However, life is inexplicably generous, sometimes, and occasionally allows for memories to take on another tier of experiential relevance—to actually be visited again, as it were, and have additional good memories added to old ones. These are rare gifts, indeed, and fiercely coveted by those to whom they've been given. Believe that.
In December, 1986, some good friends and I attended a Peter Gabriel concert at the Oakland Coliseum. He was touring to promote the So album, released earlier that year. In what was eventually revealed to be a somewhat elaborate ruse, they took me out under the premise we'd be going to a celebratory birthday dinner at The Chateau Noir restaurant. We got in the cars, set off to make our way to the festivities, and cranked our tunes from some bitchin' car stereos.
It's important to note here what dedicated music fans we all were. In those days, much of our time not dedicated to homework, chores, and the other "constraints" of teen-hood, was spent cruising around, talking about everything in the world, and listening to music. All kinds of music. Some in our core group were from Europe, and they liked material from artists we in the States had less exposure to; we passed around several epic mix-tape compilations of our collective favorites.
Of course, this was all pre-information age—pre World Wide Web. Computers were mainly a school thing, for most of us, and nowhere near the "connected world box" we're accustomed to using, today. MTV was still actually music television, and a serviceable source for exposure to music and media from all over the Western world. And we were a plugged-in bunch of fellows.
A few years before the '86 concert, when one of the group was a new friend to me, several of us met at the house of one of the guys. This new friend had a small stack of albums tucked under his arm, and I asked him who the artist was—likely with a, "Hey, dude. What kinna music is that?" His reply was, "Peter Gabriel." I didn't recognize the name. When I asked what songs PG did, he said, "You know Shock The Monkey?" I did know that song, and really liked it, so I was eager to hear more.
I would spend years and years hearing more, and absorbing as much Peter Gabriel music as I could find; and many of our group did the same thing. I'd eventually discover he'd been one of the founders of the group Genesis, and listening to the music he made with them answered a lot of questions for me about the hows and whys of PG's music. I was endlessly fascinated at how his first four albums were titled peter gabriel, and how the fans referenced them after the cover artwork.
Seeking out Peter Gabriel's music exposed me to much more than just his regular release material. The double-album Peter Gabriel Plays Live, a masterpiece of live music performance and recording brilliance, became a cruising favorite among our group—selections from this work made their way onto many of our mix collections.
Were it not for PG's producing of the Birdy soundtrack, I might never have seen what has become one of my favorite movies. The album cover photo alone—Matthew Modine, in an asylum, perched naked on an old bed frame—compels one to almost unconsciously become intrigued about how this peculiar character arrived at such a place.
Then, early that 1986 Summer, Peter Gabriel released his newest album, and the first PG title to also be available on Compact Disk (CD): So. Several of us immediately rushed to buy a copy, aurally exploring each track several times, and devouring the liner notes. Soon, songs from So were being featured in regular rotation on Bay Area radio stations, and MTV featured several groundbreaking and innovative music videos for songs from the album.
At the time, I was training to become disk jockey at a local broadcasting school. Through one of my contacts there, I'd been loaned copies of a few unreleased "remix versions" of songs limited only to radio play. We listened to the tapes we made of those unreleased songs until they were brittle and garbled.
The night of the concert was truly a magical experience. As we pulled into the coliseum parking lot, it became pretty obvious we weren't going to any restaurant—the jig was up. I was noticeably delighted. By this time, we'd listened to the So songs, and watched the videos for them, dozens and dozens of times. Those inspiring musical works had become the soundtrack to one of the best Summers of my entire life; then, and now.
Arm in arm, my friends and I sang along for all we were worth. The entire venue was charged with an almost overwhelming sense of excitement and unity. Barely half-way into the show, there wasn't a single person still seated. Peter Gabriel's musicianship, and that of his band-mates—along with a mind-blowing, technically acrobatic stage show—seared that concert clearly in my mind as one of the best I had attended; then, and now.
In early Summer, 2012, around the time of So's original release, Peter Gabriel announced the Back To Front tour. He'd be reuniting the original band line-up from 1986, and performing the entire So album, along with several other fan-favorites from his song catalogue.
Immediately, a buzz of excitement worked its way through our group of friends—now connected, additionally, by the various means afforded us by modern communication technology. Websites were surfed. Statuses were posted and updated. Emails and text-messages were sent. Tickets were purchased on-line, and travel arrangements made. One of us even flew-in from another state for the event.
As if being able to attend the reunion concert with those same good friends—only one not present—wasn't gift enough, the day would provide me with an extra experience, one just-as momentous and memorable. A few hours before the show, Peter Gabriel sat for a brief talk and Q&A session at the local campus of a large corporation. Because my sister worked the company hosting the event, I was able to attend as her guest.
Stunned, and a bit star-struck, I listened intently as Peter Gabriel talked about the reunion tour, his early influences, work with Genesis, the world music scene and artists, new music technology, and a range of other topics. I could hardly process what was happening. There he was, one of the most respected artistic statesman of our time, seated just across the room from me.
While sitting in that conference room, listening to Peter Gabriel talk, I felt as if I was simultaneously occupying two different times. In one time, I'm in the audience at a Q&A session, featuring Peter Gabriel as the guest. In the other time, a younger me is back in the kitchen of my friend's house, hearing about Peter Gabriel for the first time. Suddenly, the name of the tour took on an additional meaning, for me.
