A Devolution of Concerts

There were quite a few concerts to see over a few years, some put on by Northern College, some not. Most were. Timmins had been largely bypassed for decades, hardly any “name” artists bothering to grace us with their presence anymore. Johnny Cash was an exception, but I didn’t go see him. The Barstool Prophets were another exception, but they’d fallen on hard times, thanks to file sharing, and were playing everywhere that would have them.

That left the college. Northern College had made a point of trying to lure bigger names on the University Circuit to Timmins; and they were succeeding, somewhat. But attendance was touch and go.

We filed in to see The Headstones, shocked to see the college gym only about a third full. Hugh and the boys put on a great show, despite the low turnout, focusing on we who had shown up and not those who hadn’t. Hugh spit, he growled, he screamed, and he and his band peeled off layers of midnight black as they sweat through one layer after another. I braved the stage, risking Hugh’s spit, finding the sweet spot between the speakers, where hearing loss was at its optimally least.

Then Blue Rodeo unfurled their Turkish rug on the stage, easily the most expansive and expressive I’d seen to date. There were couches. There were wingbacks. There were claw foot lamps, replete with tasselled shades. There was even a sock puppet at stage left, where Dawson and I were contemplating its presence and mystical meaning, when Jim Cuddy and Greg Keelor came up beside us, joining in our discussion.

We braved a snowstorm to watch Sarah Harmer and her first band, Weeping Tile. There were only twelve of us in attendance. It was easy to meet her and talk to her at length, considering.

There were others, the most notable being a college concert trip to Sudbury. Cambrian was hosting 54-40. Northern had tried to lure them up, but they were a little too pricey, and the SAC budget had been spent. So, Northern College, SAC specifically, had enquired if anyone wanted to go. But we’d have to shoulder the bill. We did. A lot of people did. We bought tickets, along with just enough people to pay for the bus. We boarded the coach when the time came: me, Dawson and Jim, those others.

We brought a twelve pack for the trip; it is a four-hour trip, after all. Those hours went faster than I’d anticipated. Anticipation. There were new people to meet. There was lively discussion. We were going to a concert, after all. Dawson knew most of them. He was custodian at Northern, he worked hand in hand with them on SAC. And Dawson was beginning to prefer the company of those younger souls.

We thankfully pulled into Sudbury about an hour before the doors opened; not long enough to get a good meal at a good restaurant, but time enough for a slice of pizza or a burger before queuing up at the Cambrian Hall, the same hall that I saw The Watchmen in.

Students are starting to look young to me, I thought, taking in those people around me. No doubt. I was 35, they were still 20. There was a different vibe. It didn’t feel like it had when I’d attended The Watchmen. And it wasn’t. The crowd was more aggressive, rougher, quick to anger. The mosh pit did not nudge, it thrust. The pit did not flow and leap as one. It pushed, it jostled, it elbowed.

And when we surfed the hands, they crashed us into the bouncers who pushed us back. I was up and in, the bouncers nudged me back, and the crowd rushed me back toward them. They pushed me back harder, and I felt the hands almost give. Then they pushed me back into the bouncers a third time, and the bouncers lost patience. The thrust me away, hard, up and towards the center. The crowd did not catch me. The crowd parted. I crashed through and hit the floor, neck first.

That hurt. I found Dawson and Jim and said that I’d had enough of up close and personal. So had they. So, we retreated to the back third, where the crowd had thinned out.

A young woman eyed us. She had evil in her eyes. She rushed us, leaping up and crashed into us, her elbows flying. We tried to catch her, but elbows flying are a deterrent to such magnanimous conceit. She backed off and did it again.

“What the fuck,” Jim said as she prepared for her third assault.

She rushed us, we parted, revealing the metal support post behind us. I don’t think she saw it. I wouldn’t have cared if she had. She hit the pole hard, laid out on the floor as she crumpled.

We looked at her, then at one another. And we laughed.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dawson said, “before she wakes up.”

That was foreshadowing to a day of concerts in Hollinger Park. Nine bands were booked, Big Sugar, Sam Roberts, and Swollen Members, among them. Our Lady Peace headlined.

Seven thousand attended. Lawn chairs abound. A slice and a coke ran you up about twenty bucks. I milled about, chatted here and there, and tried to inch my way closer to the stage from time to time, but as time wore on, I retreated back to the chain-link fence where Dawson and Lena, Jim and Geri, and Joel and Denise, and those others in attendance from that period had settled.

Our Lady Peace took the stage. The crowd surged forward. The mosh pit stirred, and grew violent. It turned into a riot. Young girls were beating on young men, yelling at their boyfriends to “kill him!” They clutched other girls’ hair and dragged them to the ground, kicking them when there.

A woman from Dawson’s group was beside me at the edge of the melee. She looked at me and said, “Do something.”

I did. I laughed.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, “They’ll tear me apart if I go in there. That’s a job for Mommy.”

Just then an army of Mommies took to the field. They waded in and pulled the little boys and girls apart. Sent them packing. No one dared punch Mommy.

And I kept my skin.

I’m getting too old for this shit, I thought.