The RPI Armory, like all those other old urban fortresses scattered throughout the region, is pretty neat. Driving past it today brought me on a nice trip down memory lane...
I think the four of us were sophomores in high school, but one of us was a year older because he had taken a year off for sports-related reasons. In fcat, he might have been the world's first red shirt athlete. But his value to us on this spring night was the fact he had a driver's license --and wheels.
The destination: Troy, of all places. I doubt that any us had ever been to the Collar City prior -- the thought of going down there had even freaked our parents out a bit. But there was a rock and roll show to be had, a triple bill at that. When you are were a teenager back in our day, nothing could stop you from paying homage the Boogie Monster.
That's when I got my first glimpse of the aforementioned Armory--at the time it was actually called the Troy Armory. I still recall pulling up to the building; somehow getting a parking spot right in front of the joint. I then proceeded to collapse on the front lawn, sick to my stomach and moaning in agony.
No, it wasn't a medical problem, nor was it an overindulgence in the cheap beer we were often accused of indulging in. Instead, I was suffering from my introduction to the high class world of cigar smoking. Being it was just that -- my introduction -- I was unaware of the fact that you were not supposed to actually suck the stogie into your lungs as you would a cigarette. Which I did, all the way down the Northway. So there I lay: Welcome to Troy, you dumb ass.
My buddies had been smoking a different substance, and everything was a hilarious big joke to them. Especially me. I guess you had to be there.
I think the four of us were sophomores in high school, but one of us was a year older because he had taken a year off for sports-related reasons. In fcat, he might have been the world's first red shirt athlete. But his value to us on this spring night was the fact he had a driver's license --and wheels.
The destination: Troy, of all places. I doubt that any us had ever been to the Collar City prior -- the thought of going down there had even freaked our parents out a bit. But there was a rock and roll show to be had, a triple bill at that. When you are were a teenager back in our day, nothing could stop you from paying homage the Boogie Monster.
That's when I got my first glimpse of the aforementioned Armory--at the time it was actually called the Troy Armory. I still recall pulling up to the building; somehow getting a parking spot right in front of the joint. I then proceeded to collapse on the front lawn, sick to my stomach and moaning in agony.
No, it wasn't a medical problem, nor was it an overindulgence in the cheap beer we were often accused of indulging in. Instead, I was suffering from my introduction to the high class world of cigar smoking. Being it was just that -- my introduction -- I was unaware of the fact that you were not supposed to actually suck the stogie into your lungs as you would a cigarette. Which I did, all the way down the Northway. So there I lay: Welcome to Troy, you dumb ass.
My buddies had been smoking a different substance, and everything was a hilarious big joke to them. Especially me. I guess you had to be there.
But young bodies are good at speedy recoveries, and I was up and about in twenty or so minutes. Just in time to catch the last half of the opening act--some guy that had just left one of my favoriye bands a tthe time --Humble Pie -- to go solo. Some guy named Peter Frampton, who would go on to make quite a bit of noise some years later.
Mr Frampton served as good support for the headline act--The J. Geils Band--who my friends and I were realy getting into that spring. This was their Full House tour, so we likely caught these Boston bad boys at their very peak.
But it was the middle act, that looking back, was the most intriguing of the show, from an historical perspective at least. John McGlaughlin and the Mahavishnu Orchestra came on stage and proceeded to fill the old room with a cacophany of electic noise that our virgin ears never heard before. Electric violins screeching, synthesizers wailing, drums pounding and a rapid fire guitar that pierced through the air. Crazy stuff--we just looked at each other and asked one another "what the hell is this shit?"
After the show, we hit that joint with the famous mini hot dogs. Inside was an old drunken Irish townie yelling about all the hippoies roaming the streets that night. Waiting in line next to me was one of those hippie types, a young guy tthat went on to tell me how "blown away" he was by Mahavishnu, calling it "the most incredible piece of music I've ever experienced in my life." I didn't get it, and told him so. He seemed offended.
Looking back reminds me of how we are apt to change our outlooks and opinions on certain bands. Like: "how the hell could I listen to that shit?" (ex: the aforementioned Humble Pie). Or: "Now there's someone I didn't appreciate back then that I sure do now" (as in Mahavishnu).
So, here's a belated message to that guy in the hot dog shop in Troy, albeit thirty years too late:
"Right on brother."
