Nobody Will Let Us In!
The Firm was playing in Pittsburgh, and we wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Bonnie and I prepped for the concert at my parents’ house, and drove their car to the show. We were so certain of our kinship with the band that we showed up with no tickets. We walked around the building until we found the backstage entrance, and started looking for people we knew.
We didn’t know anyone.
Pittsburgh’s Civic Arena staff was not thrilled to have us milling about, either. They tossed us out twice while we tried to sneak in through the heavily guarded gate, so we regrouped.
“Let’s buy tickets,” Bonnie said. “We’ve got to get in there!”
“I can’t afford tickets,” I said.
“I have my mom’s credit card!” she said. And just like that – we were in.
Back in the eighties, things were not quite so secure as they are now. We got into the building and high-tailed it to the stage area. We went up some stairs and walked around in the second tier, looking down at the stage while trying to figure a way to drop down into the backstage area without killing ourselves.
We paced back and forth through the rows of empty seats like lions waiting for a chance to strike. It was a long way down, but we were pretty sure we could make the jump without breaking any bones.
And then, quite suddenly, there was my buddy, Phil the tour manager, supervising stage set-up about a hundred feet below us.
“PHIL!” we screamed in unison. “PHIL! PHIL! Up here!”
Once he found us, he stared for a moment – and then he smiled. “Hello Loves!” he yelled in beautiful British. “What ya doing up there?”
“The backstage guys wouldn’t let us in!” Someone started playing a guitar and drowned us out.
“What?”
“They wouldn’t let us in!”
“Who wouldn’t let you in?”
“NOBODY will let us in!”
“Those focking ass-o’s!” he yelled, then pointed. “I’ll meet you at the back!”
Phil hopped off the stage and headed to the other end of the arena – while we raced to the same spot (through masses of waiting fans) a hundred feet above his head. We saw him talking to a security guard and pointing in our direction. When we finally reached him, the security guard moved to the side we walked right down to the floor – no problem.
Phil grabbed my hand and led us through the crowd. “Those focking ass-o’s!” he said repeatedly. Phil turned swearing into the most beautiful language we’d ever heard.
We followed him through the crowd, Phil with his VIP badge swinging around his neck. He took us straight backstage and told us to make ourselves at home.
“I’ve got to do some work,” he said, “but I’ll see you after.”
“Backstage” was really just a cement tunnel with little rooms here and there. Phil showed us to a room with free alcohol, so we grabbed a couple of beers and walked around a bit, then went back into the room and sat down.
It was quite boring backstage.
Eventually we saw the show from waaaay off to the side – which was great. When the band ran off, we yelled our hellos and they all smiled like they remembered us.
I am sure they did not.
But Phil did, and he treated us like royalty. After the show, on his way to the tour bus, he said, “Come with us!”
And that’s when the next part of our adventure began.
