It’s late Tuesday afternoon on a picturesque spring day in Tulsa. I’m sitting in a largely unoccupied bar, drinking beer and contemplating the night to come with an anticipatory giddiness I’m not accustomed to. I check the time frequently and touch the pocket of my jeans to feel for a folded piece of paper. In a couple of hours, I’d be fulfilling one of my life’s objectives. I’d be seeing Van Halen in concert.
This night was thirty years in the making, and despite my pragmatic nature, I couldn’t help but ascribe more to this than what it was—a man bearing down on forty going to see a band `that was huge in his adolescence. A part of me hoped this night would reconcile a profound absence from my childhood and that I might relive what it was like when I was an eleven-year-old fanboy.
In exchange for mowing her lawn, my grandmother agreed to take me to the local discount store where I could select a cassette for my new Walkman. I’d made my selection before the work even commenced. After the clerk unlocked the display case and rang up my copy of Diver Down, my life would never be the same.
I played that album until it wore out—literally—the tape became so worn I could hear the opposite side playing in reverse between songs. I soon picked up the band’s first album on vinyl and gave it similar treatment. Inclusion on the first semester honor roll netted me a new boom box along with the recently released 1984 a couple years later.
Like many kids at that time, it was Edward Van Halen that caused me to grow my hair long (ish), save my money and go to a pawn shop, buy a guitar and amplifier, dime it, and make that first deflating attempt at “Eruption” in the garage. Though I pined frequently to take up the guitar, my parents pointed to the abandoned piano and sold off snare drum as evidence of my commitment issues. In the interim, I created my own guitars—cut from corrugated North American Van Lines moving boxes and painted to resemble the more famous ones from Edward’s collection—including a painstakingly reproduced Frankenstrat.
By that time, Van Halen had assumed its place at the center of my universe. After buying up all the albums, watching the videos, and gobbling up dozens of fatuous fanzines, the next logical step was to see the band live.
It was early spring, mid-morning, and my dad and I were in the car driving around Humble, Texas in search of a hardware store. This shouldn’t have been much of a chore, but my dad had an allergic aversion to anything resembling a honey-do. My mother was at our home in neighboring Kingwood working in the yard and had sent us out for a wheelbarrow. On the radio, a DJ was broadcasting live—I believe from the Astrodome—where tickets to Van Halen’s July concert at The Summit were about to go on sale.
“Oh dad, please, please, please can we go?” Like most kids I asked for everything, but the triple please should have been enough to indicate this really meant something to me.
My request was placed on the backburner as for one of the few times, my dad was focused on executing my mother’s wishes. Wheelbarrows would be at the store all day; Van Halen tickets didn’t figure to last until noon, I argued.
Despite my precocious command of supply and demand, my dad stayed the course, turning into a True Value store where the purchase was made. By the time we wedged it into the trunk of his Oldsmobile and got back in the car, the show had sold out.
“See, we wouldn’t have made it anyway,” said my dad, as the drive was roughly half an hour.
A second show was quickly added as we headed home. It sold out as well, prompting a third night.
Back at the house, I made my case to my mother, somehow hoping she’d realize the importance of the event and instruct my dad to take me for tickets right away. This didn’t happen, but my dad did plant a seed of hope. The husband of one of his employees worked for the concert promoter, and he was confident he could get us a hook-up.
This sustained me through the remainder of the school year and into the summer though my not-so-subtle reminders were always casually swatted away by my dad who assured me he’d take care of it. By June, I was concerned. I had it in my head that I was going to this show. Then the next time I mentioned it, I was crushed.
“Well,” said my dad, “she’s not really working out, and I may have to let her go,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, not seeing any problem. “You might want to get the tickets before you can her.”
“I can’t ask for a favor and turn around and fire her. That wouldn’t be right.”
Not only was I broken-hearted, I was angry. This was no time for business ethics and moral fortitude. We’re talking about The Mighty Van Fucking Halen—the greatest rock band in the history of civilization. Hell, let her finish out the year or whatever you need to do to assuage your conscience. Just get me those tickets.
