The Lost Guns n’ Roses Concert by Bill MacFarlaneI drove over the river and turned into town. I parked my van in the lot and headed into the back door of the restaurant. It’s 5:05….I’m late again, and again…and again. “Bar, hey bar, your foods up. Joyce, you’re up again, Joyce. One black chic going down. A wing on hold. I need some more green leaf, is anyone listening?” “Yea, yea, it’s coming.” “A nacho on hold. I need another bucket of fries. Can I get a real restaurant please! Joyce, you’re buried.” “I hear ya, I’m going as fast as I can.” “Party of 8 coming in.” “Bar, bar, D…i…c…k…y, foods up!” Slamm. “Two stir fries on hold. Put that wing down. Where’s that lusty? Rose! Rose! B..a..r!” “Bob, I need an extra on that burger. Clark? Where are those fries? Thanks bar, it’s about time. Can I get some more rounds please?” Illuminated by florescent ceiling lights, the music blared from the rafters, “Cult of personality, cult of personality…”Think not what your country can do for you.”…Wa, wa, wa, cult of personality.” Refrigeration units stand in every available space that isn’t being used to store dishes, glasses or pots and pans. Centrally located toward the front of the room is the dishwashing machine, the hub of activity for all incoming and out-going plates, glasses and silverware. The kitchen is a small, compact and highly efficient machine. Wave after wave of tables are served and cleared in an effort to get ready for the next wave. The ebb and flow of the seatings are readily felt by everybody in the room as time speeds by. Kelly’s red hair and rotund figure explode into laughter at the slightest joke and just as quickly he’ll be violently slamming down a spatula to let off steam over some special order or a waitress foul-up. To know him is to love him, like a red headed stepchild. Whatever room Kelly is in will be alive with the extremes of his emotions. And at the end of his shift, no matter how bad it’s been, he’ll punch out on the time clock, head out to the bar for a sports update and a Bud, and move his signature laugh to a new room, bringing it to life while leaving the day’s problems in the dust. His partner on the grill is J.D., a longhaired, blonde, pony-tailed, blue-eyed, tattooed, punk, hard rocker. J.D. is 21 and started in the kitchen during high school. As Jon Dish he worked the hub of the dishwasher. His taste in music leaned toward heavy metal. His body is tattooed with the colorful graphics of a growing hobby. The clear plastic wrap is tight around his arm protecting his latest body art from the oily kitchen environment. He evolved into J.D. as he was promoted thru the kitchen hierarchy. He’s in charge on Kelly’s days off. Armed with a sense of humor we flounder through the next storm with these guys at the helm. J.D. jumped into my path, his long silken ponytail swaying halfway down his back. He lately sported a blond goatee and mustache along with his assorted tattoos. “Yo, Bill. What are you doing Thursday night?” “Nothing I can think of.” “Want to go see the Beatles of the 90’s.” “The Beatles of the 90’s? Who’s that?” “Guns and Roses!” “Guns and Roses are the Beatles of the 90’s?” “Yup, Guns and Roses.” Jon told me that the concert had sold out in 37 minutes. It would be a long drive to Woburn, Mass. but he had an extra ticket. Kelly would be going too. That lent an air of maturity to the whole thing. Yea, right. “Let me ask my wife if we have anything planned.” Before I knew what hit me, I was on my way to my first Guns and Roses concert. We organized the outing and headed to the Centrum in
“Sorry, we don’t have a liquor license,” she explained. “It’s B.Y.O.B.” (Bring your own booze.) “O.K.” Kelly said as he left the table and returned with the cooler packed with two cases of iced down beer. “Would you like glasses?” she said nodding at our cooler. “No, that’s O.K.” “I didn’t think so,” she retorted. We ordered nachos. When they arrived at our table our “friendly” waitress continued, “Would you like side plates with your nachos?” “No, that’s O.K.” I said and Kelly nodded. “I didn’t think so,” she continued. We left her a good tip to insure that she would continue to treat customers the same way she had treated us. We headed to the Centrum. It was December cold with flurries. I had been worried about dressing right for the concert, so I dressed for a fight, dungarees, work boots, an old loose fitting sweater and my “Nanuck of the North” L.L.Bean parka with coyote fur fringing the hood. At the entrance to the theater I had my first shock wave of being part of a different generation. Everybody in line looked “16” with black leather jackets, black leather mini-skirts, thin high school legs with black nylon net