, at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, Santa Monica, California, about 1985: the world’s shortest concert.   The lads from Scotland came out on stage in their best alienation-look: dark clothing, hair covering their eyes, heads down. They positively exuded “how does it feel?” Obviously, with attitude like that to burn, they were hot-as-a-pistol with the avante garde set. They began to play. Then they stopped (after about twenty seconds). They got together in a huddle. No explanation to us, three or four thousand new fans.  

 

They got back into position, and restarted. Restarted a different song, that is. Forget that first one, apparently. They would play a song at most for about a minute before it broke down, then they’d go into huddle, remerge, and play a different song. This happened several times. The last time, however, they were in the instrumental part of a song, when the singer, leaning on the microphone stand, started to lean not merely forward, but also started listing to his right: slowly, slowly, slowly, down to the sea in ships, he got more and more diagonal, until finally he just collapsed outright on the stage in a heap.  

 

The song stopped, and his mates pulled him up, groggy, off the floor; they proceeded to consult with him about his high-protein diet, and then they all just walked off the stage. Without a word. House lights: On. Explanation: None. Elapsed time of “concert:” about 12 minutes, maybe? Refund: Dream on. That was it, I’m not kidding. Go home.  

 

(2) The Rolling Stones, at then-Anaheim Stadium, Anaheim, California, about mid-80’s.   I was with a friend along the first-base line, and the stage was in center field. Mick and the boys in the band were rockin’ out, in fine feather, but every so often a lone shoe would sail from the crowd up to the stage. Curious…..Some of the shoes fell short, mere pretenders to the throne, and some sailed over the Stones’ heads to the back. This went on for several songs, one or two shoes per minute. After about ten to twenty shoes had been thrown at him, a miffed Jagger, in between songs, says into the microphone, leaning forward to better school us, “All right, I want all your shoes!” He pointed down at the stage as he said this. Now, it could be stated at this point that the crowd complied with the order. Chaos descends! The heavens roll! The tragedy begins! Thundering hordes of shoes start zipping up onto the stage, end-over-end, sideways, it didn’t matter, the crowd had responded with a criminal vengeance. It was like a buffalo stampede through the air.  

 

Hundreds of motley shoes, spinning furiously, went flying through the sky towards the stage, the band members ducking for all they were worth, Mick and Keith included. And then finally, under the sustained onslaught, the Stones relinquished the stage all together. They ducked their heads ignominiously and scurried like ninnies as they hurried off. Shoes were making it to the stage from incredible distances, seemingly from the infield area all the way to center field. And yet still it did not stop. On and on it went, sorties into the night. The Stones counterattacked, but to no avail! They were outflanked! The shoes were launched like rockets, shooting up fiercely out of their tall, narrow silos, on their way to annihilate the enemy, The Rolling Stones.  

 

The stage was soon covered with shoes. It was three or four deep. A rummage sale. Roadies had to start clearing it, and even they had to duck. They were allies of the dread opposition, they were the hired help! The Stones were off-stage for a full ten minutes, while the music lovers savored their unequivocal, unembarrassed, ultimate victory over The Rolling Stones, The Greatest Rock Band in the World. The Stones came back and behaved themselves.  

 

(1) Johnny Rotten, at the Hollywood Palladium, Hollywood CA, about 1987. This was a punk-rock reunion concert, and Rotten was no longer a Sex Pistol full-time. He was quite the composer, too, with all sorts of intellectual stuff. Not a good idea. This was a hard-core punk audience, and they had no use for fancy stuff. He came out playing this new stuff. There were some boos in the front of the pack, on the ballroom floor. But he kept on playing his newer stuff, ignoring the old Sex Pistols songs.

 

And then suddenly an arm whipped forward like a baseball pitcher’s. Something zoomed by. A missile of some sort. It came from about ten feet back. Wham! A huge, sloppy tomato smacked square into J. Rotten’s face. His face was gloriously soaked with tomato puree. Totally covered, dripping, it was a shot from hell, a career shot, a magnificent display of marksmanship! Johnny stopped dead. Motionless and speechless with rage. He couldn’t react, he couldn’t begin to react. For a full 7-8 seconds he didn’t budge an inch or move a muscle, there was just an ugly grimace emanating from his pasty face, eerily illuminated under the lights. He stalked off the stage, his back bowed with anger. The musicians followed apace.  
 

They were gone for several minutes, and we all thought we were done. “He’s fed up with us now, we really did it this time!” We hung around a little, though. You never know. Some buffoon spilled beer on my arm. I wiped it off on him. Only fair. We lingered around, musing, laughing. Then Johnny and the boys come back! At that point we witnessed a sight that no mortal heretofore can claim to have seen: Johnny Rotten, sheepish. He was downright apologetic. His manner was fully remorseful at playing the intellectual stuff. He had seen the error of his ways.

 

I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it. It was a bit disillusioning to see Johnny Rotten unsure of himself. Are there no verities? The King of Brash? He then said into the mike to the crowd that he’d play the old stuff, and when the band did so a second later, the punks erupted with happiness and exploded into mayhem all around. Paradise regained, the mosh pit unbound.  

 

Tony Downing