I might have been the only person in history JEALOUS that my friends attended a Hootie and the Blowfish concert without me a few weeks earlier. I spent the night by myself watching Wayne's World for the 30th time while they were surrounded by college chicks watched Hootie sing their hits.
My friends didn't invite me for some bullshit reason. I grew up in Bismarck, North Dakota where music acts ranged from the pitiful garage bands to country music, so my chances to see lives shows were pretty slim. It was alright though because I bought tickets for a different show—the concert experience that would change my life.
I mowed two lawns to fund this adventure. My mom drove me to the Ticketmaster office at the mall. The lady gave me the eye and asked my mom if she approved, but she was too busy finding pants that would embarrass me during my sophomore year of high school. Finally, I paid $18.75 for my tickets… to White Zombie!
"More Human Than Human" still rocked the local radio stations. Somehow I managed to be one of the few people I knew with a copy of "Astro Creep: 2000" since most music stores checked IDs for albums with explicit lyrics. My conservative parents didn't seem to care what type of music I listened to, as long as I wore headphones—especially since I grew out of my gansta-rap phase. I traded Public Enemy for Pantera and N.W.A. for G'n'R.
I even had a friend going with me; Jeff, a guy who I'd known since kindergarten, also had one of these coveted tickets. Weeks in advance I picked out the outfit I'd wear: I'd sport my Notre Dame Starter baseball cap (backwards as always) along with my green flannel shirt and my baggiest Levi Big Jeans.
Everything was going great.
Then the media frenzy started.
A week before the concert The Bismarck Tribune pumped out headlines like "Devil Music Coming To Town," "What Really Goes On In Mosh Pits," and "Metal Monster Sings About Orgies, Death and Drugs." Somebody wrote an op-ed titled something like "Don't Let Your Children Worship Satan!" One of the articles said if your child touched somebody who was doing LSD, they could start hallucinating. Mosh pits were controlled riots full of perverts.
One day after family dinner my parents excused both my little brothers, but not me. "What gives?" I whined.
"Are you going to this…this murder concert?" my dad asked. "Yes," I answered, while looking at the floor. "Are all your friends going?" I shook my head—they knew my friends' families which were even more protective. "Your mother and I don't approve." I had heard about people's parents that sucked so much they tore up their kids' tickets. Then he grumbled something I still don't believe. Before I processed it, I considered threatening to pierce my ears or dye my hair pink.
"But if you still really want to, I guess you can go… as long as you don't do drugs, kill somebody, or get killed."
It was the miracle of all miracles.
Jeff's parents weren't as cool. He was out. As were most of my Catholic high school friends. Our religion teacher joked about flunking students who attended the concert. Luckily, he cared for Catholicism about as little as we did.
That Friday before I left for the show looking like a miniature Kurt Cobain, my mom asked me, "Do you really want to go to this thing?" I said yes. "Just don't do drugs." I reminded my mom of my nearly perfect school attendance and 3.75 GPA. She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. How un-metal.
Continue to Part 2: Dancing with the White Devil »