McCartney World Tour

Paul McCartney World Tour

When the ticket sales were announced on the radio, I vowed to get to the concert. The tickets turned to scalper prices quickly, but I got one. It cost over $100. This was in the late 1980s, and concert ticket prices continue to rise still. I didn't have a boyfriend at the time, but decided it wasn't necessary to have a date to go where I could manage to get myself. I would see Paul McCartney!

I possess all the American released albums of the Beatles. I own a lot of their individual albums too. I never parted with any albums, even as many times as I've moved. The largest weight of any move is always the albums and books. Music is important to me, a part of my life that's precise, filling each void emotion. There is a song to cure each of my many moods. I admit to being partial to classic rock. When classic rock wasn't topping the charts anymore, I found my solace in old albums. I don't know how many I have, but the two storage boxes the albums are in each weigh over 100 pounds. I hate to think how much money I spent investing in music. But I still have my original vinyl albums, and many I've gathered from eBay.

In the 1980s, I invested in an expensive German made Bang-Olfson turntable. Turntables were the staple to play vinyl, in the days before CDs came along. My albums would never skip, even when I did aerobics on the hardwood floor, on a pier and beam foundation. My music system was very good for its time. During the 18 months it took for CDs to replace albums, I cringed and vowed never to change to CDs.

I finally adjusted my perspective when there were no new albums to buy in the stores, no vinyl albums at all. Only in the late 90s did I attempt to begin replacing some of my albums with CDs. It was an impossible task, but I had to have access to my music. CD was the only venue. The turntable broke, and there were no turntables to be found in the stores where I lived then, in south Texas. Words of wisdom: Life is not quality when you can't be your own dics jockey.

What this proves is that once I get an idea into my head, it takes a big deal to change it. I wasn't going to miss this concert, because each time the classic rockers tour, it could always be the last time I'd be around to see them. Not many entertainers go far south of Dallas. I'd seen the Stones and David Bowie at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas.. I knew I'd soon be moving from the big city of Dallas, Texas, where tours often track. Paul, Linda, and the band were going to perform here, and I had my ticket.

Dallas is a giant traffic octypus, with multitudes of freeways enabling a person to get anywhere if they follow the right trail. I hate driving distances, the kind that would be necessary to get to the stadium in Irving where the Cowboys play football from my little place in East Dallas. Knowing that I have a poor sense of direction, I worked on my courage as the Saturday of the concert finally arrived.

I'd heard a tale of McCartney tickets being stolen from a car, so I hid mine discretely in my home, in a shoebox in the top of my closet. I hatched a plan that I was sure was fail safe. The date was October 7, 1990, when the weather is cooler rather than hotter in Texas. The actual chill of winter hadn't arrived yet. I spent hours in my closet, trying come up with the outfit I'd wear to see Paul. I was sure I could go to the concert by myself without much problem. What could happen?

The afternoon of the concert, I grabbed my specially packed suitcase, It contained a black fleece dress, a nightshirt, a toothbrush, and a change of undies. My make up and my little red spray bottle of "Lauren" perfume were within, in their own little case.

The sun was shining on the drive to the motel room I'd reserved in Irving near the stadium. After about an hour of driving the route I'd traced in yellow pencil on the map, I arrived at a motel that sounded better in the telephone book than it looked from the outside. It wasn't actually bad. It was just a small multi-unit motel across the freeway from the stadium. It probably had lots of people to stay there and go to the stadium. I should have no trouble getting there by cab. I could see the top of the stadium, with the fancy problem hole in the roof, out of my motel window.

I drew myself a hot bath of bubbles, and opened a bottle of champagne that I had iced down in the trunk of the car during the drive. My black/brown mascara, brown eyeliner, sable eye pencil, body powder, and face powder were all laid out on the counter under the big bathroom mirror. I sprayed some "Lauren" in my long reddish brown hair, putting it up in rollers before I got in the tub.

