I Watched Your Kids Sunday or How the Vans Tour didn’t warp them

I SPENT SUNDAY WITH YOUR KIIDS
Or How The Vans Tour hasn’t warped them
 By Dennis Huspeni
Sunday started with glorious sunshine and a teenager happier than I’d seen her in what seemed like years. It ended with us holding hands (clutching desperately is a more accurate description) while walking quickly (“Don’t run. I’ll fall”) through driving hail with a lightening storm to match, In between was the 15th Vans Warped Tour.
In the car it was: “I’m SO excited to see 3OH!3.” But when we got Invesco Field @ Mile High Stadium an hour before the gates were set to open, it was cool detachment. Just standing in the forked line (the sidewalk split on the south side and for whatever reason, the line split. When it rejoined an hour later, some were pissed how it swelled) and watching the show which has already started without any bands – today’s youth. One 16-year-old looking boy with dark hair held a sign up high as he walked the line “Need a Drummer?” Another in the line said to his buddy, “Hey I’m a drummer” obviously missing the question mark on the sign. Everyone else periodically looked down at their hands to text some friends, so they could hook up. (What did we do 23 years ago without cell phones? Oh yeah, danced around to get in the door so we could pee off all the beer)
Brittany’s friend Ashley mentioned, when the security guards removed the cap from every bottle of water, some liked to throw bottles of urine at these things. Every time a drop hit me from then on, I couldn’t help but cringe a little.
At 15, Brittany thought she was old enough to attend one of these day-long festivals of music and blatant consumerism (there were no water fountains, but plenty of $4 bottles of water). My wife and I almost agreed (Brit has been to at least two live shows without us at similar pop/rock/metal-rap concerts). But Ashley’s parents were wary. In retrospect, all you really had to worry about was getting pushed by a wayward mosh pit, if you happened to press close enough to get into the crowd. Sure you could smell grass, but it’s not like people were trying to push it on anyone. With the violence (no fights I saw, but very violent most pits), profanity (some bands dropped “F” bombs like candy), drug use and exposed flesh it was definitely rated “R.” So anyway, I agreed to accompany the teens. Sure Brittany was pissed her Dad had to go, but at least she was going.
Once we got in the gates on the south side of the massive stadium where the Broncos play, it was an assault on the senses. Smell the BBQ meats roasting. Hear the music already stared on the six stages. See the colorful tents shielding from the glaring sun vendors hawking belts, clothes, video games, beverages, posters, jewelry, bags, tech devices, accessories and the band representatives (and members themselves before the day ended). The touch would come later as thousands of bodies pressed together to both shelter themselves from the driving rain and bounce to the music of 3OH!3. The taste of water, water and more water (with some of the previously-mentioned BBQ, fried chicken pieces, fries and a little beer tossed in for bubbly coldness more than any high).
I vainly tried to ask what the “plan” was. But I should have known. A real one-day vacation from the house in Brittany’s case would be a day with no-such things as plans – including any contingent meeting place if (I mean when) we got split up. Silly old guy. That’s what cell phones are for.
The girls immediately found the biggest crowd and ditched dear old dad as quick as they could. Sure I could have stayed on their trail close enough they never could have ditched me, but how un-cool would that have been? Hey you were at least here to “supervise” best you could. You have to let her grow up sometimes. And taking care of herself in a big crowd with God-knows-who is part of that process. So I let them go. But I was a bit hurt, since I had no one to “hang” with myself and knew only two bands playing – neither playing until much later in the afternoon/evening. I sent a few tart messages in an attempt to be firm. Sent a guilt-inducing “thanks for ditching me” text to her then decided to find out what all the fuss was about.
For bands whose names I misspell, I’m apologizing in advance. My first show was Rockincide. Clad in my white “Cabo Wabo” shirt with a large red 55 with a “no” circle around it on my back, short gray hair, cargo pants with 11 pockets and white tennis shoes (I had lived through enough hot, sun-scorching Colorado summer days and knew better than to wear anything black, despite the fashion statement I could have made) I had no illusions that I was tagged by the youth as anything but a parent, not participant. But I can appreciate a driving beat, pounding lyrics, head-banging and jumping around. Hell I cut my teeth on AC/DC, Van Halen, Metallica, Ozzy Osbourn, Motley Crew, Cinderella, Def Leppard, Cinderella, Quiet Riot, Rush and many more hair-bands than I can remember. Growing up in Denver, I’d seen them all live and had more than my fair share of sore necks and shredded T-shirts to prove it. What about the youth today could be so scary? So I wandered into the edge of the crowd and jumped around a little. Pumping my fist and enjoying the music. I couldn’t help but shake my head at the mow-hawks, tattoos, short skirts, fish nets, piercings, earrings that looked positively tribal – but I wrote that off to getting old. There wasn’t anything menacing about them.
Brittany had to find me before too long. After all, I had the money. The concerts were free after you bought your $45 admission ticket. But precious little else was. At this stage in her life, she always returns to me when she needs money or a ride somewhere. So I bought them lunch and we found a tiny spot of shade under a young tree. People flocked to the shade like animals in the desert to the water hole. Though we didn’t bring sunscreen – Brittany insisted she didn’t need it despite her exposed ivory shoulders – we were smart enough to buy a $10 CD where the man had promised we’d get “free water” all day as long as we had a bottle or cup. That disc became our “Magic Free Water CD” (Thanks to the nice folks who sold the soundtrack to National Lampoon’s Endless Bummer). And a nice kid in line shared his sunscreen. We re-applied at about 2 p.m., thanks to the cool lady handing out the “free CD” water. So there- I couldn’t protect her from the cursing, smell of weed and sight of different, wilder, youth – but at least I stopped her skin from burning (it did anyway) and kept her and her friends fed and watered. I’d do the symbolic tend-a-child-like-a-growing plant line here, but don’t want to jeopardize my attempt at still being cool.
