September 27, 1978.

 

 

 

After my high school classes were done for the day.

 

 

 

Toronto, Ontario, Canadian National Exhibition parking lot.

 

 

 

A few classmates and I parked our car and headed over to the tour bus.

 

 

 

It sat idling, it’s door open, a steady trickle of blue jean and denim jacket clad long hairs (like us) were filing in.

 

 

 

BUFFALO said the sign on the front masthead.

 

 

 

At 4 pm sharp the bus pulled out of the empty Ex parking lot and wedged into snarled rush hour traffic.

 

 

 

Three and a half excruciating hours later we arrived at the border (a drive usually taking less than 2).

 

 

 

The patrons on board had been generally well-behaved – on the surface anyway.

 

 

 

The occasional beer bottle rolling down the floor when the bus’ speed fluctuated, and the scent in the air: These suggested some riders were surrepitiously preparing for the event.

 

 

 

At the border, you could feel the bus riders stiffen up as an official guard came on board and asked if anyone had a criminal record.

 

 

 

Unbelievably, one fellow confessed.

 

 

 

He was immediately told to leave the bus and that he wouldn’t be attending the concert.

 

 

 

When the dude and the official had disembarked and the bus proceeded through the border gate, our tour guide berated: “You see! You have to keep your mouth shut.”

 

 

 

I looked at my buddy in the seat beside me and we shook our heads. Good life lesson.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Now through the border, we seriously wondered if we were going to see the 8 pm start of the show.

 

 

 

We asked the tour guide – just across the aisle – and he assured us, “You will make it.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The bus sped along in the dark without much traffic; the moments ticked away.

 

 

 

I must have nodded off because when my buddy nudged me and urged me to look out the window, the bus was right outside the Buffalo Auditorium’s main entrance.

 

 

 

The whole scene was lit up; mobs of young people like us were filtering in.

 

 

 

We had arrived!

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

After the tour guide instructed us to “meet in this exact location right after the show. We will wait 30 minutes and if you’re not here, too bad,” we were on our own.

 

 

 

The four of us spliced into the mob and flowed into the main entrance lobby.

 

 

 

It was now only moments before 8 and our goal was to be in our seats for the start.

 

 

 

This was going to require a bit of ruthlessness.

 

 

 

Surprisingly, the inside lobby of Buffalo Auditorium had very little directional signage, unlike Maple Leaf Gardens, which we were familiar with.

 

 

 

Fortunately, there was a sizeable young black guy wearing a “STAFF” jacket who pointed us in the general direction.

 

 

 

We made it inside of the auditorium proper and located our entrance to the seats, but couldn’t see a thing after that.

 

 

 

The lights were down and the show was moments away.

 

 

 

Another arena staffer with a tiny flashlight assisted us, but again only to the general rows of our seats.

 

 

 

My buddy’s little brother found our row.

 

 

 

No time to relax, though.

 

 

 

As fate would have it, four black dudes were in our seats.

 

 

 

My buddy advised me, “Don’t say anything to them. Let’s just sit int the stair.”

 

 

 

I chose a somewhat different approach.

 

 

 

“Hi guys, we’re from Canada and these are our seats. Get out.”

 

 

 

They did.

 

 

 

The concert kicked off quite punctually with the unknown back-up band.

 

 

 

A few minutes after 8 the auditorium went pitch black and was taken over by stage lighting.

 

 

 

We didn’t know the name of the back-up band but they rocked so hard it was almost amusing.

 

 

 

From the get-go we noticed their guitar player, who was attired in a school boy uniform – including shorts and a cap – and continuously and spastically jarred his head up and down.

 

 

 

Our attention was held for the most part, yet in the back of our minds we scoffed mildly and wondered how long it would be until the main act would start.

 

 

 

However – admittedly – the grand finale of this back-up group got through my thick, jaded teenage head.

 

 

 

As the group’s closing tune, they launched into a thematic piece about the history of rock music and that guitar player was relentlessly flailing his head up and down like a maniac.

 

 

 

Then the entire audience erupted in applause around us as another member of the band hoisted the fanatical guitarist up on his shoulders and carried him around the whole perimeter of the arena floor – soloing madly, that head driving up and down.

 

 

 

I was truly astonished. I rose to my feet along with my buddies and all the strangers around us and we all clapped heartily and roared.

 

 

 

Right on! 

 

 

 

I looked at my buddy. “Who were those guys?”

 

 

 

Before we knew it the band was gone and the lights came up.

 

 

 

We held our tickets up the few rays of ambient light and tried to decipher our ticket stubs.

 

 

 

“A C D C.”

 

 

 

[The end]