Ah, yessss....I remember my first time at Merriweather: The Cars, 1984. What a show. "Heartbeat City" had just hit the racks and the venue was packed to the gills. On the drive up, me and my special lady friend jammed to Ray Parker Jr.'s "Ghostbusters," which was tearing up the airwaves that season. We split a six of Mickey's Big Mouths, tossing the pull tabs into the moist summer wind. The shackles were off alright, the gimp was released and a primordial tension unfolded in front of me. I was on my way to see THE CARS!!! I donâ??t think I was aware of it, I was so jacked. They have that ability to draw you inâ?¦through the often hypnotic pulse of the music, or just the compelling interaction of Okasek and his subordinates (don't kid yerself, Ben Orr was just a hired hand). Anyway, we had to park in a distant corn field, where we enjoyed a brief tussle in the tassles. We pushed our way through the teeming throngs to the Post. Back then, everything was made of wood at M-Weather and wow, it smelled fantastic after the sweet summer rains. The opening act, who was, I shit you not, Wang Chung, were just exiting the stage. My lady and I downed a couple of stadium sized Millers and grooved to the summer's other big smash â?? "Owner of A Lonely Heart"â?? over the soundsystem for what seemed like an enternity until suddenly...the lights went out, the roar went up and the anticipation was like the moment before your lover drops his or her last remaining shred of decency in the boudoirâ?¦simple aweâ?¦dangerous, completely on the edge of the cliff, dangling over the precipice, in fact teasing the precipice and even letting go but never completely falling into the void. Hovering about it and giving it the middle finger and farting in its face. I never understood until much later how important tension was to the creative processâ?¦pisses you off, makes you chip your teeth as you grit, pulls back the layer and exposes the anger but then relieves you of it. Yes, it was the Cars, live and in person. The hits flowed, Okasek bobbed his head as if feigning attention, the drums plodded in a singsong rhythm and I felt as if I was indeed getting a delicious, stolen handjob from my best friend's girl. One after the other the songs knocked me back down, like trying to survive in a rough sea, gasping, swimming and pulling toward the surface, the sheer force of pop genius would not let me up. I think it was during "Candy-O" when I finally passed out for good. When I came to, my special lady friend and Greg Hawkes were engaged in a white-hot game of Parchessi (my gal down to her Jordache and a pair of elbow-length gloves), while Okasek tried to bring me around by blasting the first Suicide album and drooling in my ear. I tell 'ya, seeing Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds debut later that year paled in comparison. Drive...
