Over the last few days I’ve been in the haze and fog of Covid but funnily enough my mind is travelling back over many years. I get flashes of what happened, the people, the incidents out of the blue. Is covid digging around in my deep memory? Anyway here’s one memory that has arisen.
About forty years ago I found myself sitting in excellent seats at a Bob Dylan concert at Sydney’s Capitol Theatre. I could never afford those seats but a band I knew had scored some free tickets and they invited me to come along. As if I’d refuse! Top tickets for close up seats of a Bob Dylan concert!!
I’d never been so close to a stage before so like many others, I eventually drifted down towards the front of the stage. It was the first time I had been so close to Dylan. I remember feeling excited, almost privileged, to be there.
Then I heard a voice beside me.
“Die! Die, you motherfucker! Die!”
At first I thought I had hallucinated it even though I wasn’t on acid or anything. But the abuse continued. Then another voice joined in. The hatred was real. I wasn’t imagining the vibe. It was hatred.
I stood there stunned.
This wasn’t a politician. It wasn’t a dictator. It wasn’t someone responsible for war or suffering. It was a musician standing on a stage singing songs.
I wanted to tell the man to stop. Well, actually I wanted to grab him and tell him to shut the fuck up. Luckily the reasonable part of my mind hovered around and instead, I turned around and walked back to my seat, disturbed by what I had witnessed.
What struck me most was not the heckler’s anger but my own reaction. I felt mortified. Not for myself, but for Dylan. Here was a poet sharing his vision to a paying audience having to endure such crap.
The incident lasted only a few moments, yet I remember it clearly four decades later, now that covid has brought it to surface.
I wonder why it’s such a clear memory? Was it because it shattered my naïve assumption that everyone standing near the stage must have been there out of admiration?
The concert itself has largely faded from memory.
Those words have not.
“Die! Die, you motherfucker! Die!”
Forty years later I still find myself wondering what kind of hurt, disappointment or anger causes a person to spend their evening shouting death wishes at a singer.
Welcome — I’m glad you’re here.
Journeys and Star Gazing 