Concert Etiquette (Or the Appalling Lack of)

I have always enjoyed attending concerts, ever since first seeing the Young Rascals (yes, they were young then and so was I) as a sixth grader at what was then called Westbury Music Fair. Seeing Springsteen on back-to-back nights at Nassau Coliseum and Madison Square Garden in 1978 during the “Darkness on the Edge of Town” tour may have been the highlight.

Anyway, as the years have gone on, I have gotten more selective about who I see. Ticket prices have soared, Ticketmaster is a rip-off monopoly (“convenience fee,” my arse), shows at casinos charge top dollar for 90-minutes-including-the-encore shows and, frankly, the behavior of the fans has declined.

OK, so even though I’ve never been caught in a mosh pit, what exactly is the proper etiquette for a concert attendee?

I ask because last week I went to a fundraiser concert featuring Christopher Cross. (Yes, so some of my musical taste is still stuck in retro mode.) The music wasn’t exactly of rock-you-out-of-your-seat variety (yes, that Christopher Cross… “Sailin’,” “Think of Laura” and the theme from the movie “Arthur”), but all of a sudden the woman (make that, female) in front of me jumps up and starts gyrating and clapping (offbeat) to the music. She is blocking my view, but I let it go, channeling the zen-infused Californian in my New Yorker mindset, at least until a couple of choruses had gone by.

Then I tapped the back of her seat with my right foot. Her husband (boyfriend, parole officer, date of the night, whatever) then turns a glance toward me and I motion with my hand for her to sit down. He then says to Dancing Queen, “Hey, he kicked your chair, he kicked your chair!” Next thing I know Macho Boy says, “My wife makes more money than you do!” Huh? And how does he know this, and why? And he’s sure it’s true? (Well, at least I learned they are married. Certainly must make more money than him, maybe that’s the rub.)

Then DQ stops dancing long enough to rotate 180 degrees and be completely in my face. She launches a series of F-bombs that would make Andrew Dice Clay envious. And to finish, she insults my wife too, calling her a princess for some unknown reason. Hey, I’m just trying to enjoy a concert that’s a fundraiser for a homeless shelter! (And my wife is not a princess.)

DQ is obviously drunk, but I’m sure her lack of suitable adjectives is still limited during the few hours of each day when she’s sober (and probably making all that money). The two blondes next to the boisterous couple, who we initially thought were their friends, turned around to send apologetic glances. The people to our left immediately offered the open seats between us and them, a welcomed demilitarized zone. So we quickly shifted over, where our views were better and quieter.

By the end of the concert the couple had rushed the stage and she was busy doing a whirling Stevie Nicks imitation while the husband exaggeratedly laughed and gesticulated as if he was enjoying his wife’s slovenly behavior. (He probably will later, but I digress.)

So back to my initial premise: what is acceptable behavior? No one else we could see in the audience was on their feet at the time DQ started her stand-up routine. Should I have just grinned and endured it?

It reminded us of the Sheryl Crow concert we attended late in the summer at Humphreys. We had awesome seats, something like the fifth row stage right. At Humphreys, lots of people buy tickets and forsake their seats for sitting along a rock wall to our immediate left. While this is acceptable, others with poor seats try to jam upfront and squish in with friends (or make new friends, if you are an attractive and most likely semi-tipsy female who’s at least a 5 on a scale of 10).

This is what happened to us. We ended up with about five women in three seats in front of us, and of course, they needed to stand up from the second song on. I blame Humphreys because while the venue has a force of burly guys in red Elite Security shirts, they do very little and certainly are sheriffs without badges.

The familiar cry of “Hey, I paid my money and I can do whatever I want!” doesn’t work for me here. Hey, I have a driver’s license and that doesn’t mean I can break traffic laws. Perhaps, that’s it; there are no laws here. Consideration for your fellow concertgoer doesn’t buy you a thing. People could be singing the third chorus of “Get Together” and they still would be willing to block your view, talk during the entire concert or keep leaving and returning to their seats throughout the show.

I guess the solution is to only frequent venues that offer a soothing concert experience. That’s part of why we love Acoustic Music San Diego shows in an old church in North Park as well as those in Poway and Escondido. The patrons are polite and respectful, the acoustics are outstanding.

As for the Dancing Queen and her husband, there are times people like this make me want Charles Bronson to show up out of nowhere (would be tough since he died in 2003) and pull a “Death Wish” maneuver on her. It wouldn’t make any difference how much money she made then.

My 9/11 story

Twenty years ago on this day I walked into a new job as editor-in-chief of Insurance & Technology magazine. My office was on the 92nd floor if 2 World Trade Center. I remember being immediately impressed with my view of the Verrazano Bridge. And later I was equally amazed as the windows popped in and out with the weather and the rain literally appeared to be going up. ‘Nuff said there.

While I only worked in 2 WTC for seven months before I met an ignominious demise thanks to the most evil boss I’ve ever had (and I’ve had a few), the memories of that time have stayed with me—only to be amplified and elongated by what happened 20 years and one day later, on Sept. 11, 2001. I can’t stop thinking “What if I had worked there then?” I think I know the answer.

I had one harbinger moment while working in the twin towers. One afternoon there was a power outage at the substation at nearby Fulton Street Fish Market. We didn’t know that was what it was at the time, but all of a sudden the lights in our offices went out. My aforementioned devil of a boss went around the office telling us all to keep working—even though the temperature inside went from its usual comfort to sweltering in a matter of 30 minutes.

Eventually we left for the day, but that was easier said than done. No power meant no elevators. So we started our 92-floor trek down. I recall the masses of humanity in the stairwells being orderly and moderately paced with little pushing or talk. It was a long march, taking almost an hour to feel the cool air of the lobby and then the refreshing breezes that blew through the open area between the twin towers. I never imagined what it would be like to make that trip under serious duress or panic.

I had lived in California less than a year when the bomb exploded in the underground garage at the World Trade Center on Feb. 26, 1993. I recall a co-worker asking, “How could that happen?” Easy was my answer. There were many levels of parking under the building—with no security checks—and someone had driven in a rental truck with 1,500 pounds of explosives inside. The intention was to knock the north tower (1 WTC) into the south tower (2 WTC) and kill 250,000 people. Luckily, only six died but 1,042 were injured. But I don’t think anyone thought this could happen again.

Knock over one of the World Trade Center towers! How could that happen? Still, I was horrified on that fateful day when I watched on TV as not only did the towers come tumbling down but were literally pulverized. And the memory of 9/11/01 will remain one of the most memorable days of my life.