For most of us, your first concert is a fond memory. It’s a stop along the way to adulthood, an early moment when you expressed taste and made a decision for yourself. And it’s also often (though not universally) a key moment of independence when you head off without supervision. Years later, you can get all wistful and talk about the first show you ever went to and all the crazy adventures you had.
That’s all well and good if your first concert was something cool. My first concert? The first live music show I attended without any parents or adult chaperones? Meatloaf.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with that — Meatloaf had a lot of fans and sold a lot of records, and was undeniably a talented singer (and even actor!). But it does not have the cool factor, does it? Heading into Manhattan in 1989 to see Meatloaf is not exactly like catching The Ramones at CBGB in 1974. I wasn’t even really into Meatloaf, honestly. I was vaguely familiar with the big hits like Bat Out of Hell, sure, but I didn’t sit around listening to Meatloaf tracks in my spare time.
A friend of mine from High School, who wasn’t a serious person, loved Meatloaf, however, and it was his idea to go. I thought, what the heck, let’s have an adventure. I should have asked myself why he couldn’t get anyone else to go with him.
.o0o.
First, I had to get an ID. I was seventeen, and the venue was 16 and older but you had to have ID, or so the official line went. I hadn’t yet gotten my driver’s license, so I had to go to a place downtown and show my birth certificate and sit for a photo and wait for the ID to be made. This was an early sign that I am a Rule Follower, because of course when I got to the show no one gave two shits about an ID — all it meant was that I didn’t get an adult wristband, so I couldn’t order alcohol. Joke was on them, I had three bucks in my pocket so I couldn’t afford alcohol. But I still got the ID, because Jeff is always terrified of being caught not following the rules. It’s a real problem.
The place was half full, and I remember feeling a little sorry for Mr. Loaf, who sweated impressively on stage and seemed on the verge of collapse at all times, but sounded pretty good. My Unserious Friend was ecstatic, and kept grabbing me to shout enthusiasms in my ear, but I was just slightly bored. I knew two songs, there were — at most — two dozen other people there, and I couldn’t even drink recklessly, already one of my favorite hobbies.
.o0o.
I’ve carried unspoken resentment toward my Unserious Friend for decades because of this. This is exacerbated by the fact that my next concert was The Who (followed rapidly by The Rolling Stones), much cooler bands that would have been a decent choice for first concert ever.
Of course, when I saw The Who and The Stones I imagined they were on the cusp of retirement. They were so old, so absolutely ancient, I felt like I was running out of time to see them. Meanwhile 80-year old Mick Jagger is out there making me look bad. So what do I know about cool? Apparently nothing.