Like all the cool kids, I showed up on the first day of school wearing a Van Halen t-shirt. Black with the eagle and globe on the front and the Western Exterminator logo on the back. The problem was, I bought mine at the mall. I never got a ticket and never saw the show. Just over a year later, David Lee Roth had left the band and I had moved to Tulsa. For all intents and purposes, my life was over.
Though I something of an anomaly in so far as I welcomed Sammy Hagar and enjoyed his tenure, the opportunity to see the band live never presented itself. Tulsa typically wasn't a stop on the arena tour circuit at that time, and still being too young to drive, a road trip was unlikely.
After years of in-fighting, false starts and protracted inactivity, my interest waned. Though I still listened to Van Halen’s records, they weren’t the obsession they once were. I’d moved on.
Then in early 2012, something happened. Not the usual rumors or vague plans, but an actual surprise live performance in Greenwich Village, followed by a new record and tour. Among the stops was a show in town—ten minutes from my driveway. This time, it would not go through my dad. I would have to make sure it was okay with my wife, however.
And it was no small purchase. For my ticket, I paid over $100, including fees. I think in 1984, admission was $13.50. Even the tickets are different now. Instead of the pink, blue, and white card that would leave a stub I’d keep forever, my ticket was a piece of plain white paper produced at home—a convenience that allowed for yet another surcharge. Still, once the transaction was complete, I was excited. Actually I was giddy. I fell asleep that night with Van Halen pummeling my ears.
Though finally seeing Van Halen live would be the realization of one of my goals, it was very obvious that it was no longer 1984. Much had changed in nearly thirty years. David Lee Roth bore an unnerving resemblance to Carson Kressley, Michael Anthony had been replaced by Edward’s son Wolfgang on bass, and ticket prices were steep. A lot of dirty laundry had been aired in the press, and despite the release of a surprisingly solid new album, Van Halen had largely become a nostalgia act.
I’ve been to countless concerts and typically walk away with a lasting jolt, but at this point in my life, I am seldom stirred by anticipation . In the week leading up to the Van Halen show, I was like a kid again—an eleven-year-old, even—about to see his rock and roll heroes for the first time. I had seen the setlist and read the reviews; I was going to step back to a time in my life where responsibility was just a speck horizon and music was the most important thing in my life—at least for a few hours.
While my tastes in music have evolved, Van Halen still represents something special. When I listen, I’m invariably transported back in time when summers were endless, worries minor, and responsibilities few. I was happy, optimistic, and entirely devoted.
The day of the show I worked my way through the entire Van Halen catalog on my iPod. During the noon hour, a local radio station dedicated the hour to Van Halen songs. This, too, was reminiscent of my childhood, when radio stations were locally programmed and would geek out the day a major concert came to town.
Also that afternoon, a rumor surfaced that there would be no air conditioning at the venue that night, at the request of the band--a charge that was officially denied by a member of the arena staff. Though the thought of joining a few thousand people in an arena without air conditioning wasn't a pleasant one, it at least brought back memories of the legendary no brown M&M’s provision in the band’s rider back in the 1980s.
That brings me back to the Tuesday night at the bar. So that I could avoid parking and consume adult beverages, my wife was kind enough to drop me off downtown, agreeing to pick me up a few blocks away from the arena after the show. I chose a 1980s retro bar a few blocks from the arena—a place where “Jump” would be right at home with a collection of video games and memorabilia. After three beers, the butterflies overcame me. Though the show was two hours away, I had to go to the arena.
When I arrived at the venue, something didn't feel right though I couldn’t initially put my finger on it. The fanbase had gotten older, grayer, and in some cases, heavier. Dads and sons ambulated outside. The girls with teased hair and ripped t-shirts were now women in mom jeans and flip-flops. I saw families. It was so tame.
Despite claims that the air conditioning would be on, it was very warm inside the arena.. The house music was solid; I enjoyed tracks from the Stones, James Morrison, The Game and The Roots as I took to the social media sites to announce my presence at a Van Halen concert for the first time in my life. I’d waited thirty years. I was going to get credit for this, even if its social currency had devalued over time.