I grabbed my cigarette lighter, lit a candle, and a joint, and settled into the tub overflowing with bubbles onto the floor. I relaxed a lot of tension that had built up, and at the same time the real excitement began. I was practically there. I would be at a Paul McCartney concert, in actual throwing distance from Paul McCartney himself. And I was sipping champagne in bubles in a foreign tub. I was enjoying the moment.

Finally I got out of the tub, dried off, and began the routine make up application. I took my hair out of the rollers, and brushed it to a nice shoulder length bounce of waves, and put on my black fleece dress. I put on my big sweater with pockets, and called for the cab. The bottle of champagne was empty when the cab arrived.

Some things are just out of my control at this point. My timetable was already off. Although I could see the stadium, the driver took a dozen roads and turns before we arrived at the stadium area where he dropped me off. People, in droves like cattle, were rushing from the outskirts of parking toward the huge stadium. I joined the crowd, taking quite a long walk at an increasing pace. I almost ran, and was dismayed to hear Paul's voice filling the place as soon as I got in the doors. He began punctually. It was only a couple of minutes after 8:00 pm. When you're Paul McCartney, you don't need a warm up band. My heartbeat almost filled my ears over the loud song which I recognized so well that I was singing under my breath. Most everyone was already in their seats. I had a clear path of the stadium outer ring at that point. Everybody was watching the concert shop, and I was dragging along shopping.

I paused to buy a t shirt from a vendor on my way to mine. It was a simple white tee shirt, with a map of North America on one side, and "McCartney World Tour" on the other. It also had PETA information, as during this period Linda had Paul involved with ending cruelty to animals, which PETA so infamously does. It was printed crooked on white t-shirt material that was woven crooked. It was still a momento for years. Eventually I enjoyed dusting with it.

I refer to PETA as infamous because their efforts to gain attention are so extreme, and sometimes hurt the wrong people, in my opinion. The Iams Corporation provided some funding for the new "Dog Park" at White Rock Lake, here in town. It was there PETA promoted a "doggie-in" to protest Iams' use of animals in research for what kind of food sources offer the best nourishment. Research is a whole other subject. But, I felt like they were biting the hand that feeds them to make a point. However, I digress.

My seat was about a third of the way back from the stage, on the right hand side, about half way up.

There he was: the hair, dark brown with little silver glints, stylishly just above the collar, but still able to shake it on the "ooohs;" a zebra striped black and white shirt, and the voice I'd known since I was a kid. "Oh Wow!" Blonde Linda was behind the piano. I could actually see him, though I could see him a lot better on the screen. I gave in and put on my glasses so as not to miss anything. Paul wouldn't notice me.

The concert lasted about two hours, with Paul singing songs he'd released since the end of the Beatles. "Live and Let Die" was complete with fireworks shooting from both sides of the stage. Pyrotechnic king, you might say.

"We're going to shake it up a bit now. If you want to sing or dance in the aisles, go right ahead," Paul said before beginning "Twist and Shout." We all did. Nobody had any inhibitions. The entire place was rocking like it was 1964 in Shea Stadium, except you could see and hear what was going on.

"Hey Jude" was indeed a spiritual experience. McCartney encouraged the audience to sing the "la la" part in sections: right, left, middle, girls, and men, each filled the tremendous stadium with the simple familiar tune. I was sad that I was experiencing something so wonderful, but wouldn't have a friend to talk about it with when the show was over. The two hours flew by, and after the encore, Paul and the band left the stage for the night.

The crowd began to leave, milling about until security encourage those remaining behind to get the heck out so that they could lock the doors on the event. I made a last trip to the ladies' room, and floated out into the dark of the night, still high from the experience, rather than the marijuana that had surfaced in my section before the last song had been sung.

