I’ve seen a lot of concerts. I had an early and long-sustained music interest, have been fortunate enough to have the means, and enjoyed an unusual amount of access from about 30 years of working at Madison Square Garden. How many? I don’t know, I haven’t kept track (well, not exactly), though I believe the proper industry term would be “a shitload.” What’s the best one ever? That’s just too tough to pinpoint. But among them would be George Thorogood & The Delaware Destroyers (opened by The Nighthawks) at Mann Center amphitheater in Philadelphia, Night two of the 25th Anniversary Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Concerts at MSG, a Stevie Ray Vaughan and Fabulous Thunderbirds double bill on a Hudson River pier in NYC, and the Allman Brothers farewell show at the Beacon Theater on October 28th, 2014.

Oh, and the first time seeing The Outlaws, probably in either 1977 or 1978. I’ll never forget walking in late, opening the door from the lobby into the darkened venue with the show already underway, hearing that sound I’d only heard before while wearing out my records, and getting my first glimpse of them under the lights. To me, they seemed like cartoon hero characters magically brought to life. Hairy, cowboy-hatted superhumans, but no less divine. Taking in half-a-dozen Elvises on stage together wouldn’t have been more stunning.

But that’s the thing about live music performances, right? They’re momentary in time, but last forever in cinematic memory. It’s about the way they made, and continue to make, you feel. Now, even with the ubiquitous presence of old YouTube concert clips, it’s not the same. That seems obvious. Our own eyes can’t match the mind’s eye.

And that’s one reason that no matter the prodigiousness of a list of bands/concerts I was privileged to attend, I’m still tortured by the ones that I didn’t.

That’s today’s topic, the ones that got away: the top bands I missed seeing live and regret the most.

Before proceeding, though, we must make mention of one practical matter: Einstein’s space-time continuum. As much as I’d desire to be able to turn the clock back to 1969 and place myself at Yasgur’s farm in Bethel, NY for Woodstock, I wasn’t old enough for that to have happened (unless, I suppose, you’re thinking of one of those naked babies being toted around, and…no thanks, I’ll still pass). So, realistically, I’m only giving consideration to bands I could feasibly have seen time- and age-wise, given what I’m told is my straddle of Baby Boomer/Gen X grouping. That means no Beatles, no Doors and no Creedence, to mention a few of the most obvious notables, whose last ticketed public shows occurred on Aug. 29, 1966, Dec. 12, 1970, and May 22, 1972, respectively.

If they’re not on this short list to follow, that most likely means that I’ve seen them in concert. Or didn’t want to. (Or, somewhere in between, not having seen them just isn’t that hard to swallow; I like, let’s say, REO Speedwagon, just fine, and never caught them live, but it’s certainly not keeping me up at night).

Concerts I Didn’t Attend: My Top 4 Fails

 

#4

In the Fall of 1977 I walked by my sister’s room and some guy she was dating at the time was crying on her bed. What a wuss was my first thought, and I wasn’t that much more forbearing when she told me the reason was the news that Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane had just gone down. I knew who they were, but at the time Skynyrd’s music just hadn’t penetrated my awareness much, and certainly wouldn’t have made me emotional enough to cry in front of my girlfriend. Not that I had one. In any event, the point is I can’t explain the blind spot, especially in light of my adoration highlighted above for their southern rock brethren, The Outlaws.

Skynyrd’s “Street Survivors” album – incredibly, released exactly three days before the crash – hit me like a ton of shit-kickin’ bricks. Every track, masterful and scorching, like the haunting imagery of its infamously coincidental cover. And in short order I went back through their prior four records, discovering the incredible depth of the Lynyrd Skynyrd catalog, well beyond ‘Freebird’ and ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’ My man crush on The Outlaws aside, I quickly put Skynyrd atop the southern rock pantheon. But my window to see them live, let alone alive, had obviously been missed.

This could well be the absolute pinnacle of American rock and roll music. The plane crash was three months later.

 

#3

When you bill yourself as “The Only Band That Matters” you’d better have something credible to back it up. I’m not sure about the “only” part, but The Clash sure as hell mattered. They fused a menacing ferality with melody, rock with reggae, and presented a relentlessly acerbic, take-no-prisoners energy contained within Joe Strummer’s clenched fist and snarled lip. They were my first taste of punk rock.

My friend Trupp listened to headier music than other kids, and in the summer of 1979 when we worked together doing unglorious tasks at the town pool, he introduced me to The Clash (as well as other edgy bands like The Dead Boys, The Boontown Rats, and The B-52’s, whose strange debut record arrived that July). But The Clash, in particular, really apprehended me; they were the punch in the face I didn’t know I needed. Remember, only the gritty, almost misanthropic first two Clash releasees existed at this point, before the crossover hits that would come with the “London Calling” and later “Combat Rock” albums. Maybe it was just my serene suburban surroundings, but The Clash felt underground and dangerous.

And perhaps that threatening sense of peril they seemed to embody was why I never leapt to see them live during their brief heyday. The band began to disintegrate in 1982, endured lineup upheaval, and had called it quits for good by 1986. What a miss. I would’ve looked back proudly at having been trampled and spat on at one of their shows.

 

#2

The Ramones performed 2,263 concerts, touring virtually nonstop for 22 years. I always wanted to be at one of them. To hear Dee Dee’s rapid-fire shout “1-2-3-4!” about 30 times in an hour; to see Johnny pummel his guitar strings, down-stroke only; to watch Tommy’s relentless four-on-the-floor beat; to stare at the looming, 6’6” Joey spazzing out; and to witness the four of them basically assault an audience with a buzzsaw of distortion that somehow retained melodic hooks.

Hey, Ho, I didn’t go.

In 1996, they played a farewell concert in Los Angeles and disbanded. By 2014, all four original members had died.

 

#1

Following the death of John Bonham, Led Zeppelin broke up on Dec. 4, 1980. Prior to that they played numerous concerts at Madison Square Garden in New York City, near where I grew up. Even omitting those occurring in 1970 (1), 1971 (1), 1973 (3), and 1975 (3), all when I would still have been a bit out of age contention (see the intro above), in 1977 there were a run of six MSG shows on June 7, 8, 10, 11, 13 & 14.

Zeppelin was a titan at that time, easily the highest-grossing live band in existence, and by most objective measures, the greatest rock band on the planet (apologies to Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd and The Eagles). I listened to them extensively and considered myself a very big fan.

I didn’t attend any of those shows. Not only that, I can’t recall even considering it. I think back and wonder how that could be.

Obviously, no one could have known then that those dates would turn out to be part of their last U.S. tour. But even so, that wasn’t it. Truthfully, I don’t think I could conceive of seeing Led Zeppelin live. I probably didn’t think I deserved to. They were beyond huge, they were mythical: the closest thing to Rock Gods I can conjure in my lifetime. Some punk kid like me walking into a building to share space with the likes of them?! Most likely I watched reruns of The Love Boat that June of ’77 week and figured that was more my appropriate lot.

Hindsight. We all know the expression. I obviously should’ve manned up, skipped my social studies homework, or whatever else seemed important, and damn sure made my way to The World’s Most Famous Arena for my one shot to witness the world’s biggest band. Carpe Zeppelin, you might say.

(moreover, with my concert crystal ball, I also could’ve gotten myself to Indianapolis less than two weeks later for what would be Elvis’s final show, but that’s clearly another story).

In sum: always get the tickets and go. FOMO is bad, but RFAHMO is worse (that’s “regret from actually having missed out”).

SMGM readers, I’m sure I’m not alone. What acts did you not see, that still make you mad? My concert-missing misery could use some company. Feel free to unburden yourselves in the comments.