The Concert Experience

Ru, wee sis, Boy Sis, and the matching purses
(the pic is as fuzzy as our hearing)

I suppose it may be gleaned from yesterday’s review that I didn’t enjoy myself at Def Leppard. That the gig was too loud, too garish, and too predictable.

Actually, that was the audience.

The flipside of a rock concert is the crowd. It matters not who is on stage; the same players are always in the stands. The flailing dancer in the seat next to you. The staggering drunk in perilous heels trying to navigate the stairs. The bombed macho buddies who throw their arms around each other while bellowing, “I love you, man!” in the row ahead of you. The parade of trailer trash fashion on the concourse. The cigarette lighters that spark in the arena when yours was confiscated at the door. The beer balancing act as the alcohol max is purchased on the first concession stop. The inevitable cloud of pot smoke wafting from the seat behind you. The giggling groupies. Their biker boyfriends. The twentysomethings who don’t care who’s playing, let’s get tickets and go embarrass ourselves while annoying the real fans during the show.

It is possible to be fed up before the band takes the stage. In some cases, it may even be probable.

Most of the concerts I’ve attended in the past couple of years have had no opening act. The artist starts on time, takes a brief intermission halfway through, then finishes the show. Alas, Def Leppard adheres to the template of hiring an opening act that no one wants to see, then coming onstage at bedtime and blasting through the standard hour-plus set that includes a two-song encore. This makes for a true test of endurance, so it’s better to have a friend along for the ride.

Ter and I lucked out on Friday. My wee sister and Boy Sister met us for dinner early, then headed to the arena well in advance of the show to ensure that we got parking (a quick getaway is impossible, but a smooth exit isn’t, if you get there in time to nab the best space). That left us with a couple—nay, a few—hours to kill, as we had no interest in the opening act and were unwilling to risk our hearing for anything less than the headliner.

Regrettably, Victoria shuts down at six on a Friday night, hence no shops of interest were open. So we trekked to the arena and hung around outside, enjoying the mild spring evening and watching the streaming humanity form a line at the door. People-watching with my sister is a riot. BS is even funnier with his observations, but nothing was more entertaining than the people we were watching. Lots of leopard spots in evidence, in tights, shoes, jackets, shirts, scarves and purses. Ridiculous heels trip-trapped across the pavement. Big blonde hair was snaring bugs everywhere. Dark glasses were firmly in place despite the twilight. Tall boots, short boots, and why in the world would a girl wear kitten-heeled mules in a milling crowd of inebriated headbangers? She wasn’t going anywhere fast, not when she had to clench her toes to keep her shoes on. Mundane jeans and sneakers were peppered with sequins, studs and chains. BS asked Ter and me if we hadn’t dressed that way in the 80s? To which I replied, “We were Miami Vice cool, not Madonna tramp trash.” Heck, we weren’t even Lep fans until Hysteria came out, and by then Vice was done and Madonna had brushed her hair.

The four of us sat on the fringe of this crowd because we did not belong in this crowd. The notion occurred to me that this was the modern day equivalent of going to the opera, when the aristos of old dressed up to attend the theatre. Too scary a thought to maintain, however. This was more like the Roman mob filing into the Coliseum to watch grown men beat each other to a bloody death.

And we were here, why?

Oh, yeah. The Leppard King. Well, he wasn’t due for a couple of hours yet. With roughly half an hour until the opener, we joined the lineup and got through security with the merest pat-down and bag search. Checked out our seats in the stands. Four in a row of eight, second row up in the bowl, with one of us on the aisle. Sweet. Wee sis and I sat together for a while, comparing the length of our femurs (hers is longer) and me showing her how to shorten the strap on her purse—which, we had discovered at dinner, is the exact twin of mine. She’d been trying the trick she uses on a horse’s halter (her daughter has a horse) and remarked, “Horses are my life, Ruthie.”

“That’s weird,” I replied, “since I was the one who wanted horses.”

“You wanted kids, too,” she reminded me.

“So how did you end up living my life?”

“I dunno, but now I’ve even got the arthritis!”

At which we both fell about laughing.

To avoid the opening act—which we would hear well enough from the concourse—we retraced our steps to check out the merchandise. Once again, the Leps have no program, which is the only thing we would have bought. I was wearing the hoodie I got at the Edmonton gig in 2007 (75 bucks at the show, 35 online, to which wee sis observed, “Yeah, but you got a free concert.”) and if we bought a t-shirt at every Lep concert we’ve been to, that’s all we’d be wearing.

Time for water and popcorn. Ter and BS vanished into the concession swarm; wee sis and I hung out by a pillar to keep clear of the current and continue to people-watch. She says she can’t do it with her daughter because my niece gets embarrassed. “Are you two in the lineup?” somebody asked.

“No,” sis said, waving them on by, “we’re just holding up the pillar.”

We hadn’t noticed it was the pillar behind the line for alcohol service. We’d just thought everyone wanted pizza.

Finally, our elves emerged with the goods and we took up position just inside the main entrance, where security continued to pat down newcomers though the opening act was by now well into their set. More big hair. More leopard print. More leather jackets. Gads, even a pair of fishnets in red hotpants. Stiletto pumps, stiletto boots, stiletto sandals. Canuck jerseys in abundance. Canuck jerseys? Well, the playoffs are on, and one of those jerseys gave me the best laugh of the night: an old Luongo sweater with the name taped over, inscribed with LACK (for Eddie Lack, the now-goalie) and the numeral 1 preceded by a handmade 3.

At last, the first act ends, the lights come up, what audience was present for them returns to fuel up with more booze, and we make our way to our most excellent seats. Some dickering with our phone cameras so we can get them to work during the concert. Then, the show, complete with the surrounding distractions as mentioned at the top of this post. I had a blast anyway, situated between Ter on the aisle and BS on my right (wee sis took the flailing neighbour for the team), and by the end of it, we were done. Not a perfect evening, as BS said later, but how can it be bad when it’s spent with people you love?

Amen, brother.