Unlikely openers Kool and the Gang took the stage promptly at 7:30 before a less than half-capacity house. Rob “Kool” Bell’s eleven-piece band had its work cut out for it, attempting to warm up a few thousand former headbangers, but performed admirably. Halfway through their first number, “Fresh,” I said to myself, “these guys are gonna have this house swinging before they’re done.”
This wasn’t exactly the case, though the steadily filling house sang enthusiastically along with the set closer, “Celebration.” Kool and the Gang were consummate professionals taking on overwhelming odds and putting on a spectacular show. As good as I thought they were, I was ready for the headliners.
An army of roadies took to the stage following Kool and the Gang and tore down their gear, then brought up Van Halen’s. Unlike the 1980s, the stage set was plaintive. Alex’s mammoth drum kit dominated the backline, flanked by amplifier stacks. A light brown, eight-piece wooden dance floor was put into place center stage.
Without introduction, the band took the stage and launched a powerful opening salvo in the form of “Unchained.” What followed was two-plus hours of what, in rock cliches, might be termed an all killer, no filler set. Initially, the mix was out of kilter and Dave’s phrasing was odd almost to the point of distracting. As the show progressed, the mix improved greatly, but Dave’s peculiar delivery continued intermittently.
Say what you will about Roth’s singing--and I have--but his command of a stage and ability to entertain is undeniable. Part emcee, part gameshow host, and part storyteller, Roth worked the stage with his usual swagger. Gone were the karate kicks, riser jumps, and Samurai sword. Instead, Dave took the microphone stand as his partner and glided deftly across the powder-dusted dance surface, an electric smile pasted across his face all evening.
As for the Van Halen boys, Alex was a powerhouse and much more adroit and fluid than he sounds on record. While I missed Michael Anthony, Wolf did an admirable job on bass and backing vocals, and proved once again, the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. I suspect he was very instrumental in making the album and tour happen, and for that I’m eternally grateful.
Though graying and dressed for a trip to Home Depot, Edward was every bit the genius he’s always been. He was technically flawless, his tone was outstanding. and his near-ten minute solo constructed around “Eruption” prompted chills, tears, and wide-eyed marvel. At its conclusion Roth rightfully declared him “still the king.” Somehow it seemed slightly understated as though it were possible for Roth to be understated about anything. Most importantly, Edward looked healthy and happy--adjectives that haven’t often fit him in the past twenty years.
Though the concert was tremendous and was worth the thirty-year wait, something just wasn’t right. Van Halen had always been a party band; the demon on the shoulder of adolescents, nudging them toward mischief. However, the atmosphere in the arena that night was subdued. No women’s undergarments were hurled onto the stage. I got nary a whiff of pot smoke in the hot, still air. By and large, people sat, watched, and listened. A notable exception being the group in the row in front of me who constantly caravanned to the concourse for beer and subsequent restroom visits. They left before the final encore.
I spilled out of the arena into the balmy spring night with thousands of other fans. My ears rang and my eyes were tired. My emotions were a mix of euphoria and melancholy. Like most attempts to recreate or rewrite history, it somehow wasn’t what I’d imagined. I think we had all grown older and perhaps even matured. I even detected a shred of humility and gratitude in Roth’s impregnable bravado.
As I walked along pondering all of this, I heard a woman’s voice call my name. Looking around, I spotted the familiar face across the street. She waved and crossed to join me, dragging her date behind her. Attractive and smartly dressed, she smelled of tequila, lime, and soft pleasant perfume as she threw her arm around me. Almost as an afterthought, she introduced me to her date and spent the next few minutes telling him what an awesome guy I was. It felt awkward, but adulation from an attractive woman is never a bad thing.
In fact, it was like a dream out of my adolescent 1984. I had just left a Van Halen concert and the pretty girl was ignoring her date to hang with me. It was just like I imagined it twenty-eight years ago. However my ride was waiting, and instead of my mom and sister waiting in the car, it was my wife and daughter.
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