stockings and assorted blue jeans, chain jewelry and ear-rings on both boys and girls. The line was long and everyone was being frisked. After about ten minutes in line we got to the front, the women bouncers looked at us and called the men bouncers over to frisk us. We had been standing in the girls line to enter the concert hall, something we hadn’t noticed. The guard was my age and he had a concerned but authoritative look as he saw my mature face. He asked me to raise my arms. He checked up my legs, under my arms and around my waist. He hit on one of my coat pockets that had a square shape protruding. “Please empty your pocket!” I took out a box of earplugs. We were allowed entrance. Taking out our tickets we reached the next line of defense. They let us through and pointed toward section Z. Kelly handed me my ticket. I looked at it for the first time. Guns N’ Roses, AROUND 8 P.M., SECTION Z, ROW 16, SEAT 21, UPPER REAR. The concert tickets left an ominous feeling in the back of my mind. “Upper Rear?” I quizzed. “And the concert starts AROUND 8 P.M.?” “Around? Rock concerts always start late. Why print around?” Our next surprise came as we found out what “UPPER REAR “ meant. Winding our way behind the stage we found section Z. We were not only directly behind the stage; we were headed to the last row in the top isle, 16 rows up in the last row of seats. You could have gotten a nosebleed going up the ladder-like steps; higher and higher until we reached the top, up against the wall, you could go no further. We hooked up with J.D. and a friend of his and settled into our seats. It was 7:20. It really wasn’t to bad, almost like a back stage pass. With over 40 thousand people in the place, the music wouldn’t blast us like it would have if we were in the front rows. Looking at the black leather crowd of guys and girls I wondered if there would be a lot of fights. We smoked and spied the surroundings. They were a young but tough looking crowd. I was the oldest person in the section. About 5 rows in front of us, a girl started puking. We started laughing. Been there, done that. Kelly’s laugh was infectious. We just about caught our breath from laughing so loud and she would puke again. Then we would laugh again. It went on for 4 pukes. We were in hysterics. Her 16 year-old girl friend was mortified to be sitting next to a puker. She wanted to leave, she was so embarrassed. Elbowing her friend in an effort to say, “Lets go, let’s leave, O.K? Ready?” And the puker started puking again and again. We watched the scene play itself out over and over. The puker sat down and her girlfriend stood next to her saying “ Come on, please, lets go.” But she couldn’t get up. Kelly turned his smiling face and deep laugh lower and inward to our group. “She won’t leave her puke.” He said. We burst out loud against our momentary restraint. We all knew how she felt, not wanting to leave her puke. “No,” just leave me alone with my puke. Leave me here with my eyes closed against the world, purging my stomach. Empty like a void, awaiting the next stomach spasm of seasickness. She wouldn’t leave. Her friend was getting more and more embarrassed by our growing attention. She stood there, “Please, can we go.” I wondered if we were going to get in a fight with this rough crowd over our frenzied laughing at another’s plight. The multiple piercings and image of the young crowd only tended to exaggerate that we shouldn’t laugh, and it made me laugh even more. The girl was finally able to get up and leave. They made the slow descent and blended into the crowd of comers and goers. The scene disappeared into the mounting excitement of the soon to be starting concert. People were in most of the seats. The place was just about full. Hardly a seat to be had. Two guys entered the area, one pointed. Yes, he thought, two empty seats. They headed up the ladder. They got to the puke seats, sat down and one of them placed his soda cup down in the puke. He reached back down and as he brought the cup up, there was a piece of smegma sticking to the bottom of the cup. “Roar.” We were having fun again. They got up and left. A few minutes later and there they were, two more suckers spying out the empty seats. I tried looking into their faces to see if there was a look of a loser about them. Did they have a “Born under a bad sign” air about them? They were young, they were smiling, they felt lucky, we laughed and laughed all the while. They sat, they looked around, and after a few minutes they could probably smell the stomach bile and whatever culinary delights were spicing up the Rat-tat-toie at their feet. As they stood I turned to Kelly and said, “That stuff must be slippery,” and no