I was thinking about going to see the Throwing Muses once but didn’t because I didn’t want to drive from Fort Collins to Boulder. A year after the fact I talked to a guy who did go and he said it was the best show he’d ever been to.
I once worked with a guy who had the chance to see Nirvana but didn’t because he was going to catch them when they came around in the summer and then Cobain committed suicide.
I once took the day off from work to go see the Screaming Trees. (I was working nights.) Go to the venue and they had cancelled. I guess they could be hit or miss but supposedly when they were *on* they were amazing.
In March the Voice ran a cover story titled “Why We Hate the Subways,” and everyone had their own tales. Me, I’d been mugged on trains a few times, twice at knifepoint, coming home from Manhattan shows alone at night. But the worst was in May, when I was stuck on a broken-down E train for an hour en route to the Port Authority Bus Terminal to meet a girl I was cross-eyed crushed-out on. She had tickets to see the Grateful Dead five hours north that night, at Cornell University’s Barton Hall. When I finally arrived, the girl and the bus—the last Ithaca run of the day—were gone. I was more upset about missing the girl. But in time, via magnetic tape, Barton Hall 5/8/77 would enter Dead lore as arguably the single greatest show the band ever played. Fucking subway.
Hermes, Will. Love Goes to Buildings on Fire