So after I let it go (my parental control along with my sweet and innocent baby girl), she and Ashley went their way and I went mine. I love exploring and that’s exactly what I was doing. Exploring what the kids are listening to, talking about and doing nowadays. I twisted my ankle at the Lucky 13 show. The lead guitarist had a stand put in the middle of the meager crowd (maybe 50-75) and the band urged everyone to crowd in and start a rotating mosh pit. I ran into the circle and got bumped and pushed as I ran around in the dirt like a kid – banging my head and pumping my fists. A boy fell in front of me and I twisted my ankle stepping on his shoe. I helped him up and apologized – he just kept going unfazed. Just before that, I was thinking: “I can still do this! Never too old to ROCK.” The twisted ankle still hurts two days later, but – like Brittany’s sunburn – sometimes you have to suffer for the music. Pain is part of life and with all the tats, piercings, violent fight-like mosh pits – these kids seem to know that and grasp it. So in that respect, I still haven’t grown up. Thank God. An old skiing cliché goes “If you’re not falling, you’re not skiing hard enough.”
Then I hooked up with the girls again and we caught the Tat show. The London-based band rocked and the female lead singer was having a great time with the crowd. A couple of people fired up a joint right next to my daughter. I hovered close enough to watch, but knew she would make the right choice if offered anything illegal, immoral or unethical.
We wandered over to the All Time Low show on the Main Stage and I quickly lost them again. But I enjoyed the show enormously. Not only did the singer and guitarist play a tight set, they played with the crowd in between. “Hey that girl who just flashed her tits at us. She didn’t look 18! Could an officer please go arrest her! Any cops in the house? Go arrest her. You need to be at least 13 to flash us. Ok 12.” I cringed again, knowing Brittany heard all this.
Brittany, suffering from a headache and sore feet by then, needed a sit-down break while Ashley happily plunged into the crowd to see if she could make it all the way to the front. She did. At one point I tried to take her some water, but there was no way I could wiggle in that far and find one bobbing teenager among a sea of them. I made the mistake of calling her name once, and everyone shredded her: “Uh-oh. Ashley’s dad is looking for her.” Thank God she was out of ear-shot. Hell, everything was out of ear-shot (SUPPOSED to be loud, old man!)
The group had grown to 5 by then as the girls’ friends Shane and Tarrin(sp?) met up with us. I left them in the shade of the Vans bus by the ½ pipe so I could take in the Bad Religion show. I was amazed by the sight of a no-more than 4-year-old girl with a “Latch Key Kid” shirt on perched on her father’s shoulders. I wouldn’t even let my 12-year-old daughter Elese come! (Though she begged, pouted and pleaded for days)
I chuckled as some of the bands told the kids to accept Jesus Christ in their lives. Many cheered. But some held their middle fingers up high and tossed a couple of “F” bombs. We started hovering closer to the main stage as the day wore on. The girls all got their T-Shirts. I met the lead-singer and guitarist from Lucky 13 and told them how much I enjoyed the show. The free water booth closed and we had only enough cash left for two more bottles of water. After bouncing to the grinding Under Oath show, the wait was on for 3OH!3.
We started to push towards the front and I was amazed to look back and see the crowd and grown huge behind me (we were at the end of the crowd for the Under Oath show). 3OH!3 took the stage just as the sprinkling rain started with a few burst of lightening off to the west, drawing gasps like at a fireworks show. The youth all pushed towards the front, started bouncing in unison and everyone sang every word. I had forgotten the days of screaming lyrics to every song of my favorite band at a rocking concert. This was extremely cool and reminded me at the end – these kids were no different than I was though few of them were born when I saw my first concert – AC/DC at the old McNicholls Arena – not far from where we were standing Sunday night. The band rushed through four songs as the rain intensified to a steady-down pour. Ashley handed me her backpack and said she needed to go. I knew she meant crowd-surfing and I grew concerned. I knew her parents probably wouldn’t approve – all those strange hands on their daughter and the possibility of her being dropped and hurt. But I didn’t stop her. I laughed as Shane hauled her up and – poof – off she went. I saw her laugh all the way to the front – rising above the crowd when she was tossed. I gasped but hoped for the best. We all drew in tighter, staying warm by bouncing up and down while pumping our fists to the air. Ashley made it back to us positively exhilarated. They finished with the song everyone wanted to hear – just not so soon – “Don’t Trust Me.” I could even sing that one, but Brittany later informed me I’m still old and “everyone knows that song.”
The five of us quickly joined hands and started moving quickly to the exit. Thousands waded through the river of empty bottles, trash and God only knows what else and they vainly tried to find cover. Some held pizza boxes over their heads, some found whole folding tables to carry over themselves. Many hugged the side of Mile High Stadium, trying desperately to escape the painful hail. We stopped briefly under a tree, but I pushed us forward to the nearby car (I was done cursing the $20 we paid to park that close). I tried to apologize that the show was “ruined.” But Brittany looked at me, smiled with that beautiful smile that has melted my heart for 15 years, and said: “The storm just made it more memorable.”
Ah. Rock-n-Roll. Some things never change.
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