[Ed. note: I had to break this story up. Getting to Alter Bridge in Chicago and St. Louis was one of the greatest rock challenges I have faced in years, and I wanted to record it in full detail.]
The Perfect Storm--Alter Bridge Prelude #1
This section deals with my sister Sarah and I getting from Madison, Wisconsin to the front rail at the House of Blues in Chicago, and meeting up with Stephanie from Houston. Next piece will detail the opening bands, Bad City and The Sick Puppies.
Many concert-goers believe that attending a show consists of nothing more than driving a short to moderate distance to a local venue about an hour before doors open—if that—joining the masses for a jolly evening of beer and song, then heading home for a fitful sleep.
When a band rules your world that is not how it works.
In our world, a rock and roll road trip is not worth its salt if not filled with hardship and adversity. My most recent attempt with family and friends to share body space with Myles Kennedy of Alter Bridge more than qualifies. Alter Bridge was scheduled for the House of Blues in Chicago on December 11 and at The Pageant in St. Louis on December 13. Seemed a simple affair to drive from Madison to Chicago, enjoy a luxurious night at The Sax (courtesy of credit card points earned from Ginger’s 2009 surgery), then drive over to STL for two more luxurious nights at the Moonrise Hotel (courtesy of us paying through the nose to be impossibly close to the venue), with another concert thrown in for good measure. My sister Sarah provided the car and chauffer service, and she and her husband, Jeff, provided the chairs, sleeping bags, heating packs and propane-fueled heater we hoped we would not need during the trip. We also filled the car with every possible incarnation of chocolate, with Vodka in the trunk for safe measure.
Steph, Sarah and I waiting for Alter Bridge at House of Blues... pic thanks to unknown fan
Our good friend Stephanie, from my band of Chris Cornell fans, had decided to give Alter Bridge a try after my incessant Internet nagging. She flew up from Houston to meet us in Chicago, and we all planned to drive together to STL, where she would fly out after the concert. She was very excited at the prospect of cold and snow. Yes, you read that correctly. We were understanding of the fact that the Gulf pollution had clearly affected her ability to think clearly, and packed extra clothes for her rude awakening; extra liquor for her inevitable disillusionment.
Saturday’s forecast predicted 6-12” snow for the Chicago area. Numerous naysayers warned us of our impending demise on I-90, but they were to be disappointed. The scheduled storm was so late in arriving that it had barely begun to rain by the time we reached The Sax Hotel downtown, shortly before noon. The delightful valets practically swept me up to our swanky room with our luggage (Sarah ran to grab our spot at HoB), making me feel almost reluctant to leave. You know how those puffed up, freshly–made beds can beckon after a few hours on the road and nothing but hours of standing ahead of you… Devotedly, I made my way back down to the House of Blues, where Sarah was chatting with a father and son who had come in just before us. Third in line. Not bad.
At any Alter Bridge show, you can divide the fans into three distinct groups; general Alter Bridge Fans, vocalist Myles Kennedy fans, and fans of their lead guitarist, Mark Tremonti. As of this writing, Mark’s group still outnumbers the first two (though the MK groupies are gaining in him!) so as long as anyone in front of you is a Mark fan, you know instantly that he or she will be heading for the right side of the stage. That clears the path for us Myles’ fans headed dead center, or left of center. It’s not that we don’t appreciate or adore Mark—who doesn’t?—but we have seen enough shows to know that Mark actually spends a lot of time on both sides of the stage, and that bassist Brian Marshall is a sweetheart that loves to play with the crowd. The right side is overrated and we are content that it stays that way.
Six hours in line is a long time. If you’re social, it goes a little faster. Accordingly, it felt like twenty minutes to Stephanie and my sister, and roughly 36 hours long to me. I did get a little further in my Eleanor Roosevelt biography, however. We were surrounded by genuinely nice fellows, so a shout-out to brothers Casey and Caleb, and their sick but stoic friend, Brian—none of whom will probably ever see this blog. Casey had a wife and five week-old baby at home, the latter to whom he referred as Lower Case. Women love that sort of thing. I do, anyway.
