Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

For anyone who doesn’t know about the legendary 1991 Monsters of Rock festival in Tushino, Moscow, the Soviet Union had just collapsed and the post-Soviet space was feeling the wind of change. At that moment, about half a million people gathered at the Tushino airfield, according to unverified data. Legends such as Metallica, AC/DC and Pantera were performing in front of an absolutely unsophisticated audience, consisting of citizens of yesterday's Evil Empire. It is clear that all this was a celebration of life, an imprint of light from another universe…

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

I remember first seeing Bauhaus in the opening scenes of the iconic vampire film, The Hunger, starring Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie. Lead vocalist Peter Murphy appears in the opening scenes, lean frame silhouetted against a foggy backdrop. The song playing is “Bela Lugosi’s Dead”, unarguably one of the most important and memorable goth songs of all time.

I lived in New York at the time, attending film school at NYU, where I studied experimental film and classics. Years later, I lived in Vancouver; I was back in my home country. I had lived all over the world at that point, and some of those travels had landed me in San Francisco for eight years or so. I still kept in touch with the best friends I had made there, including my friend, Zach. I also still received emails about events in San Francisco, which I’d casually perused to keep an eye on the pulse of local culture.

I remember when Bauhaus tickets went on sale. Being one of my favourite bands since college, Zach and I excitedly chatted about how for me it was a can’t-miss. We bought tickets for the show along with another friend, Evie. I usually flew to San Francisco around my birthday, May 19, to spend time with the family I still had in the area, and the show was two days after.

I usually wear black, and it was no exception on the day of the show. I batwinged my eyeliner with the best of them and wore my chunkiest, gothiest boots. I showed up to see my friends similarly attired, swimming in the sea of goths milling out front of the SF Masonic Auditorium, a historic venue near downtown San Francisco.

I was shocked when Peter Murphy took the stage. He was still so hot! Way different vibes than when he appeared in The Hunger, he had gone from hot boy twink to sexy leather daddy, but the appeal remained. He had a magnetic stage presence that pulled your eye directly to him, and his growling, thick, low voice was as good as ever.

I’ve always found goth crowds to be the friendliest, most inclusive people at shows and clubs. I felt perfectly content in that room full of black leather, vinyl and chains. Everyone had a smile on their face and several people in the crowd had their eyes closed, listening to the pulsing music. My eyes were dry until the first strains of “Lagartija Nick” floated above the crowd. I had listened to the song on repeat for so many years that I knew each note by heart. I whipped my head around and observed the crowd of black-clothed bodies dancing and singing along to the music. My eyes welled with tears as I thought to myself that rare thought: I belong.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

The Newport Music Hall in the mid-90s was something else. Located on the Ohio State University campus in Columbus, it was, and still is, a staple venue for any national touring band on its way up, and it’s where I saw the majority of shows in my formative years.

My older brothers and I practically lived there and we saw some life changers - Bad Religion on their Stranger than Fiction tour (super rough pit), The Reverend Horton Heat every six months (like clockwork), the Foo Fighters on their first tour when people were just yelling at Dave Grohl to play Nirvana songs (he did NOT take it in stride), but there’s one that stands out above all; and that would be Tool.

Maynard and the fellas were touring the Ænima album and had not yet graduated to arenas, so in November of 1996 they rolled through town and absolutely blew the doors off the place. I think the only other show I saw that was louder was the Deftones, and I still maintain my cumulative hearing loss stems from that one.

Regardless, it was a good time to be 16 years old and angsty. Grungy grunge was in full swing, the industrial scene was freaky (incidentally, Nine Inch Nails’ The Downward Spiral tour was my first show ever), and my brothers and I were huge fans of Tool but hadn’t seen them live yet. Now I had made the comment earlier that they hadn’t graduated to arenas, but they certainly already had that ‘arena’ sound and the Newport’s capacity is only 1,700. They were loud and intense and I think Maynard had fake boobs on. The crowd was ravenous.

I’m only three months into being 16, I’m 5’6” on a good day and 150 pounds that’s including my tough-guy chain wallet, and I’m smack dab in the middle of THE most aggressive pit that’s chock-full of ACTUAL tough guys. My one brother, Mick, loved a good pit, but he’s a bigger dude. I was more of a ‘pit adjacent’ guy and given my, ahem, petite carriage, I became a natural crowd surfer. I wasn’t going to dare try it at this show though as it was way too dangerous. I thought, “I’ll hang out at the back, still on the floor, but out of harm’s way.” Yeah well, the impetuousness of youth got me, and I flung myself into the middle of the scrum. It did not work out well.

I held my own for a couple songs but when “Hooker with a Penis” (yup) started, it happened… BAM! Knocked unconscious. Apparently, as I was being tossed back and forth like a voodoo doll in a washing machine, my head came into direct contact with the windmilling combat boot of a crowd surfer. All this was told to me by the incredibly nice, baldheaded shitkicker that pulled me off the ground and got me to safety. Well, ‘incredibly’ nice is a stretch; I think he said something like, “Stay off the floor you dumb fuck!”

There I was, sitting up against the wall on the side of the club by the door that lets you outside to smoke, bleeding, ears ringing, head exploding, “Undertow” playing on amps turned up to 11, no clue where my brothers are, and suddenly the reality of how bad it could have been starts to set in. ‘I could have been stomped to death’ I thought.

I would like to say I shook the pain off like old Chucky Bronson, but a tear or three was shed that night. Partly because of the pain, but mostly it was because I was freaked the fuck out. And the soundtrack to this lunacy was Tool, so you know, that didn’t help.

