12.3 – Day on the Green

July 4th weekend was just beginning, and the four amigos were thrilled that they had tickets to Day on the Green #5, featuring The Outlaws, Santana, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Peter Frampton.  That would be the first big rock concert any of them had ever been to, but now they had wheels to get there… and most of them had no parental restrictions.  It turned out Annie’s parents wouldn’t let her go, and she threw such a fit that they grounded her, so they had an extra ticket.  Dennis was eager to replace her, having heard from his buddy that the previous four concerts were totally awesome.  The Day on the Green events were so big they were held in the Oakland Coliseum where both the A’s and Raiders played!  Dennis informed them the thing to do was to get there early, so they could line up and get the best position “on the green,” which was the actual turf of the playing field.  The stage would be in center field, and it was like a crazy land rush to claim your spot when they opened the gates.  Or so he’d heard, anyway.  Mike talked Dennis into driving his rocket Bel Air wagon because he didn’t want to park his pretty Mustang outside a rock concert for about 12 hours in the bad part of town.  Fittingly, the crew would “boldly go where no man had gone before” in the Enterprise.

 

They hung out in Boobers’ living room the night before; waiting for 4 a.m. so they could leave and drive for about an hour to Oakland, and arrive by daylight.  The tickets said the concert gates would open at 8, and the show would start at 10.  Fred snored so loudly upstairs that nobody could sleep anyway, so they partied all through the night.  Owing to their impromptu pre-celebration, the mood was subdued as they drove over the bridge in the dark; in contrast to the lively Outlaws guitar solos Dennis played on his stereo.  They drank hot coffee from a huge thermos, and that helped a little.

 

The stadium was right next to the freeway, in an grungy area of drab warehouses and junkyards.  The streetlights around the perimeter fence revealed a large line of people was already forming.  Some had brought tents and sleeping bags, as if Star Wars was playing, instead of four awesome rock bands.  The excitement of seeing such a crowd made the competitive hairs stand up on the backs of their necks as they cruised past the line.  Phasers on stun!  A relatively safe-looking place to park was found for the Enterprise, and they started walking quickly to claim a spot in the queue.  Meantime, in the streets and sidewalks all around them, and from every direction, young and old party people were converging on the Oakland Coliseum in the dawn’s early light.  Most were carrying bundles and hurrying, with the competitive anxiety of refugees trying to catch a rescue train.  The murky rivulets of side streets flowed into a large mudslide of people, piling up next to the chain link fence around the parking lot.  The intrepid concertgoers were flushed with excitement, and somewhat cheerful once the rivalry for a place in line was over.  Ten or twelve deep on the wide sidewalk, folks sat down on their bundles, or the blankets they had brought to lay on the field, and everyone tried to get comfortable.  Marty checked his watch: the gates opened in three hours.

 

It was impossible to estimate how many partiers were ahead of them in line, but they were confident they’d get a spot on the field itself.  Marty looked behind their group, and saw that the human debris was still piling up.  A long-haired river of rock & roll lovers spread around the entire block, and ragged throngs were still pouring in from the streets and overpasses.  Across the street, a dozen freaks lined up and pissed on a concrete wall.  Some drunk and belligerent biker dudes appointed themselves the ‘line police,’ and vigorously patrolled the edges to prevent any latecomers from cutting in.  A few inebriated arguments broke out, but nothing serious happened.  To pass the time, Dennis lit up one of the joints he’d brought, and shared it with the strangers all around.  That instigated a wave of communal partying in the immediate area, and the mood got decidedly mellower.  Even the bikers settled down, linking arms in their leather jackets, swaying and singing Show Me the Way by Peter Frampton (badly and off-key).  Some even had the courage to boo them playfully.

 

As the sun rose above the hazy Oakland hills, the real police showed up to make sure there would be no craziness when they opened the outer gates to the parking lot.  As it turned out, they would be as ineffectual as shepherds trying to control the migration of sixty thousand wildebeest on the Serengeti.  Dennis and Mike reconnoitered the front of the line, and talked to some guys who informed them that when they opened the outer gates, everyone would run to the inner gates of the stadium, where they’d wait until 8 to get in.  Nobody knew when that would happen, so as soon as activity started near the front of the line, it passed down the sidewalk like a wave of electricity, making everyone stand up and gather their belongings in anticipation.  People naturally pressed forward, and that created space, which the ones behind filled immediately, until everyone was closely packed and spring-loaded for their chance.  At last, a growing cheer announced that the outer gates were open!  Through the chain link fence, Marty could see people running across the parking lot diagonally away from them, but their part of the line was still tightly packed, and couldn’t move.  The crowd ahead had to filter through the gate like cattle through a chute before they’d get their turn.  A few greedy types tried climbing the fence, but people threw empties at them until they stopped.