Our good friend Stephanie, from my band of Chris Cornell fans, had decided to give Alter Bridge a try after my incessant Internet nagging. She flew up from Houston to meet us in Chicago, and we all planned to drive together to STL, where she would fly out after the concert. She was very excited at the prospect of cold and snow. Yes, you read that correctly. We were understanding of the fact that the Gulf pollution had clearly affected her ability to think clearly, and packed extra clothes for her rude awakening; extra liquor for her inevitable disillusionment.
Saturday’s forecast predicted 6-12” snow for the Chicago area. Numerous naysayers warned us of our impending demise on I-90, but they were to be disappointed. The scheduled storm was so late in arriving that it had barely begun to rain by the time we reached The Sax Hotel downtown, shortly before noon. The delightful valets practically swept me up to our swanky room with our luggage (Sarah ran to grab our spot at HoB), making me feel almost reluctant to leave. You know how those puffed up, freshly–made beds can beckon after a few hours on the road and nothing but hours of standing ahead of you… Devotedly, I made my way back down to the House of Blues, where Sarah was chatting with a father and son who had come in just before us. Third in line. Not bad.
At any Alter Bridge show, you can divide the fans into three distinct groups; general Alter Bridge Fans, vocalist Myles Kennedy fans, and fans of their lead guitarist, Mark Tremonti. As of this writing, Mark’s group still outnumbers the first two (though the MK groupies are gaining in him!) so as long as anyone in front of you is a Mark fan, you know instantly that he or she will be heading for the right side of the stage. That clears the path for us Myles’ fans headed dead center, or left of center. It’s not that we don’t appreciate or adore Mark—who doesn’t?—but we have seen enough shows to know that Mark actually spends a lot of time on both sides of the stage, and that bassist Brian Marshall is a sweetheart that loves to play with the crowd. The right side is overrated and we are content that it stays that way.
Six hours in line is a long time. If you’re social, it goes a little faster. Accordingly, it felt like twenty minutes to Stephanie and my sister, and roughly 36 hours long to me. I did get a little further in my Eleanor Roosevelt biography, however. We were surrounded by genuinely nice fellows, so a shout-out to brothers Casey and Caleb, and their sick but stoic friend, Brian—none of whom will probably ever see this blog. Casey had a wife and five week-old baby at home, the latter to whom he referred as Lower Case. Women love that sort of thing. I do, anyway.
If you have never been to the House of Blues in Chicago, let me take one moment to commend it for its great interior styling (hugely eclectic Cajun paintings—actually every single inch of wall space is brightly painted), delicious food, gracious staff, and ample hallway allowing us to forego freezing our asses off while waiting. (Click on picture to see it greatly enlarged--the detail is great--then hit BACK ARROW, don't close it)
Entrance to HoB restaurant-notorious stairs on right side of picture
They also offer a deal through Live Nation where you can purchase a meal beforehand and gain a pass to the front of the line. This didn’t work out so well for two reasons. First, the crowd grew so large with still an hour to pass—and the rain was starting to turn to snow outside—that the HoB staff decided to make use of the double-sided stairs leading up to the main floor to fit more people in the building. Nice idea, bad planning. As soon as they told us to move, all of us who had been in line for days filled one side of the staircase, and those behind us filled the other side. So that meant that our waiting was for naught as both sides of the stairs would be released at the same time. Until my sister realized what was happening.
Don’t get me wrong, there was instant grumbling and near-rumbling between both sides the second we filled the stairs, but my sister was so engaged in a UFC debate with the brothers behind us that she didn’t see what was happening. That didn’t last long. Sarah, who is not afraid to ask to have her meal returned if any of the different foods are touching on the plate, is slightly more assertive when she’s been fueling herself with UV Blue Vodka and lemonade for several hours. She took the stairs at a single leap and launched herself at the two security guards, one for each side of the staircase. A heated debate ensued, of which we could hear nothing since opening band Mad City took advantage of a little lead time to practice their musical abc’s at full volume just above us.