Eventually I found Mick and our other brother Jeff, dusted myself off for the encore and lived to get my ass kicked at other Newport concerts (like the aforementioned Bad Religion show). So sorry, bald guy who arguably saved my life that wild November night thirty years ago. I probably should have taken your advice, but dang it, I can’t live without passion.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

It was a cool damp night, April 17. The year was 2014 and the western world was enjoying one of its last foreseeable halcyon periods. The air smelled of fresh spring rain as the Nashville streets of Lower Broadway buzzed with pedestrians. The sounds of classic rock sing-alongs escaped from the sides of the historic brick buildings and honkytonks echoing up the hill as we marched toward our destination: Bridgestone Arena, to see the one and only Bruce Springsteen.

The lights dim as the E Street Band takes the stage. But, there is an unusual character amongst them: Rage Against The Machine’s resident riffer, Tom Morello. A name certain to evoke strong emotions, such as the tried and true, “he should keep politics out of it” or “he just makes noises on the guitar!” However, even his detractors have to admit that Morello has been one of the most innovative guitarists since Eddie Van Halen or Randy Rhoads. As he wandered on stage that night, I couldn’t help but think, ‘this ought to be interesting.’

Indeed, interesting it was. Now I must confess once upon a time in my youth, as my folks ran through classics like “Born to Run” or “Thunder Road”, I didn’t immediately understand it.

“But he didn’t sing higher or play heavier like Sabbath or Zeppelin," I’d offered.

It wasn’t until Nashville, the city where songwriting is an official sport, where I finally ‘got it’. The words, the stories, the images; left to the imagination, it’s as if there’s a movie unfolding in front of you narrated by the song.

That warm spring night, the legends ripped through classics like “Badlands”, “Hungry Heart” and “I’m on Fire”… But there was one unexpected moment, nearly 18 songs in, that swept the entire arena off their feet: “The Ghost of Tom Joad”.

I wasn’t surprised to see Morello singing as he’d covered “The Ghost of Tom Joad” with The Nightwatchman before Springsteen heard it and invited him to record a new version together. The reason it was unexpected was because this was not a particularly well-known Springsteen track. It was never played during political rallies, football games or dances. Instead, “The Ghost of Tom Joad” was released at the height of the grunge era, and somehow with its laid-back feel and unpolished honesty, wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York.

As they started the song with the lights nearly blacked out, I could tell it was going to be a particularly powerful version. As their voices traded back and forth, the tension in the room was palpable. Finally, as Morello leaned away from the mic, with his guitar flying through the air, a screaming solo soars through the arena like a siren. Morello forcefully rips the chord out of his guitar, quickly smashing it against his hand in rhythm with the E Street Band, manipulating the pitch with his trusty Whammy pedal. At this point, and for the frst time in my life, tears began to roll down my face. I was taken aback by what was happening. I had literally never heard sounds like this in my life. I had even seen Morello play this very same room before with Prophets of Rage.

That night was different though. Morello didn’t play any other solos during the nearly three hour set. He didn’t take center stage. This was his one chance. His one moment. It was all or nothing. And as he tore through his blue Arm the Homeless guitar, strings flailing with facial expressions of pure agony, I knew I had just witnessed history. As I wiped those tears away, I felt the bittersweet sting that music really can change your life.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab

Before you start reading, I will make one ask of you. Put on some music as you read what I have to say. Something that takes you back to your days as a teenager; maybe an album or artist that brought you comfort through hard times. (Or perhaps the official The Time I Cried At A Show playlist? Check it out below!)

Upon moving to the United States from England, one of the first bands I discovered was Twenty One Pilots. Their unconventional blend of the alternative sound and rap was new and exciting to me. I listened to each of their albums until I knew them inside and out.

My first record player was a tacky Crosley Cruiser from Urban Outfitters. I had Vessel (2013) spinning almost every night. The first time I heard “Car Radio”, my teenage brain decided that it was going to latch onto this band as if it were a life raft and this transitional period in my life were white waters. Something about the desperation in Tyler Joseph’s voice, his simultaneous control and chaos in his screams, resonated with me as I plummeted into severe mental health issues. I would later credit the band - at least in part - to saving my life.

My favorite album by Twenty One Pilots came in 2018 with Trench. I was enraptured by its lyrical mastery and narrative, the immense production value and the accompanying music videos. Joseph co-produced the album with Paul Meany of Mutemath. The two created the most titanic sonic landscape. It was a hulking step up from their previous album, Blurryface (2015). I loved it and it remains one of my favorite records out of the 230+ in my collection.

Thus, the time I cried at a concert was when I saw the duo play in Anaheim with a friend from high school. It was on their tour for Trench, and the whole stadium was adorned with yellow accents. I wore a yellow bandana, with yellow gaff tape strapped to my jacket. This album had a lot of cryptic lore to it, but essentially, the yellow was our unifying identifier as the audience or “banditos”. The tears started to fall as the show reached its terminus with the song “Trees”. It was this intense cacophony of bittersweet emotion of the show ending, gratitude to the band and the understanding that I had survived. I was certain I wouldn’t make it past the age of 16, that I would in one way or another succumb to my mental health issues. But I was standing beside my friend, alive and well, encompassed by this unfamiliar combination of awe at the stunning music and showmanship, and a behemoth blend of gratitude, relief and love.

I couldn’t tell you whether those tears were happy tears or sad tears or something else entirely. The best way I can describe them is the tears of release. I think it is both fitting and unsurprising that the time I cried at a concert was watching the band that shepherded me through some of the hardest times in my life.

Photo courtesy of Dana Gorab