 

At first, Marty and his friends began shuffling, then walking, with their hands and elbows keeping space around them, and then they were trotting carefully to avoid each other, until everyone was running pell-mell.  The four crew members stayed together like the wheels of a race car, and tried to pass as many other groups as they could.  Everyone knew it would be impossible to reconstruct the same order of the first line, so it was an open competition all over again.  Marty pointed at some dudes who had been next to them, and were now cutting at an oblique angle towards a second gate that was set up with orange pylons and fences, where a smaller crowd was forming.  Dennis and Mike pushed their way free of the main flow and joined that stream instead.  They all agreed they did pretty well, and were even more excited about their chances to get up close and witness a stupendous spectacle of rock & roll.  There was still an hour before the stadium gates were scheduled to open, and the lines fanned out from them like twin blast patterns of humanity.  The edges of the mob were swarming with an army of staff wearing bright yellow “Bill Graham Presents” t-shirts.  They may as well have been wearing prison guard uniforms, because that was the attitude they projected to manage the crowd.

 

“No alcoholic beverages, no glass bottles, no cans allowed inside the stadium,” burly security dudes repeated through their assertive megaphones.  Dennis had a small flask of Jack Daniel’s, and Mike had a 12-pack of Coors poorly disguised as a bright red backpack, with the chunky appearance of an astronaut’s first aid kit.  There was no way that would pass any security check, so they had to drink its contents.  All around them, the crowd was coming to the same conclusion about their beverages, and a wild drinking revolution broke out spontaneously, right there in the parking lot.  Bullets of beer were exchanged with neighboring insurgents, to make sure the mob was well armed against the ever-present yellow oppressors, who still roamed the perimeter chanting their shrill slogans.  Bottles of booze passed from hand to hand, readying the gladiators for the assault on the Coliseum.  Dennis decided to shove his flask down the front of his pants and take his chances, because alcohol was suddenly everywhere, in a tidal surge of wanton intoxication.  Party animals older than them were chugging beer after beer, and throwing the empties into the trash bags toted around by the yellow-shirted “security,” now playing the roles of stewardesses.  Tarzan-types swigged quarts of whiskey, and had to be held up by their apes.  Newbie teenagers (like Marty and Boobers) furtively sipped on warm beer cans, hoping they wouldn’t get caught.  It was a dreadfully delicious debacle of debauchery, and they weren’t even inside yet!

 

When the inner gates opened, there was another cheer, but the line cops had become more organized.  Everyone who entered the stadium had to have their bundles and backpacks inspected – by experts trained in tactile contraband detection – before entering the stadium.  These ‘experts’ were unbathed goons, who stank as if they lived in a patch of weeds by the stadium, and were paid around two dollars an hour.  They thoroughly enjoyed the temporary god-power they wielded in the moment.  If you were a cute chick, you had to prove you didn’t have a bottle of whiskey between your boobs.  If you were a dude, you were automatically branded a criminal until a desultory inspection of your disgusting pack proved otherwise.  All this morally abject judgment was repeatedly performed on wave after endless wave of sinful humanity, the way the devil himself might have to pitch in at the gates of Hell during busy events like war.  There was a constant staccato of crashing glass in the nearby dumpsters as confiscated bottles – empty or not – were tossed into the trash.  The smell of alcohol was so strong, one could get tipsy on the vapors, and even the yellow demons began to sway with vapid menace.

 

The line inched forward slowly, until at last Marty and the guys got inside the concrete bowels of the stadium.  After running that gauntlet of negative energy, they instinctively headed for the light, through one of the openings in the stands that led to the seats… and the field!  The four crew members entered the massive Coliseum at the corner of the end zone that was farthest from where the stage was set up.  The openness and noise struck Marty like a warm wave.  It turned out that getting a position near the front of as smaller line line gave them a big advantage.  The party people poured down the cement passageways that led to the field; carried along like logs on a flooding creek.  There was a current of eagerness and excitement that surged through the crowd, along with the communal glee of sharing the same riotous experience.  The crowd surged out onto the field, and ran like little children across the grass towards the stage, with long hair and colorful blankets streaming.  The center of the field was blocked off to protect the baseball infield, which added to the competition for a good spot.  The roadies gathered onstage, and amused themselves by blasting the William Tell Overture on the sound system.  For the frantic crowd, the object was to run until you had to walk, then shuffle as close as you could get to the stage, and stake your claim with a blanket, or a tarp, or – for lack of anything else – your bodies.  The four “wheels” had managed to stay together in the churning traffic jam of confusion, and when folks around them started putting down their blankets and stuff, they spread out as much as they could, and sat down to form a small square.  That seemed to protect their little patch of turf as well as a blanket, but their butts were parked right on the damp grass.  There was a lot of shifting going on all around, as people tried to subtly acquire more space, without being accused of encroaching on someone else’s claim.

 

Mike grinned blissfully, and Marty asked him what he was thinking.  “I’m sitting on the same grass where Ken Stabler walked,” he said with genuine reverence.  He was a big Raiders fan, and his statement was probably accurate.

 

“Actually, that’s where I saw John Matuszak puke on TV,” Marty teased, and his brother from another mother shifted a little to his left.