I saw concern on the faces around me that she might go too far and piss them off so much (she was a little fired up) that we’d turn out to be the last people let in to the venue, but I know her much better, and she was merely pouring on the charm and working her standard concert low-cut, form-fitting blouse. She could soon be seen flashing us a smile as she hugged both staff members and trotted, then fell, down the stairs on top of us. She had convinced them to give our side a 20 second head-start.
For those of you wondering why this is such a big deal, you clearly have not read my blog before—which is fine, and Welcome!—and don’t yet understand the personal importance Sarah and I place on being on the rail, front and center. Why? Because that is where Myles is. Need I go on?
Those last 7 hours on the stairs were painful. They had us crammed in two people per stair, per side, and they were old, narrow stairs—and we ourselves were all fairly older, and no longer narrow. We could also easily smell the bathroom on the other side of the wall in the restaurant. Not pleasant. Add Mad City shrieking above us and conversation (or thought) became impossible unless you were drunk enough that you were already shouting. I was already holding my ears.
At long last, they let our side loose to make for the rail. The minute our heads cleared the staircase and saw the floor, we were dumbfounded. The rail was almost completely covered with a single line of ingrates. WTF? We took what was left and immediately started asking questions. “So,” I asked, smiling sweetly, “how did you happen to get my spot on the rail for which I woke at 6 am, drove 3 hours and waited 4 weeks in line?”
Now I have been to a lot of shows, and I thought I had heard everything by now, but this just proves that you just never know who’s going to show up and completely fuck you over. The House of Blues had given an extra pass to each professional photographer, and the photographers friends had been let in before the actual fans had. My sister turned a Christmas shade of red in seconds flat. The first pass-holder next to us claimed that she was merely doing a photographer friend a favor by holding a spot on the rail for him, since he would be spending the first three songs shooting the show between us and the stage, in the small space where security stands.
Don’t get me wrong, there was instant grumbling and near-rumbling between both sides the second we filled the stairs, but my sister was so engaged in a UFC debate with the brothers behind us that she didn’t see what was happening. That didn’t last long. Sarah, who is not afraid to ask to have her meal returned if any of the different foods are touching on the plate, is slightly more assertive when she’s been fueling herself with UV Blue Vodka and lemonade for several hours. She took the stairs at a single leap and launched herself at the two security guards, one for each side of the staircase. A heated debate ensued, of which we could hear nothing since opening band Mad City took advantage of a little lead time to practice their musical abc’s at full volume just above us.
I saw concern on the faces around me that she might go too far and piss them off so much (she was a little fired up) that we’d turn out to be the last people let in to the venue, but I know her much better, and she was merely pouring on the charm and working her standard concert low-cut, form-fitting blouse. She could soon be seen flashing us a smile as she hugged both staff members and trotted, then fell, down the stairs on top of us. She had convinced them to give our side a 20 second head-start.
For those of you wondering why this is such a big deal, you clearly have not read my blog before—which is fine, and Welcome!—and don’t yet understand the personal importance Sarah and I place on being on the rail, front and center. Why? Because that is where Myles is. Need I go on?
Those last 7 hours on the stairs were painful. They had us crammed in two people per stair, per side, and they were old, narrow stairs—and we ourselves were all fairly older, and no longer narrow. We could also easily smell the bathroom on the other side of the wall in the restaurant. Not pleasant. Add Mad City shrieking above us and conversation (or thought) became impossible unless you were drunk enough that you were already shouting. I was already holding my ears.
At long last, they let our side loose to make for the rail. The minute our heads cleared the staircase and saw the floor, we were dumbfounded. The rail was almost completely covered with a single line of ingrates. WTF? We took what was left and immediately started asking questions. “So,” I asked, smiling sweetly, “how did you happen to get my spot on the rail for which I woke at 6 am, drove 3 hours and waited 4 weeks in line?”
Now I have been to a lot of shows, and I thought I had heard everything by now, but this just proves that you just never know who’s going to show up and completely fuck you over. The House of Blues had given an extra pass to each professional photographer, and the photographers friends had been let in before the actual fans had. My sister turned a Christmas shade of red in seconds flat. The first pass-holder next to us claimed that she was merely doing a photographer friend a favor by holding a spot on the rail for him, since he would be spending the first three songs shooting the show between us and the stage, in the small space where security stands.
