It’s my favorite question to ask people at a dinner party (or anywhere else) when the conversation is lagging: What was the first rock concert you attended?
Nearly everyone has a story to share – often one that involves a comical cocktail of juvenile antics, liquid spirits, long-lost love interests, and a band that is no longer respectable – and maybe never was. (Here’s looking at you, Backstreet Boys fans.)
I attended my first concert 40 years ago today. The band was Journey – a prototype power pop quintet – and their new album, “Escape,” was a smash. My friend Rob and I asked our parents about attending – we were only 13 – and faster than you can say “Stone in Love,” we both had general admission tickets, purchased for $12.50 each at Rainbow Records, with an up-and-coming Canadian act (Loverboy) as the opener.
The show was held at the Cow Palace – an unheralded venue best known for having hosted the 1964 Republican convention. Most of what I remember are peripheral details. Rob and I brought girls (cool), we traveled to the Cow Palace in a groovy van (very cool), two of Rob’s older brothers were also with us (extremely cool), but so were our parents (less cool).
The music was louder than anything I’d ever heard – my ears were still ringing the following morning in science class – and the acoustics were awful. The event was also the smokiest I’d ever experienced, and even as a young teen I knew that not all the fumes were emanating from tobacco-based products.
The only musical moment I remember was the lead singer, Steve Perry, outfitted in yellow leopard print shirt, jeans, and high tops, crooning the hit single “Don’t Stop Believin’” in his distinctive falsetto voice. When he arrived at the line about a city boy who was “born and raised in south Detroit,” he subbed in “South San Francisco.” The Bay Area crowd went bonkers. To memorialize the experience, I bought a Journey shirt, which I still own.
Concerts today are much more staid affairs, with reserved seats, no smoking, and the volume low enough to ensure one’s eardrums remain intact. But the rock concert experience can still be breathtaking. And everyone’s first concert should be committed to memory – with an embarrassing story to tell about it to enliven those dinner parties that inevitably turn dull.