The parking lot was well lit, meaning that the lighting overcame the darkness of the hour, and the crowds had begun to wander off in their separate directions. I looked, but saw nothing familiar. Because I had been relishing the end of the experience, I hadn't called for a cab before I exited the vestibule of the huge complex. This was before most adults had the technology of a cell phone. They were very big then, in size, if you knew someone who had one, kind of a thing. I couldn't even find a bank of pay phones. I was walking and walking, and I know already I have no God given sense of direction. I was walking for a long way, covering distance, but I didn't know which direction I needed to go, or which way I was going. There were still people around, and we were all walking. We were out of the stadium lights by now

"Well, I've got on my walking shoes, and it's not that cold," I said to myself, following a crowd that looked like they knew where they were going. I followed the group of a couple of dozen people all the way across the huge parking lot, onto a dirt embankment that led to what I thought was the other side of the freeway. It was the other side of the freeway, but not the freeway I needed. I hadn't realized my position was directly between two well-traveled freeways. My motel room was along one freeway, but not that freeway.

By now, an hour after the end of the concert, most people had found their cars and left. I found another group of people to follow, finally realizing, once again. I wasn't where I needed to bein order to walk back to my hotel room. It wasn't what I'd expected to deal with on foot. I hadn't even taken a good look at the map of Irving that day.

I went a third direction, and a forth direction, and there was no motel, and still nothing familiar. By now, it was close to midnight, and I was walking through what seemed a poor but quiet neighborhood. Since there was absolutely no one around, I dug a half a joint out of my sweater pocket, and smoked as I wandered down the dark residental street. It was one of those cozy old neighborhoods where large trees cast long willowy shadows. I was no longer in a hurry, because I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do. I kept walking, making forward motion even if I had been walking in circles. Okay, I was fucking lost, without a clue, and smoking a joint on the street in a strange part of town. However, I was relaxed, like one of those fools God alwys sends Guardian angels. There were no pay phones or any convenience stores in the neighborhood through which I was walking.

The aura of excitement from the concert was slowly slipping away with time, and I watched each shadow, expecting someone to step out of the darkness of the night and grab me.

I had finished smoking my left handed cigarette when a police car drove by. They doubled back, and pulled the squad car over in my path. I quickly snuffed the fire of my smoke, and stuffed it in my big wooly sweater pocket. Just because I was high, I didn't have to be a fool.

"What are you doing walking by yourself in the dark?" the officers asked from their car, inquisitive and politely. It was dark, but they didn't shine a light on me when they first spotted me. What can I say; the concert was over but I still looked pretty good.

I explained my dilemma. I had walked and walked. I wasn't where I needed to be. I was lost in the dark. And then they found me.

I take back anything I've ever said in a negative way about police in general. The officers invited me to sit in the back of the squad car, and they gave me a ride back to my motel. I left doubly blessed. I'd not only been saved from being lost in the dark, but also they delivered me right to where I had intended to return. I felt a little guilty on the ride back to the hotel when, my hands in my sweater pocket, my fingers found that roach that hadn't been all smoked.

Four hours after the end of the concert, I was in my motel room, changed from my bulky fleece and wool ensemble, and safely in my bed for the night. I smoked that last joint, saying a prayer to thank God for keeping me safe from myself in my stupidity.

The tee shirt didn't hold up as well as the memories of the night. It was a very thin cotton shirt, and the first time I washed it, the whole thing shifted so that the sides wanted to be in the front. So I wore it sideways, until the printing was so faded that you couldn't read what it ever was, but I knew.

The tee shirt eventually became a special dust cloth, and though I never threw it away, somehow it's gone now. I do still get mail from PETA, because all those many years ago I wanted to belong to something Paul supported, and Linda too. Despite their extreme publicity events, PETA does make a positive difference. I think of the concert when I send them an annual contribution. It does my heart good.

Remembering going from the spiritual serenity and peace of a sold out stadium singing the verses of "Hey Jude" in somewhat perfect harmony, to the fear and hopelessness of being lost in the dark, then being rescued like Cinderella, whisked back home in a pumpkin coach, the Paul McCartney World Tour of 1990 is an evening I will never forget.