I was actually stymied for a few minutes at the idiocy and transparency of this claim. Photographers take their allotted pictures up front and then disappear. They don’t re-surface on the rail—they work the pictures from one set until the next set, when they are let back in for the first three songs of the next band. It was then that I realized that while I had a tiny amount of respect for being sneaky (it is no secret I am a professional rock star stalker who is not afraid to hide a few cards up her sleeve) I had no respect for bald-faced lying—and this chick was lying. I think if she had just admitted from the beginning that she got a pass because she was with the photographer, and looked just a wee bit sheepish, things would have gone a little more smoothly. But no one appreciates being lied to by someone less than half their age, especially someone who has never even seen the band that you have been following for their entire career (almost 7 years, in this case).
But I could tell from the outset that this young woman had prepared herself for opposition and was not going anywhere. We were going to be standing on the rail between Myles and bassist Brian—and all things considered—that is still not a bad place to be. I looked over at Sarah and she was gone, and those around me just shrugged when I asked where the hell she’d gone off to. My internal panic button went off.
The manager. Well, she won in principle, if nothing else. The manager did come up to our young friend and tell her that no one was allowed to hold a spot for someone working the show and coming much later—and who would be going in and out. So she nodded, said okay, and gave up 3 inches (I measured them). The manager missed the point that she still should not be allowed to be there before the dozen of us, and left the scene ebfore it blew up any further. I had tried up until this point to stay between the gal and my sister, who looked madder than Burbin the neighborhood Rottweiler, but once the manager was gone she asked me if she could “talk” to her. I had just “made nice” with the gal and accepted the situation—let it go—and prepared myself to enjoy my evening, when I was faced with an image of my little sister beating the shit out of some college student who thought it was a good idea to play games with drunk and devoted Alter Bridge fans.
But I can’t control my sister anymore than I could control the new concept of photographers’ friend passes, so I let her in and mentally turned off the right side of my hearing as she tore the kid several new ones. Not surprisingly, a 9.0 earthquake would not have moved the young girl after that. We were in for the night. It was just after 7 p.m. The first band of three was to begin at 8. It was going to be a long night, waiting for Myles and his tentacle tattoos.
Pic courtesy of www.myspace.com/alterbridge/photos/78321716
The manager. Well, she won in principle, if nothing else. The manager did come up to our young friend and tell her that no one was allowed to hold a spot for someone working the show and coming much later—and who would be going in and out. So she nodded, said okay, and gave up 3 inches (I measured them). The manager missed the point that she still should not be allowed to be there before the dozen of us, and left the scene ebfore it blew up any further. I had tried up until this point to stay between the gal and my sister, who looked madder than Burbin the neighborhood Rottweiler, but once the manager was gone she asked me if she could “talk” to her. I had just “made nice” with the gal and accepted the situation—let it go—and prepared myself to enjoy my evening, when I was faced with an image of my little sister beating the shit out of some college student who thought it was a good idea to play games with drunk and devoted Alter Bridge fans.
But I can’t control my sister anymore than I could control the new concept of photographers’ friend passes, so I let her in and mentally turned off the right side of my hearing as she tore the kid several new ones. Not surprisingly, a 9.0 earthquake would not have moved the young girl after that. We were in for the night. It was just after 7 p.m. The first band of three was to begin at 8. It was going to be a long night, waiting for Myles and his tentacle tattoos.
Pic courtesy of www.myspace.com/alterbridge/photos/78321716
1 comment:
In my defense, I did try to see Alter Bridge in Houston in '07 at the Buzzfest,but was stymied by the presence of Chris Cornell signing things in a booth, right next to Myles and Alter Bridge signing things in a booth. I was in the Chris Cornell signing line for 4 hours, and missed all of the sets preceding his, including Alter Bridge. I am, after all, a pretty seasoned rock star stalker myself. I did get to see Alter Bridge the whole time they were signing things, and they smiled a lot. There was a lot of talk in line from people about wanting Creed to get back together. They had no idea what they were missing!
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