Many people do not realize that concerts can be a matter of
life and death.
Having survived my first large-scale concert—a revival
featuring Jars of Clay at Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia--I cheerfully
agreed to accompany Josh to see Pearl Jam at The Meadows in Hartford.
‘The Meadows’ makes it sound open and green and peaceful, doesn’t it?
It was not.
From the parking lot, it looked more like a penitentiary.
Maybe because I’d been out of town, I’d missed—or blocked out—the news about the fence being torn down during a riotous Rage Against the Machine concert there a couple of months earlier.
That omen could have been helpful.
Pearl Jam was at the edge of my genre, but I knew a few of the songs. Yellow Ledbetter was my favorite, and while I didn’t know the words, I loved to sing along. This would be an adventure.
The seats were pretty good—10th row, aisle. Not that anyone actually sits at rock concerts, of course. Because of the recent Rage situation, security was abundant. Everywhere they swarmed, buzzing up and down the aisles, making sure everyone was orderly and following the rules. Some folks seemed bent out of shape about it, but I appreciated their efforts and organization.
When Eddie announced that they were about to play the final song, I was secretly relieved. A tension had been building deep in the crowd--an undercurrent of restlessness that was starting to make me wary.
Eddie must have sensed it, too. Without an explanation, he disappeared from the stage. The fans were not pleased.
A few minutes later, he returned to the microphone and directed the audience to kill me.
Well, not in those words, exactly.
What he said was, “Hey all you security people, how about if you chill out and let my people dance in the aisles.”
That was all the invitation they needed. Suddenly, the huge room was in a hurry to implode. Our row-mates shoved us into the aisle. Behind us, the other rows were doing the same. The crowd surged toward the stage with us at the forefront.
Within moments, Josh and I were separated.
The air was being squeezed from my lungs, crushed by the weight of thousands of people desperately pushing toward the band. Clawing and reaching, they pressed forward with the hope of touching Eddie Vedder.
The room spun, and I knew I was going to pass out. I’d made peace with the idea of it: I wouldn’t even fall down to be trampled. So many people were pressing in from every angle that I could remain totally upright and completely unconscious all at the same time. This realization was oddly comforting.
“You can’t pass out now. Eddie Vedder is three feet away!” said a voice nearby. Sure enough, only two people stood between me and the stage. I looked in the other direction, glimpsed hell, and felt dizzy again.
“Hey. Stay awake. Stay with me,” urged the voice.
Male, deep, invisible.
Probably God, I decided.
“I can’t. I’m sorry. Can’t. Can’t breathe,” I gasped. “I need,”-- gasp, gasp-- ”to get out of here. Please. Help.”
“Well, I can’t get you out of here,” said God, “but I can help you to breathe.”
Two huge, muscular, tattooed arms appeared from behind me, one on either side. Grasping his left hand with his right, God made a circle with me at the center. God’s arms strained against the crowd, and I inhaled deeply, again and again, as the stars at the edge of my vision faded and clarity began to return.
It was time to face my savior.
Burly, beefy body-builder biker-type. Tall. Kind eyes. Goatee. He smiled at me, revealing perfectly straight, dazzlingly-white teeth. Truly the most beautiful I’d ever—or have ever—seen.
Hair? No hair? I couldn’t tell. The stage lights had created a halo that began just above his eyebrows. I guess he was an angel.
The crowd pushed against us again, and the muscles in his arms flexed to preserve my breathing space. I stepped closer to him so he could tighten the safety-circle a bit. He now held an elbow in each hand, and I was eye-level with those teeth, standing closer to a stranger than I ever had.
“My friend!” I fretted. “He and I got separated!”
“We’ll find him,” he said, “Everything will be okay.” Then, as if to confirm this reassurance, he kissed my forehead. The goatee tickled my eyebrow, but I didn’t mind. It was completely appropriate for this life-or-death situation.
Eddie Vedder, perhaps realizing his horrible mistake, didn’t even finish the last song. Flanked by security, he was escorted off the stage.
Initially things got worse before they got better, the feelings of betrayal swallowing the crowd’s devotion. But I was safe in my angel’s protection, with my faith and fate resting in his divine intuition that everything would be okay.
Forever passed, and finally the crowd started to retreat. That’s when I saw Josh, panic painting his expression as he swam upstream through the sea of faces, no doubt searching for me.
Ducking out of the savior’s ring, I snaked my way toward my friend. We gripped hands tightly, and he fought his way toward the exit with me in his wake.
After an eternity, we burst out into the cool, starry night.
***
I swore off concerts from that point forward, which lasted
all of six months. When I went with Gabriel Hall to the WBRU 29th
anniversary celebration at Lupo’s in Providence later that year, he must have
thought I was a clingy nutcase the way I stayed urgently at his side and the
perimeter of the room.
With the exception of Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Dave Matthews Band, and Disney Princesses on Ice, the concerts I’ve attended in the last decade and a half since that near-death experience have been at significantly smaller venues. This was not a life-lesson I needed to learn twice.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling trapped in crowded or loud
places, I think about that night. Was it divine intervention? Whether
heaven-sent or hell’s angel, I’ll always be grateful for his role in my
personal revival.
 |
| Josh Allen and me, 1983 15 years before the incident, and 30(!) years ago |
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