Ballroom Blitz

I used to go to shows at The Spectrum in Philadelphia and the security people manning the doors would frisk us as we filtered in.  Not an up against the wall frisk like cops do, but it was the same effect.  "Open your coat.  Let me see some socks." 

You'd reach down and pull up your pants legs and they'd look down at your socks to see if you were stashing something in them.  Wear boots and they got a pat down too, just to make sure something wasn't hidden inside. They would pat down your coat pockets; looking for recorders, pint bottles of cheap booze, and batteries.  Oh yes, the batteries.

Big, fat D cell batteries that maniacs would chuck from the high rafters if the band were slogging it without heart.  Ask Steven Tyler about flying batteries in Philly and I am sure the conversation will be over immediately.  Maybe a scuffle will break out between you and his handlers because you are being a jerk?

They'd eye up the contents of your pack of smokes, looking for the tell-tale signs of rolled up joints.  They'd look you in the eye as well, to see if you were carrying the inertia of crazy or approaching the fall out stage of intoxication.  "Enjoy the show, move along." they'd bark and into the concourse you'd head.  It was a routine that always reminded you that things can get out of hand in a flash at these shows. 

I've seen riot cops and cops on horseback, swinging long clubs and yelling.  One trick they had was to use the horse to pin a kid next to something unmovable and flail away on their head with the stick.  Maybe the kid could break free and make a run for it, sometimes not.  The cops would bust skulls and kids would run like roaches when the lights get turned on.

I saw, or at least I believe I remember seeing, some guy set fire to his coat by accident, and the flames licked up his arm before he began waving like a duck taking to the air.  Someone leaped on him and together they snuffed the flames.  The guy on fire shook the hand of his savior and back to the fist pump rocking he went.  I think we mouthed the word "Awesome!" to each other and kept on going ourselves.  Then again, I've never been able to remember any other details of that night, maybe it was all a false memory?

I've seen Steven Stills and Lee Ving, never together though.  I certainly didn't expect Stills to punch someone in the jaw and it didn't happen, but I did see Ving do it and I can still hear the smacking sound, like a wild wrestling match that doesn't get televised.  I sat quietly and heard Stills play, I tried to avoid broken bones when Ving was screaming at us.  Context is so important.

If I could be 18 one more time and go back to Philly with my young shock hair, an all teeth and gums grin, I'd do it and take one more tour of the dangerous nights.  One more night where I could look at the stage with faraway eyes and fists in the air, staring back into the eyes of some rock star, and if I'm really lucky he'll shoot a finger at me on that one lyric, the one line that sends you off on fated missions. 

One more chance to shout, "Yeah, man!" and not even for a second tell myself the truth.  That dude does the finger point gag a dozen times a night, in every town.  But for tonight, he did it once to me.  Bring on the cops!  I'm ready for the other side of that door.