By Salvatore Barcia Jr.

Posted August 18, 2021

Another concert for the ages was in the books.  Andy, Brian and I were on a roll, seeing the Chicago/Beach Boys joint performance multiple times during the summer of 1989.  This time, accompanied by a couple of other friends for the show, a flub turned the evening into a most excellent adventure.

Live in Concert

As concertgoers filed out we were on our usual high from the performance.  Rob Lamm’s vocals soothed, Mike Love’s voice soared, Danny Seraphine’s drums rocked, Al Jardine’s riffs energized, and Dawayne Bailey’s guitar roared.  We danced, we sang, we jumped for joy.  The melodies moved us, the horns gripped our souls, and the extended encore shook the arena.  This particular period of our musical development witnessed a mildly obsessive interest in these two bands.  Any time the three of us cruised that summer, we never argued about which band to play.  Instead we debated which Chicago or Beach Boys track, and whether we should fast-forward past their other songs on the tape.

This wasn’t my first concert.  Credit to my brother Anthony who took me to see Bruce (recognizable by first name only) at Brendan Byrne Arena.  Although behind the stage, we felt as though he was putting on a show just for us.

Years later Lollapalooza (the good one, from the 1990s) and the Warped Tour allowed me to sample many 90s bands, plus vintage performers including The Ramones and The Specials.  Working at Waterloo Village introduced Rage Against the Machine.  Some shows were required reading (The Rolling Stones and U2), others offered a glimpse of a legend (B.B. King), and others were just youthful fun (Damn Yankees and Poison).

Everyone has a list of missed shows – I’ve always regretted not seeing The Who or Queen.  Once Shawn and I tried to see The Grateful Dead, not because of a connection to their music but to understand all the fuss.  Unfortunately as we toured the parking lot preshow we got many offers for mind-altering substances (not our thing) but came up empty on tickets.

Spending less time at concerts these days, I did enjoy an evening with Rival Sons in the not-too-distant past.

Elusive Parking Spot

Exiting Nassau Coliseum, we had forgotten a cardinal rule of parking there – remember your location, because it’s an ocean of sameness.  My 1976 Malibu Classic, a block-long monstrosity, was nowhere to be seen.  It had no tracker and no paired phone, just an AM radio with an FM/cassette converter clumsily decorating the dashboard.  A bike chain held down the hood after a recent accident.

The average adult would likely have stewed, searched, paced, moaned, and snuck in frustrated profanities.  A group of teenage boys (I was just shy of 20), however, did not feel adult-level stress.  Resigning to a long wait, the moment was relished as a chance to hang out.  No concern about to-do lists, no worries about loss of sleep.  Our youth made us invincible and allowed time to stand still.  We joked, chatted, told stories, and planned our next concert.  An hour or two passed quickly and eventually, as the lot cleared, we saw my tank.

Bands Go Home Too

In a stroke of serendipity, we had parked right near the tour buses – beckoning us to stay a bit longer.  My boring, adult self would probably say “cool,” and move on, but youthful wonder highlights a different journey.  So we waited, watched . . . and of course tailed the buses back to the hotel like cops in hot pursuit.  Our group concocted grandiose ideas of where this might lead.  Images included the simple (“Maybe we can get their autographs?”), hopeful (“You think we can party with them?”), and fantastical (“They’ll ask us to roadie, and eventually we will tour with band!”).

No Country for Young Men

Anticipation grew as my aging Chevy stealthily stalked the buses outside the hotel.  Unsure what to do, we casually (more likely giddily) made our entrance to halt their progress before they disappeared into the abyss.  A few had already been absorbed into the beehive, but we did manage to snag others.  Imagine their surprise – middle-aged rockers for aging audiences enthusiastically charged by a group of teenagers as if we were ‘tween BTS fans.

Multiple pictures were snapped, autographs signed.  We gushed over their music and told of our experiences at previous shows.  They were incredibly welcoming and friendly.  Clearly they were long past the time of groupies and paparazzi, and nothing more exciting was going to happen.  Still, indulging our images of the rocker lifestyle, one of us queried, “So can we party witch yooz!?!”

They clearly just wanted to get to sleep.

After some additional pleasantries, we went on our way and they adjourned for a well-deserved rest.  I’ve often wondered about the conversation that followed.  We assumed we said the coolest lines, made intelligent song references, and provided exceptionally adept banter.  Our minds crafted images of us getting their attention at the next concert, resulting in a callout to the Staten Island boys and an invitation on stage to jam during the show.

I am sure they forgot about us by the time their heads hit their pillows.

Still, it was an unforgettable experience enabled by an error in planning.  As adults we value time and don’t want to lose it.  When faced with a delay, however, perhaps we can sometimes revive youthful attitudes and make the best of the moment.  And of course, if we remain optimistic, maybe we can allow such mishaps to present one of life’s happy accidents.