You’ll never forget your first concert
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- February 24, 2024
- 333
It’s not often I feel foolish when discussing music with others; modestly, I consider myself fairly knowledgeable on the subject.
As I get older, though, I find myself not being able to flash the instant recall I used to pride myself on, the ability, for example, to reel off the names of Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton when the topic was guitarists in the Yardbirds or to know, without bothering to look it up, the last time the Beatles played in public was Aug. 29, 1966, in San Francisco’s Candlestick Park.
Then, as everyone knows, they decided to perform an impromptu afternoon session on the Apple Studios’ rooftop, which makes Jan. 30, 1969, the last time the four of them ever appeared together.
Which begs the question: Was that an actual Beatles concert?
Purists have answered in the negative, citing lack of forenotice, the shortened set list, multiple takes on some songs and a general sense that what the band offered was a simple gesture of thanks and a fond goodbye, having — in a real sense — changed the world.
I wonder how I would feel, though, if I’d have been among those who just happened to be there when, out of nowhere, music began issuing from on high, and the slow realization, dawning like an impossible idea, that, yes, the Beatles were actually playing again.
If I’d have been there, I’d still insist I saw them in concert.
But in my heart of hearts, I’d know it was just an open-air rehearsal, one that has become famous for reasons not musical.
Historic? Without question. Sentimental? No doubt about it.
I never got to see a single Beatle in concert, though Ringo’s son Zak played drums when I saw Joe Walsh live in the late ’80s.
I could be wrong on that, though. As I’ve said, my memory’s not what it once was. I’ll have to check with my wife, who was there.
And speaking of the love of my life, she reconnected with a friend she hadn’t seen in decades a few days ago, and I was fascinated to be a small part of their conversation. It served as a valuable reminder that although there’s just a three-year gap in our ages, that’s a veritable chasm when it comes to concert memories.
That’s one of my ice-breaking questions when I meet someone who’s gotten my attention early on: I’ll ask what was their first.
Usually, I’m standing on pretty firm ground, being able to claim Lou Reed on his 1973 “Transformer” tour as my rock baptism. It’s kind of cool, in a post-Velvet Underground way, and I like having that card to play when someone says something like the Who.
But this friend of my wife’s made me feel like a fool when I asked her about her first concert experience. I felt like a kid sitting at the cafeteria table reserved for those who set trends, not follow them.
“Janis Joplin,” she said, “but this was before she was a star. She was singing for a band … what was their name? “Big something.”
“Big Brother and the Holding Company,” I said. “Amazing.”
“A few weeks later,” she continued, “I saw Hendrix. He was playing in a little club in Cleveland. I think we hitchhiked up.”
“So you saw Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix?” I asked, thinking she and my wife lived in the same small town as I did but existed on a higher plane, one I’d never even imagined was out there.
“Did I mention the Doors?” she added. “I saw them too.”
At that point I excused myself from the dining room table and walked out into the snow-covered backyard, marveling at the world my wife and her friend had shared and the way they fearlessly wandered through it, hitting the big city whenever they felt the urge, adding memory upon memory as they danced along.
I grew up a cautious Catholic boy, mindful of the rules, doing my homework, going to church, growing my hair long but not too long, sneaking into darkened gyms to shoot hoops but taking nothing, not even turning on the heat, careful to leave no clues, stealthy.
As a college student, I thumbed for rides up Highway 31 to Michigan, where 18-year-olds could legally get a pitcher of beer. I saw some great bands at the ACC including J. Geils opening for the Faces on their farewell tour, still the best show I ever attended.
I dabbled in stuff, got my heart broken, made the dean’s list and generally enjoyed my time in South Bend, keeping in mind Mom’s admonition that college wasn’t a job factory, so savor everything.
After I got out of Notre Dame, I lucked into a part-time gig as a sports writer and parlayed that bit of good fortune into a 40-year career in journalism, making friends and writing, writing, writing, all the time thinking, “Well, it’s better than working for a living.”
Now I’m at a crossroads, perhaps the last one I’ll ever face, and I wonder what’s about to happen. I’m back home for the first time since 2000, trying to figure out where I fit in or if, in fact, I still do.
I watched “Citizen Kane” the other night and made a note of this line of dialogue: “Old age is the only disease that you don’t look forward to being cured of.” I finally understood its implications.
So that’s it for this week. Thanks for the privilege of your time.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. Feel free to find him on Facebook and, if you’re in the mood, share your first concert experiences.