September 2nd, 2009

The day the buses stopped giving change was something else for me….

I noted with interest this week the 40th anniversary of the day the NYC buses stopped making change for its riders. Before August 31st 1969, you could still board a bus, and come face to face with a driver who not only drove the bus but who had a little change maker at the ready. The fare was 20 cents and if you gave the driver a dollar, he’d give you back 80 cents. Amazing.

But the main reason I remember this rather useless anniversary is that it coincided with the first rock concert I ever attended. It was August 30 1969, the last night drivers were still making change. It was the night I took two buses from my housing project in the Bronx to Flushing Meadow Park in Flushing to see Led Zeppelin perform at the NYS Pavillion.

The reason I’ve always remembered that date is that my parents were worried that because the concert would end after midnight, I might forget that I needed exact change to get home.

Of all the things to worry about that night, that was probably the least important. My friends and I — Andrew, Robbie, Frank and John — had no tickets but that was no matter. We just showed up 30 minutes before the concert and paid our $7.50 (that’s the price I remember paying) at the ticket window, not to scalpers.

For that price, we got to see three opening acts — Buddy Guy, Larry Coryell and a group called Raven. The headliners were Led Zeppelin on what I believe was their first or nearly first U.S. tour.

Recently I wrote a little first person account of that long-ago night and here it is:

           ”It’s a hot and sticky August night. There are no seats so people are sitting or lying down on the bare concrete floor. Thousands are packed into the place but we are able to move around with relative ease as long as we stay back from the stage. As usual, we are looking for girls who might want to make out. Of course, we have almost no chance of that happening since we look hopelessly square in this sea of hippies. Almost every guy, except those of us who go to Hayes, has long hair, but I think even with long hair, I’d be a square. I’m afraid of acid, and don’t like to get high because I like to keep my wits about me. No one here seems to have such qualms. People are falling all over one another, stumbling around, vomiting, and pretty much looking dazed and confused, just like the Led Zeppelin song. It’s not unusual to see a beautiful girl, clearly stoned or tripping, fall onto the closest guy, and being making out. I live for such an event.

        I’m so mesmerized by the scene that I barely pay attention to the opening acts. I’m there for Zeppelin. We spend most of the time in search of action, and we occasionally find it. Hash pipes and joints are being passed in every direction, and one sometimes crosses my path. I think there’s a point where I am passing a joint with one hand and a hash pipe with the other. But I don’t take a hit. I’m chicken. Not that it matters. The air is thick as can be with the smell of marijuana and who knows what. I feel myself getting a contact high and eventually sit down not far from the stage to watch Robert Plant and Jimmy Page do their thing. Between the smoke, the girls, and blues, I am in heaven. But then, about three-quarters of the way through the show, the drummer John Bonham collapses, and the band stops playing. Pandemonium takes over since no one knows what to do or what is happening up there on stage. I see the lights of an ambulance and suspect Bonham has been taken away.

        The concert ends just like that, and in the crush of people, we get separated from Frank. We search for him for an hour outside but eventually give up, and go home. He turns out to be fine and tells us some story about meeting a girl. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth. I just want to go to another concert. “

 P.S. We got home fine because, like good Catholic school boys, we had two thin dimes buried somewhere in our jeans…or were they dungarees?

Digg This | Permalink | 1 Comment »