 

A big clock on the scoreboard indicated there was still an hour and a half before the concert started.  There was no wind inside the stadium, and the coolness of morning was giving way to the promise of a hot summer day.  The sweat that people had expended to claim their spots was becoming fragrant.  There were thousands of human beings surrounding Marty, coveting his space and pressing in all the time.  He checked out the stands with his binoculars, and the first level was nearly full of people, with some now filtering into the upper deck.  That was a long-distance view of the bands, for sure!  At his first concert, he had to sit way in the back, and this time he wanted to be up front.  They had done fairly well; Marty estimated they were about 20 yards from the stage.  There was another scoreboard that constantly announced, “For medical attention, go to the third base dugout.”  The A’s played their home games on the same field as the Raiders, and that was kind of confusing.  Marty looked around and found the foul poles, and that was all he could see of the baseball field.  He supposed one could use the poles to navigate to the dugout, but looking at the condition of those around them, he didn’t have confidence in their ability to navigate any further than their blankets.  There were some pretty wasted dudes!  A few of the babes were passed out already, too, and the concert hadn’t even started!

 

The party people were getting to know their neighbors, and the mood shifted from competition back to comradery.  It was amazing to see how friendly everyone behaved, when they weren’t trying to get ahead of you.  Over there was the rude couple who almost ran over Marty, and they were now very happily distributing clowny brownies to everyone around them.  The only food their crew had brought were some smashed-up deli sandwiches, because they all thought they’d be able to buy food at the concert.  There wasn’t a single concession stand in sight.  Marty remembered a fleeting glimpse of some back inside the passageways, but it would be a challenge to pick his way through the crowd, which now filled the entire flat playing surface.  People’s heads stuck up like ripe wheat in a field, and many were smoking grass.  A group of pretty ladies minced around gingerly in bikini tops and cutoffs, heading for the nearest way back inside the stadium, which was a long way off.  A virtual Red Sea of gentlemen parted to make a path, and all seemed to be enjoying their delightful passage.

 

The anticipation was building as it got closer to 10:00.  The sun rose above the rim of the stadium, and it started to get warmer.  More concertgoers were standing now: stretching, looking around, and wishing they could fly to the bathrooms.  There was increased activity on the stage, with the roadies making their last-minute checks.  They had already set up a huge wall of mega-speakers on either side, which now began playing some loud intro music.  People stood up quickly, craning their necks in anticipation: are they starting?  The clock read 10:16.  Then the announcer introduced the “Florida Guitar Army!”  The Outlaws burst into the first few bars of Why Don’t You Stick Around for Some Rock & Roll, and the crowd lost its collective mind.  Hours of pent-up energy and expectancy erupted in an ecstasy of sheer exultation.  Marty could feel the sound waves against his face, as if his head was thrust out of a moving car window, but he could hear nothing but the music.

 

Mike mouthed, “Oh my god!” and Boobers said something Marty couldn’t translate by lip-reading, and they were lost in the vibrations of the sound, as it coursed through their bodies like electricity.  The only way to keep from exploding was to let the rhythm have its way with you.  All around them people were moving, dancing together, rejoicing with arms raised in the air, and screaming at the top of their lungs.  The crowd surged forward again, and just like the line outside, when the wave of empty space reached them there was chaos as people tried to grab their stuff and move it forward.  Many blankets were lost and trampled underfoot.  The crew left nothing behind but the red knapsack, and it was full of garbage anyway.  Now they were less than 15 yards away, and Marty could catch glimpses of Huey Thomasson and Billy Jones trading licks on their guitars.  He was unable to raise the binoculars to his eyes, due to all the rough jostling in the crowd.  Unfortunately, the sound quality wasn’t very good this close up, and he couldn’t enjoy the artistry.  It was all about just being there.

 

The Outlaws played about eight songs with exuberant energy, including their signature 20-minute epic, Green Grass and High Tides, which launched the concertgoers into a tumultuous stratosphere.  They cheered and cheered for more, but the opening act didn’t get an encore.  For Marty, it was like he was seeing the concert backwards, with the best band first.  The crowd settled down again, and it got quiet when everyone realized they didn’t have to yell and shout anymore to be heard.

 

The rest of the bands were great musicians, and had many popular songs, but only Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd roused the Oakland Coliseum to greater heights than The Outlaws.  It was an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of awesome rock & roll, played by gifted artists at an insanely high volume.  By afternoon it started to feel more like survival in a refugee camp, when trips to use the bathrooms or get some food turned out to be major expeditions.  There were a great many wasted people in the stands, and Marty guessed the third base dugout was probably overflowing.  Navigating through the bowels of the stadium gave him the chills, as if experiencing the apocalyptic aftermath of a nuclear war, or a massive earthquake.  The dark corners smelled like piss and vomit, and the zombies who had indulged in too much of everything slumped in the corners and stared at nothing.  Those who could still ambulate peered dazedly at each other as if wondering, “Am I still alive?”