As time for the concert to start grew closer, we all met at the house of one of the original 1986 concert attendees—The Chateau Brun, if you will. No ruse, this time, and none needed. I was quite excited to be in the company of so many people I've felt a deep and satisfying connection to for the better part of my entire adult life. We sat and ate, and laughed a lot, and reminisced about our collective past.
For the 1986 concert, we all arrived in cars, and there was a real party happening in the parking lot. For this show, twenty-five years later, we casually strolled to the venue; it was about five blocks from our host's house. As we made our way closer and closer, one bright and shining reality starkly confronted almost each of my senses: The Shark Tank, 2012, was a very long way from The Oakland Coliseum, 1986.
I felt like we were going to a concert at the mall. Blue-coated ushers wearing headsets, manning the entrance to each section of seats; flat-screen monitors hanging every thirty feet; several sit-down eateries, and absolutely none of the carnival atmosphere, or rabble, of concert-goings gone-by. I did feel quite safe, and not at all leery of using the restrooms.
Filing into the arena, my notice was quickly drawn up and around to the gigantic expanse of the concert space. Thanks to the timely ordering of our tickets—hail The Raj—our seats were close enough to see the stage clearly, but well out of the melee floor seating usually subjects one to.
The opening act cancelled, so we were treated to a few original songs performed by the two girls providing PG's backing vocals: one played piano, one played cello, and both sang with passion and dedication. When their performance ended, the house lights came back, and the sheer immensity of PG's persistent popularity was exampled by the undulating mass of people rushing to take their seats.
After only a few minutes, Peter Gabriel took the stage and was welcomed with several raucous rounds of standing applause. He explained a few aspects about the performance we'd be seeing, then brought the band out. They included such musical luminaries as bass-master, and G. Gordon Liddy doppleganger, Tony Levin; Ivorian drum legend Manu "The Man" Katché; seasoned guitarists David Rhodes and David Sancious, along with backing singers Jennie Abrahamson and Linnea Olsson.
His first selection was a work in-progress—a generous peek behind-the-scenes into PG's song-writing process. He played several other songs, most from albums released before So. Of note, his stripped-down version of Shock The Monkey was very different from, but faithful to, the original; and the quasi-obscure Family and the Fishing Net engendered enthusiastic applause from the audience.
True to the tour's name, PG then played the entire So album, in order. He and the band performed every song professionally and authentically; each one accompanied by multi-media presentations projected on several billboard-sized screens, set-up at the rear and sides of the stage. In one instant, PG's face was blue; in the next, swirled and distorted; in the next, red, globular and melting. Six moveable, manually-operated boom arrays flooded the arena with bright beams of pulsating and rotating light. The effects bordered on hypnotic.
The last song on the So album, In Your Eyes, electrified the audience, and brought the entire arena to its feet. PG even performed it with the additional lyrics from one of the many extended and special versions, made available over the years. Everyone I could see was singing, many were dancing, and I couldn't stop myself from smiling so wide my cheeks ached.
After the rousing end of In Your Eyes, PG thanked the audience, thanked the band and crew, then he and the band left the stage. All at once, the whole crowd began a rhythmic clapping, accentuated with loud cheering and calls for an encore. Before long, PG and the band returned to the stage. The sound of his jubilant welcoming back was nearly deafening.
As soon as Manu started to play his drums, the sound of cheering and applause nearly drowned-out the beat of PG's much-anticipated encore: Biko. The song stylistically describes a chapter in the life of anti-aparthied activist Steven Biko, who was beaten to death while in the custody of Port Elizabeth police, in 1977. His death highlighted for the world the terrible brutality South African blacks had been enduring at the hands of European and other rulers, since the late 1940s.
The song is very active and engaging. The lyrics for Biko rouse the spirit, challenge the mind, and beg the listener to recognize and resist injustice, prejudice, and hate. The song's infectious chorus repeats the name Biko, in melodious scales; it's as mournful as it is celebratory, and concludes with a single, emotive, gut-checking declaration: "And the eyes of the world are watching, now."
Standing there, listening to Peter Gabriel remind us to choose collaboration with each other to bring positive change to our world, instead of the elitist attitude of exclusionist competition that encourages so much endless corruption and suffering, I felt as if I was simultaneously occupying two different times.
In one time, I'm standing in an arena watching Peter Gabriel on stage, my fist, the fists of my friends and thousands of others, raised in collective salute, all singing the closing calls of Biko. In another time, a younger me is standing in another arena, and Peter Gabriel is on stage. I'm arm-in-arm with some of my best friends, singing the closing calls to Biko as loud as we were able, with thousands and thousands of fists raised in collective salute.
In both times, Peter Gabriel's departing encouragement to the audience is the same: "It's up to you." In both times, when I hear those words, I'm genuinely moved beyond easy description. In both times, as the song finishes, each band member stops playing their instrument, the light on them goes out, and they leave the stage. Eventually, only the signature Biko drum beat is playing, and only the audience is left singing. In both times, even after the drums stop, and the drummer leaves the stage, and the final light is turned off, we keep our fists raised, and sing several more rounds.
I feel very fortunate, now, to have been young when youth had great relevance—to me, and to my contemporaries. I remember that life is sometimes inexplicably generous, and occasionally allows an experience to take-on additional meaning not constrained by when or how. I'm compelled to raise my glance upward from the ever-encroaching darkness of this world, and remember that good memories can be a light that repels darkness. And, if I'm lucky, I turn on the radio and hear a Peter Gabriel song... and I remember my good friends.
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