Before last Saturday, I had never been to a big-name concert in a large-scale concert venue. But now I have, and I can say that I have been missing a lot all these years by not going to such concerts. Domestic squabbles, cocktail waitresses -- you name it, I was missing it.
The performer: Elton John. The venue: Lawlor Events Center. Friend David Robert, the area's most prominent music photographer, arranged for me to get a media ticket -- heck, there was no way an unemployed gent like myself could afford to spend the $50-plus that tickets cost for the show. I arrived with David about 6:30 p.m. to avoid a line at Will-Call. There was no line, which meant David and I had our tickets by 6:32 p.m. We celebrated this fact by running to the Little Waldorf Saloon and getting a beer.
A half-hour later, we walked back to Lawlor, a jaunt that was marred by the fact that we were almost hit by a bus. And busses were everywhere, chartered by casinos transporting their VIP guests to the show. This created a situation in front of Lawlor that I will describe as a "clusterboink" as busses, tipsy casino guests and befuddled casino hosts all puttered around.
We maneuvered through the boinking clusters and made our way into Lawlor. David went to meet with the other shutter monkeys, and I went in and claimed my seat. It was 7:22 p.m.
And what a seat it was. It was phenomenal -- seven rows back, dead center, putting me 15 yards away from Sir Elton's Yamaha piano. Delightful. And despite this proximity, two rows in front of me, a woman was clutching binoculars. My guess: She was on Elton John Lint Patrol.
I was taking in the scene when the yelling started. While yelling is not rare at an Elton John concert -- he can be a bit cranky at times, which he fully admits -- this was unusual yelling because it was coming from a couple sitting four seats down from me. It got kind of ugly, and from what I can gather, the catalyst for the discord was the fact that -- seriously -- the woman didn't like the seats.
Meanwhile, skimpily-attired cocktail waitresses were wandering around and taking orders from the casino VIPs sitting on the floor level. I am used to seeing near-nude women wandering around a gaming establishment, but not on the floor of Lawlor Events Center right next to the shot clock. It was a peculiar scene, a combination of musical legend, sports, gaming and awkward, drunken rowdiness. The scene was made even more surreal by the arrival of a large man who looked strikingly like Ned Beatty (I never pictured Ned Beatty as an Elton John fan, but that's just me).
About 7:45 p.m., the squabbling couple finally was escorted somewhere else, and everyone in our general area started talking smack about them. Being a member of the media, I abstained, figuring I'd get a chance to talk my smack in print.
The seats filled, and at 8 p.m. sharp, the concert got underway. I will say, in all seriousness, it was wonderful. Sir Elton seemed to be having a blast -- no crankiness on this night -- and he was rockin'. The concert also had some solemn moments -- particularly when he performed "American Triangle," a song about the murder of Matthew Shepard.
Personally, the most interesting moments for me were provided by my space-hogging seat neighbor to my right. At 9:10 p.m., he spotted me scribbling in my notebook, and -- obviously an observant fellow -- queried: "So, are ya takin' notes or what?" He followed up this comment at 9:40 p.m. with "Are you takin' notes on the drummer (Nigel Olsson)? He is the MAN." I made the mistake of shaking my head "no," leading to a minor fit on the part of my neighbor.
While the concert was lengthy -- ending, after the encores, at 10:38 p.m., meaning Elton and the band played almost nonstop for more than 2 1/2 hours -- the time flew by. Of course, Elton ended with two encores, the last featuring "Candle in the Wind." After that, many in the crowd -- missing the point of ending with that song -- chanted for yet another encore, until the lights all came on as if to say "GO NOW!"
As casino VIP clusterboink in front of Lawlor resumed, I walked back to my car, enjoying the cool autumn air, thinking: I may have missed a lot of cool concerts in my time, but I am sure glad that this was my first. And barring a freak bus accident, it won't be my last.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who missed the Backstreet Boys concert on purpose. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.