The Dancing Man from Buffalo, For the Love of the Korn God, and the Lost Keys to the Hippie Bus

I recently met a guy from Buffalo. I didn't go out of my way to meet him nor was it a mysterious case of Providence. I just met him. Briefly - while at a Counting Crows concert - one of only two Canadian dates for their Traveling Circus and Medicine show. When you willingly join a temporary community of a few thousand people in a designated space you are bound by the laws of sociability to interact with someone in some form, yet interaction in general is not something I excel at - especially with strangers. I'm just hardwired that way and am now too set in my ways to try and modify this quirk. Small talk for me is excruciating. I can never come up with anything interesting to say. I just babble. I truly become seriously bent when it comes to talking to strangers - especially when it's strictly enforced. But, there it is, and here we are and there go you and I. So, I met this guy from Buffalo. Recently. So did my wife. He was sitting directly in front of us. He turned, introduced himself and just began talking. I think anyone who has ever gone to see a concert has met this same guy. He wears a concert shirt of the band he's seeing. He's hopelessly drunk and has an attractive girlfriend who looks like she's just trying to placate him by feigning her enthusiasm for his favourite band. Once the band hits the stage, he immediately stands and starts to dance. He 'whoops and hollers' in the section where people are perfectly happy to remain seated, unless prompted by the band to do otherwise. He tries to make small talk with everyone around him, who can't hear anything he's going on about, nor particularly care, but he keeps talking anyway. He phones someone on his cell and holds up the phone to subject the person on the other end to a heavily distorted mess of sonic drivel. I've seen this same guy at the following shows in no particular chronological order: Bob Dylan (times fifteen), Tom Petty, Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Crosby Stills Nash, Neil Young (times three), Steve Earle (times three) , Pink Floyd (times three) , Rolling Stones (times three) , KISS (times four) , Iron Maiden (times two), David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Motorhead, Stompin' Tom, Robert Plant, Mark Knopfler, KoKo Taylor, Eric Clapton, Ronnie Wood, Bo Diddley, David Lee Roth, Spearhead, Blue Rodeo, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and even the Hot Club of Cow Town. It's the same guy being a dick and a total distraction. But, like Dr. Thompson once wrote - when you buy the ticket, you must take the ride.

I began seeing concerts as a gangly 14 year-old, and for a time, was hitting a few big ticket shows a year. In 1984, my BFF and I (yes, guys can have BFF) drove to Buffalo for a July 4th Dylan and the Dead show at Rich Stadium. We motored down the night before forking out thirty bucks to park in a cornfield with an undulating mass of strung-out Dead Heads and faux-hippies. They all liked to cook sausages. I met an Iranian man. I don't remember his name. Back then, I was more at ease making small talk with strangers. The Iranian man said his parents were still living in Iran, but that Iran was a bit of a 'bummer'. A strange woman then ran up to me and began spinning a weird tale of randomness. She said that was relieved to see me and then handed me the keys to a VW Microbus. I had no idea who she was. I still don't. She was, and continues to be a complete stranger. Before I could explain this apparent case of mistaken identity, she took off. She just floated away - up, up and away, like a tiny balloon. I still have the keys. Maybe that bus is still parked in that cornfield across from Rich Stadium, which is no longer called Rich Stadium. It's called something else. Something corporate I imagine. I know nothing about NFL.

While attending York, it was too easy to see whoever was making a tour stop. Back in Mattawa, now with a job and reliable set of square wheels (a mini-van), I thought very little of hitting the road for some serious driving to see a show. The last time I made such and effort was a fifteen hour balls-out trek to Milwaukee armed with an internet map that neglected to show lake Superior (this was before Google and Map Quest and James Bond GPS). Dylan was playing the Eagle's Ballroom, and my buddy Sean suggested we hit the road with no tickets. Just plenty of snacks, smokes, coffee and Dylan Cds. Fifteen hours later, wired and white-knuckled from a blizzard that blew in off one of the biggest inland lakes on the planet, we were safely checked into the now infamous Ambassador Hotel - the place where noted cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer killed his first victim, checking out of the hotel with the body packed away nicely in a serious piece of luggage. We didn't know this yet. All we knew was that it was across the street from the Ballroom and was fifty bucks a night. It was also classic Art Deco. I love Art Deco dumps. They have history burned into the carpets. Franchise hotels offer nothing in terms of history, but they do have free internet and free Gideon Bibles (I'm writing this from Room #229 at the Travelodge off Dundas in Barrie. I'm right next door to a Best Western and a Quality Inn.)

We needed tickets - not just any tickets - you don't drive fifteen hours for shitty seats. Sean chatted up a young girl at the box office. No tickets. Sold out. Did she know where we could get decent scalps? She hooked us up with her boyfriend who was a 'broker' which is a friendlier term than 'scalper' - less nefarious somehow. She made a call then instructed us to return to our hotel and meet the guy in the lobby at a predetermined time. She said we would know him from his Green Bay Packers jacket. We waited in the lobby like good boys with no tickets. I saw a guy with a Green Bay jacket. He had just entered. No luggage. Scanning the room - evidently looking for someone. Kinda shifty.

"That's gotta be him," I said, elbowing Sean. I raised my hand and stood. The guy, looking a little ominous, came over. Sean took out some cash and handed it to the Green Bay guy who looked down at the hand and took a few steps back like Sean was 'unclean' or an 'untouchable' which he sometimes is, but not to this extent.

"Shit man, not here. Not here. Outside." He walked towards the exit. We followed.

"We've come a long way for this," Sean said trying to make small talk.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thanks for hooking us up. We drove from North Bay for this?"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, in Canada."

He stopped. "You come all the way here for rock? Damn."

"Well, yeah, but Dylan is more than just a rock star."

"Dylan? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"What?"

"Are y'all playin' me?"

We stopped. I froze. Rock. This was not our Green Bay guy. He was selling crack. I'm more of a Kentucky Fried Chicken kind of guy. It was a horrible misunderstanding. It would have been funny in one of those sitcoms that are rarely funny. It didn't seem funny at the time though. We slowly backed away, turned and made a straight line to the elevator - then hauled ass up to our room. After a few minutes came the knock on the door. I was afraid to open the door. Bad things often happen when people open doors. Some doors should never be opened. I can't recall who first said this. I looked through the fish lens. This was another Green Bay guy who looked nothing like the first Green Bay guy. We let him in. He had third row centres for us. It was a great show. Everything worked out. A guy got stomped for being a dickhead. He was dancing and whooping too much.

This is what I loved about concerts - the drama that goes along with hitting the road with no planning, rhyme or reason. Not all shows have great stories to complement them, but at 42 - job and family obligations, the corporate monopoly that inflates ticket prices (do y'all know what an amusement tax is?), travelling hassles (still have not gotten around to getting a passport ) it's just way easier to rest on the fading memories of past concerts. And with all recounts and rehashes, the stories become more and more fictionalized to the point where even I have no idea what is really fact and what has morphed into quasi-bullshit. The only thing I know, is that the next time I see Counting Crows I will surely meet that dancing fool again. He will be drunk. He will dance and block my view. He will wear his shirt and talk smack to whoever will listen. Then, when they play Mr Jones, he will dial up someone and hold up the phone. Maybe I will ask for a refund on my amusement tax.

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

PS - just tore through the book SAVE ME FROM MYSELF - How I found God, Quit Korn, Kicked Drugs, and Lived to Tell My Story - by Brian "Head" Welch - former lead guitarist of Korn. It's a page turner. Go buy it, then call me and we can talk about it. No, wait, never mind. Cancel that.