S
FROW
Saturday, October seventeenth,
on the green at Candlestick Park,
San Francisco. Gathered within the
park's peripheries are 70 thousand
Rolling Stones fans (?) waiting to see their
reigning gods.
The crowd consisted mainly of
downbeat grease hippies, sporting chain
connected leather wallets in the left rear
pocket and buck knives on the right hip.
Thousands of the clones wandered
around aimlessly and mindlessly, bump-
ing into each other, puking on one
another and calling each other by name.
An uninvolved person would outright
assume that they all came from the same
camp. Distinguishing one from the other
was the impossibility unfortaken by the
uninvolved, because it is common know-
ledge that the long-haired grease
monkeys, with the ultra-flared hip-hugging
jeans and garage boots, all look alike.
The grease hippy broads on the other
hand were just as vile as their male
counterparts. Oily hair and dirty bare feet
were prevalent along with little tatoos,
either above the breast area or on the hip
(which in fact were way too cute for the
uninvolved).
The omnipresence of the over-30 genre
was like walking into a Walt Disney
premiere. Uninvolved personnel could
visually picture the sale of bon-bons.
Upon entry of this Vaudevillish revue,
one was immediately confronted with the
fact that this is not going to be a place to
enjoy oneself. First was the drive through
Hunters Point ghetto, then a little cruise
through a ring of security personnel
(mainly S.F.P.D.). Then after all of that
hassle comes the $3.00 parking, a search
for a stall, consumation of all remaining
consumates, a stroll through staggering
masses of early comers (who came early
the day before to be assured a good seat
but partied too heavily and passed out,
therefore not being conscious when the
gates opened and subsequently missing
the first two bands and half of the
Stones), wait in a line to get searched
(which the uninvolved find very degrading.
To wait in line to get something you don't
like) for anything that might prevent them
from making a few dollars in their conces-
sion department, and finally, having to
deal with thousands of people, drugged
and sussed out of their minds, that are all
sardined into one stadium.
This plastic attempt at the revival of
rock 'n' roll sensationalism was cold and
bitter, but cleverly disguised to lure in the
easily fooled mindless masses in search
of something that they never lost, but cast
away. A shrewd array of carnival-like
stands, offering cheaply made memorabilia
at outrageous prices, occupied strategic
TASTYSE GROUND
areas of thoroughfare, luring scatter-
brained souvenir screwballs in for the
money kill.
The sun battered down on the forlorn
souls of the flesh carpet down on the field.
A sweaty mist hovered above their sweaty
skulls, fouling the air for those unaccus-
tomed, who in turn emitted their own oral
excrement, adding to the fragrant mess.
First up to bat was George Thourough-
good and the Destroyers, the unrecog-
nized highlight of the day. Filthy good
renditions of Hank Williams' "Move it on
over, and somebody else's "One
Bourbon one Scotch...etc. George played
the rare form of 'Industribilly,' while doing
the C.B. (Chuck Berry) strut on a large
pink stage (beige for wearers of Vuarnets)
reportedly the largest stage ever. The
stage had long arms that extended
outwards from the sides then angling
sharply into the crowd so the performers
can prance around in front of more
people. Leaping and contorting their
bodies viciously. Something pretty much
uncommon amongst most other severely
middle-aged.
Next up was the J. Geils Band. The
lead vocalist rants and raves like a white
negro false prophet from the south,
waiting for 'Amens, but in a less religious
manner. Repeatedly screaming to the
pink stage, down on his knees, "I musta', I
musta... etc. He said that he probably
got lost, but he was right down there on
the stage in front of tens of thousands of
people, and those unconcerned wished
that he had.
Before the Stones actually did come on
(it probably wasn't even the Stones. Who
would know the difference? Those who
were close enough to see were too
wasted to tell the difference and those
beyond that point of recognition could
only see a wimpy little figure in white
tights and kneepads making a spectacle
of himself in front of many.) a farmer
came on stage and watered down the
sweaty bodies, resembling pigs in a pen
or sea mammals on Galapagos Island.
People actually paid outrageous prices for
tickets to this show, put themselves
through undue duress of vigils in front of
the gates to be the first in, set this day as
the most important thing in their lives till
after the weekend, subjecting themselves
to search, being told what to do, to have
fun under extremely limited conditions
and degrade and lower themselves to
animal levels by getting sprayed down
with a hose like a common dog. A sick
form of massive masochism that should
be abolished in our society as we know it
today.
This form of Coliseum Rock should
better be left alone. It was good when it
Vlaadmir Blutonoir
lasted, but old dead things stink. If that
wasn't the case, there would be
gunslingers in the streets, knights jousting
in courtyards, chivalry would not be dead.
Let dead dogs lie and turn over a new
leaf...etc.
Finally, the Stones came out after a big
to do, and went into one of their classic
songs. Names of songs are unimportant
for the unconcerned, besides the fact that
there are virtually too many to remember
unless research is applied. I think we
should all sit back and remember what
happened to Elvis. Some attempted
nostalgic comebacks are disastrous.
Mick picked up an acoustic for some of
the songs, showing that age withers away
the youthful spirit in his unaccustomed
diversion from the continuous prancing
norm.
The show would probably not have
been half bad if it was held in a more
easily accessible arena with better visual
capacity.
It is hard to see any personal contact
between performer and audience in this
gaudy set-up. The audience puts a group
of human beings on the stage and
worships them like New Messiahs. Then
the group proceeds to control the
emotions of the hypnotized. Nothing
personal like a fan thinks it might be. A
fan sees the figure as a leader and the
fan in turn is the subordinate and thinks
that the magic lyrics were meant for him,
termed as classic matter (when they were
just really popular for their time). The
motive of all of this is not for your hearts
nor your soul, but it is for what man
craves most. Slaughter of dignity for
financial gain. A businessman trait rarely
found in true artists.
Fireworks topped off the finale of a
letdown. Many people came to see an
image of a superstar, superhuman.
Instead on the stage was a man who said,
"Hello San Francisco," a few times
because he knows that that makes people
yell.
If a person listened close enough,
above all of the screaming and fireworks
and such, a laughter could be heard. The
promoters satisfied laugh. Laughing
down at the mass of suckers who dished
out many clams to be entertained.
Echoing through the halls like a poison.
The sad thing is, that all of those people
hypnotized themselves into the frame of
thought that, they paid so much money for
this, no matter what, they were going to
have fun. Too bad the sound of people
getting drunk sheltered the fact that they
didn't.
People lose sight and are blind when
they forget. 'No False gods, No Heroes,
just you."
DONEL
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