What was the worst concert you ever went to?

Original credit 1975, ABC Television

This was on Scott-Ryan Abt ’s list of questions for people who say they are into music. I came up with answers to most of those questions, but this one in particular got me thinking. Do we think of a concert (or any kind of experience) as good or bad because it was objectively good or bad, or because of how we remember it, and what else was going on in our lives? What goes into the way we remember an experience? One thing led to another and now I have a whole column about this one question.

How we remember things depends a lot on context. Like anyone who has traveled, I have souvenirs of some of my trips. Some of them are more special than others. The thing is, they are only special because of the memory of the trip, not because they are breath-taking works of art or craft. Sometimes it has to do with who I was traveling with. You probably know what I mean.

I have fond memories of a lot of concerts. Some were objectively great performances, while others are only special to me because of the circumstances or company. The first time I saw Stevie Ray Vaughan, it was all about the performance. He was spectacular. I don’t even remember who I went with. The one time I saw The Nutcracker, it was about the company — a girl I adored, who happened to love the Nutcracker. Seeing it made her happy, and that’s all that mattered to me.

…….

That being said, it’s actually not hard for me to pick a worst concert. The irony is, objectively, it should have been a great show, because it featured two of the most famous, most beloved bands in the world. And the circumstances should have made it all perfect. Instead, I just feel regret.

It was my senior year in high school. I had found out in September that the Beach Boys and Chicago were going to co-headline a concert in Madison Square Garden the following June. I bought two tickets, not even knowing if I had someone to go with. Given that I could not remotely afford those tickets, it was an insane thing to do.

There were two girls, in particular, that I thought about inviting. I was crazy about both of them. And of course, I was terrified, the way stupid awkward teenaged boys are terrified to ask out girls they think are way above their league. They had always been friendly to me, but they seemed to be surrounded by guys who had far more cred than I could imagine having. In true sitcom fashion, they also happened to be best friends.

I had already asked one of them to the prom, and she had declined, telling me it was far too early to think about such things. So I was hesitant to follow up with this concert idea. The two events were only a couple of weeks apart, so if it was premature to invite her to the prom, it was certainly way too early to invite her to the concert, right? So instead I asked her best friend.

To my shock she said yes, without hesitating.

Now I had to navigate several months of anticipation. I tried to find other opportunities to spend time with her, thinking that I had broken the ice, but she was always busy. Friendly, but busy. I was completely confused. It never occurred to me that the only reason she had said yes was because, well, who would say no to such a double-bill?

Then disaster struck. High school had always a pretty grim world for me, but there was one thing that salvaged it: Music. I sang in the choir and took music lessons on the side. Our choir was no ordinary high-school choir. We won awards and traveled to out-of-state choral festivals.

Our annual Candlelight recital was an institution in the region, dating back to 1937. I was even one of the soloists in Candlelight — it was easily the high point of my four years of high school.

Choir meant the world to me. It was the only place I felt I anything to offer that other people cared about. It was the only corner of the school where I felt happy.

In January, our music director announced the date of our Spring Concert — -the last concert I would ever perform in with the Choir — and it was the date of “the concert”. Yes, that concert, in New York, which I had been looking forward to for months, and for which had spent a fortune on tickets, so I could go with a girl I was crazy about.

I won’t go into my months of agonizing over the impossible choice that faced me. In the end, I sacrificed the Spring Concert and took my dream date to see Chicago and the Beach Boys. It was the only date we would ever go on. It should have been obvious to me beforehand that this was the likely course of events. If I had had any sense, I would have seen the writing on the wall, participated in the Spring Concert, and eaten the cost of the tickets.

To add insult to self-inflicted injury: the New York concert itself was not great. I now realize, in hindsight, that while Chicago may have been a hot band at the time, they were not actually great. Good, yes, but not great. Few people remember them today.

Meanwhile, the Beach Boys, truly one of the greatest bands of all time, were a mess that night.

Dennis Wilson was high as a kite and could barely perform. He climbed into the rigging during “Sloop John B.” and it collapsed, dumping him onto the stage and making a mess of the set. After a brief interruption, the crew got him dusted off and he continued, only to mess up his vocal lines and then stumble and fall off the front of the stage.

The huge crowd sat in a painful, confused silence. It was a profoundly sad moment, especially for all of us who had idolized the Beach Boys.

A few years later, Wilson would drown after several days of nonstop drinking and drug use. For me the news was a punch to the gut. While it was somehow unsurprising, it also brought up all kinds of old regrets.

What if the two groups had been on fire that night? It’s now clear to me that it still would not have been the right decision to give up our Spring Concert to go see them, regardless of who my date was.

Our popular culture and media are flooded with debates over the ways in which girls are taught to devalue themselves. And it’s a real problem. Here’s the thing: boys devalue themselves too. That is one of the realizations that came to me, decades later, when I reflected for the umpteenth time on my decision to skip our spring concert for the concert in New York.

I gave up something vital to me to spend a few hours with a girl who did not, and never would, reciprocate my feelings. It’s not her fault. It was mine, for thinking that one grand gesture was going to change her mind.

This past year, our former Choir director died, and I lost my chance to apologize to him for having been a complete idiot all those years ago.

https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/thehour/name/charles-matz-obituary?id=38514632

I started this column with the idea that the ultimate verdict on an experience like a concert is how we remember it. I’ve been to plenty of shows that didn’t do much for me. This is the only one in my life (so far) that, if I could turn back time, I would not go to in the first place.