sooner did the words exit my mouth than the one slipped into an Olympic half-gainer landing spread eagle on the crowd around him. His movement caused his friend to slide. We watched as he slipped and kneeled into the puke. We were in our laughter zone again. Kelly roared, Jonny howled, I cried, as I laughed so hard. We just couldn’t stop. I felt hot from the stomach exertion of belly laughs. I stood up to take off my sweater and our whole row stood at attention to let me pass, except I wasn’t passing, I was just taking off my coat. They had all stood up to get out of my way. They were all aware of us, the loud group. They didn’t want to get in my way. I realized that “we” were the troublemakers. We were the loud mouths and the smokers. The crowd was totally aware of what we were doing and they were staying out of our way. The concert lights dimmed and we saw the band Sound Garden do their thing for the next hour. They were O.K. with brief glimpses of good guitar riffs. They left the stage at 9:15 and the roadies started re-setting the stage for Guns N’ Roses. We Waited 9:30, 9:40, 9:55, 10:10, 10:23, 10:26, The lights finally dimmed at 10:30 and Axyl came onstage. We’d been waiting 3 hours. The concert started and J.D.’s Beatles of the 90”s had their 15 minutes of fame. Go, Axyl…The show had a rainbow’s worth of lights, spanning, flashing and exploding with every gyration of Axyl and Slash. Axyl wore a red shirt and kept throwing the microphone stand down, out and back. He must have broken several of them during the two-hour concert. He circled the stage every few songs and our view was right up front when he made a pass behind the main speakers and drums. It was loud even from behind. “What’s so civil about war anyway!” And the crowd went nuts. Guns N’ Roses rendition of “Live and let die” was explosive but in no way measured up to being the Beatles of the 90’s. It was very captivating. Good themes and words, great guitar solos and the driving drum beat of a new generations heart, loud and strong. “Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door…” It was a great rock and roll concert. Axyl changed outfits, wore headband scarves, tight spandex pants and no shirt, thereby exposing his tattoos. His energy was magnetic. When he finished, so were we. We were spent and still had a two and ½ hour drive home. Leaving the Centrum, it was 12:30 and snowing. All these teenyboppers out at their first concert with Dad’s car and here it was snowing. “Yikes.” Kelly and I said goodbye to Jonny and his friend. We jumped into Kelly’s 4 by 4 and started trucking home. The snow continued and pretty soon everything was white. An inch or two was on the road and the windshield reminded me of a scene from Star Trek, where you hit warp speed and the stars are flashing into your face at the speed of light. The particles of snow seemed gentle, white and soothing while the air of danger slipped beneath the peaceful blanket on the road. I fell asleep. Hours later I woke up and tried talking to keep Kelly awake. The snow was slowing down our trip home, we continued our journey listening to Guns N’ Roses on the cassette player. A State of New Hampshire snowplow was working in front of us. It slowed us down but gave us the best plowed road possible as the accumulation mounted to 3 to 4 inches. Then the plow jammed to a halt. With his chains on, he was stopping fast and we were rushing toward a collision. Kelly jammed on his brakes; we started skidding sideways into the opposite lane, which had another plow heading towards us. The large lights of yellow and white seemed so pretty and still as we smoothly rode our skid even more sideways, turning our view away from the head-on and off toward the sparkling snow particles and darkness off the side of the highway. The tangent we were on brought us to a full 180-degree turn as we skidded off the road, onto the shoulder, further onto a flat expanse of yard in front of a garage. As we came to a stop, the plow passed us, leaving us facing backwards and peering into the snow at the tail-lights of what seemed to be the potential ending of our lives. “Holy f’en shit.” “Yikes!” We started laughing nervously. “That f’en a’hole. Why’d he jam on his brakes?” We watched in silence as he U-turned and followed the other plow back south, the way we’d just come. Kelly flashed him the finger but it was only a reflection in the glass of the driver’s side window. No one but us saw it through the sparkling snow. “Guns and f’en Roses.” I said. “Yeah,” responded Kelly as he turned, pressed the gas to the floor and headed us north toward
“Knock, knock, knocking on heaven’s door…” |
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