A memo from me: This really should have gone up yesterday, because yesterday was the official holiday. But I was sick and having dreams about Robert Reed (moustache years) and woke up certain that I needed to watch my tape of The Brady Girls Get Married. The tape also contains several episodes of the ill-fated and ill-advised sitcom based on the two hour movie event that was The Brady Girls Get Married. So obviously, I was too tired and goofy to actually get out of bed and type this up, so you'll just have to wish everyone a belated September 24th. Which will be explained if you continue reading.
It started with a phone call. A mean phone call. Somewhere in the summer of 1986, my mom answered the phone, someone asked for me, and I got on the line. Two girls said, in a very snotty tone of voice, "We're going to the a-ha concert!" and hung up. I could only conclude two things. One, it must have been the girls who had been my friends until they decided to pass fully and unexpectedly, leaving me with no friends for the summer. They suck. Two, a-ha was coming to town! "Mom! a-ha is coming to town!"
I immediately called The Connection for more info. The Connection was the original live operator movie phone, concert hotline, yellow pages, and everything else you would ever need in one easy to remember phone number. You could call and ask them to read off all of the concerts coming for the next month, and they would. The Connection ruled.
So, a-ha was indeed coming to town. I had to go! But, I was twelve. That meant I had to go with someone. Oh, no. I had to go with my mom. My one hip relative was busy that night, so I was stuck with my mom. But that's okay, I was going to a-ha! (You know, my mom was only thirty-two at the time. That's only four years older than I am now. It never fails to impress me that parents are never, ever cool. No matter what.)
Anyway, my mom and I rode our bikes over to Great American Music to buy our tickets. This was back in the days when you went to the record store, and they had actual hard copy tickets right there in the store. They had a map with highlighted areas. The highlighted areas were the seats they actually had, right there for my enjoyment. In those days, you were not doomed to whatever the system decided was the best seat for you. The helpful record store employee would point out which seats they had left, and which might be the best for me. The tickets were $13 each. No service charge, no facility fees, no mystery fees. $13 for an evening of quality Norwegian pop.
So I went to the show and had a great time. The pictures of me from that night are pure eighties. Check out my hat and, oh, I can't even describe it. It's not good. I still have the concert program and the t-shirt. Unfortunately, I can't wear the shirt. I can wear the Poison shirt from eighth grade, but a-ha is from sixth grade, and that is a whole different story. I tried it on recently, and I could wear it out, I just don't know if I should. My stomach has never seen the sun, and could blind the likes of the Pirate or CEB if they were ever to see it. I had reached my full height by eighth grade. The a-ha shirt is for someone about five or six inches shorter than I am. On the other hand, I am sure CEB and the Pirate have sunglasses. They will just have to cope with my pasty skin.
I don't really have any great a-ha concert story. The whole point of my story is that September 24th, 1986 was my first concert, and it happened to be a-ha. And every year on the 24th of September, I point out the importance of the date to my mom. So now September 24th is an official Rocksnobs holiday. Its working title could be, "Celebrate your first concert day," or something, but I don't find that to be so very flashy. So instead, I will just call it September 24th, and you will just know that you should celebrate your first concert. Be sure to tell lots of people your own story of cheap ticket prices and bad souvenirs. It's fun! Happy (belated) September 24th.