Long Road Out of Saskatoon

The other night, I decided I’d treat myself and the woman of my world to a golden flake of our past, by taking $300 out of my wallet and lighting it on fire.

Not literally, of course—or at least not intentionally. No legal tender becomes tinder in the Copeland household; that’s far too similar to touching a flame to entire days of your life.

No, the money involved was spent on concert tickets. Not just any concert tickets, mind you, but tickets for none other but The Eagles, creators of the soundtrack of my youth. I’d purchased them online from Ticketmaster (motto: “We’ll make youse a deal youse can’t afford”). I hooked them three minutes after they went on sale, paying the afore-mentioned premium for medium-priced seats high in the bleachers. I’m not sure where the lowest-cost seats were, but I’m thinking drive-in speakers in the parking lot.

It would be a magical night, nonetheless. The music of the Eagles had spoke to both Maya and myself, years before our lives ever touched. I was that “Desperado” when she found me. She was a “Victim of Love”.

So off we drove to Market Mall, the nearest Park and Ride. The wind chill was -30°C as we waited for the bus, but I had no intention of dealing with the 90+ minutes of car stampede that would ensue after the concert.

We arrived in good order. We took our seats. The lights dimmed, and the crowd went suitably wild as the purple silhouettes of Glenn Frey, Don Henley, Joe Walsh, and Timothy B. Schmit morphed onto the darkened stage. I have to admit, I was somewhat jazzed myself. Soon I’d be singing along to “Lyin’ Eyes”, having carefully prepared myself by memorizing every single word 31 years ago. I only hoped the animated conversation going on behind us would abate.

Then the owners of the two seats next to us arrived. 

Is there, anywhere in the known universe, any one human person as charming, as sophisticated, as witty, as knowledgeable in the ways of the world, as talented, wise and utterly steeped in confidence, as masterful, warm, generous, and forgiving, as selfless, as educated, as cool, hip and chic, as possessive of the kind of quiet, noble leadership we all look for in our heroes...in short, as wondrously, undeniably sophisticated, as a 20-year-old Saskatonian with six beers in his belly?

No, I didn’t think so either.

I’ve been exploring of late a new philosophy, a sort of eight-fold path to kindness and contentment with the world. Anyone who’s explored the same system of belief already knows what I’m talking about. I won't get into it here, because I’m still no good at it, and I’m far from a good example. But I’m working on it.

So I tried to block out the antics of the pair beside me. The music, after all was good and loud, nearly loud enough to drown out the drunken partying going on right up against my shoulder. I focussed desperately hard on the deep pool of talent gracing the stage. I lost my concentration, and found it, and lost it again. Maya, all too aware of my inner battle, glanced at me anxiously.

But I wasn’t the first to snap.

Apparently the same inner battle was going on in the minds of the 30-something couple in front of us. Exactly as the first notes of “Lyin’ Eyes” hit the air, the male half of this couple turned around and grabbed the 20-year-old beside me by the neck.

The battle was on...and stayed on, non-stop, for the remainder of the show.

I know, I know... by their very nature, rock concerts are supposed to be a bit wild. Rock, after all, was born of rebellion, and letting loose at concerts is an age-old rite of passage. Everyone has the right to celebrate differently. I know all this, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s hard to focus on the music when there’s beer and fists flying beside you.

I won’t get into the number of classic rock anthems that slid by, barely noticed, as I gritted my teeth and tried to focus. Suffice to say, by the end of the show, the row in front of us was empty. And the twenty-year-olds at my side—they’d taken the time to tell me their ages—cursed and roared and partied on. They did this, I might add, in clothing adorned with logos of a provincial Crown corporation. They hadn’t even bought their tickets, they proudly informed us. They’d been given them by their parents.

Ah. Suddenly it all made sense.

We were fortunately not far from the main entrance, and as the last notes died, we shot out of there like cub scouts out of Neverland Ranch. The wind chill was now into the -40s C, but at least the buses awaited...or did they? Transportation at previous concerts had been a calamity; the Saskatoon Transit System promised things would be better.

They weren’t.

A terrifying hour later—during which Maya tried to help enlarge the one-foot hole in the frost the driver was valiantly trying to peer through—we arrived at Market Mall. The last thing we heard was the radio crackling: “We’ve got hundreds of people freezing out here and all kinds of empty buses. Should we put the people on the buses?”

Doh! Or maybe, Duh?

In the days that followed, a trio of Saskatoon Star-Phoenix columnists offered theories and opinions. In regard to people talking during the concert, Les Macpherson said, “This I blame more on the sound setup than on inconsiderate concert patrons. If you can hear someone talking in the audience during a rock concert, the music isn’t loud enough.” He may have a point. He went on to say, “A completely positive concert-going experience is perhaps too much to expect. If we can’t improve the experience, we could cut back on the attendant bellyaching.” Fair enough. Next time, Les can sit next to the drunken SaskTel yuppie larvae.

Another SP staffer, Cam Fuller, put forward the theory of decreasing attention span. This could also be part of the problem, the fruit of a generation raised to think watching epic movies on cell phones is a good idea. There’s a surreal aura about arena concerts after all; the band performing often seems the size of a postage stamp, not all that different from what you’d see on an iPod. Is it real, or is it on a flashdrive? In the digital frontier, the line between reality and otherwise is blurring like the Joker’s makeup in a bad mpeg.

Finally, columnist Sarath Peiris weighed in. In his opinion, what’s important for some concert goers is “their presence at the event, not the event itself.” Others at the concert “simply become the supporting cast whose needs can be dismissed without a second thought.”

A friend of mine, who tends to view our fair city with a somewhat darker cast, offers the following: “Saskatoon may not be ready for these kinds of events. As a populace, we’re more familiar with swilling beer while watching local bands at the local pub then seeing world-class-anything live. The bus thing is just another symptom...how many times now have they tried, and utterly failed? We haven’t the infrastructure to put on shows like this. We haven’t the experience to know how to appreciate these events when they happen.”

I’m not certain I agree, at least not entirely. If nothing else, we’ve proven we have the demand. The Rolling Stones put on a second show when they rolled into Regina — tens of thousands at each. The Eagles put on a third, something they didn’t even do for many major centres in the States. And we’ve had other names hit Saskatoon, often to return: Cher, Elton John, Leonard Cohen, Neil Young...

Could the problem just be society? Our increasingly selfish attitudes toward one another? The thought chills, but demands attention.

One final thought from me: The concert, what I experienced of it, was magnificent. The Eagles brought along a great deal of talent and polish...I did not hear a complaint about the performance from anyone. They well deserved our attention and respect. If they're coming to your town—and you are prone to better luck with concerts than us—do yourself a nice, and go see them.

That said...I recently enjoyed another concert where people cheered and grooved to the music, where my view was unobstructed, and where the sound was utterly perfect. It was an Eric Clapton charity concert, and he came with friends: Johnny Winter, Willie Nelson, Jeff Beck, Robbie Robertson, Sheryl Crow and others. It was amazing, beautiful...and I can watch it again and again.

It was a DVD.