In early 1993, Dinosaur Jr played Binghamton University (Mandela Room, for those who know it). My friend Gayle was working hospitality and recruited me and my three suitemates to work security. Previous shows had drawn rowdy high schoolers, so they wanted extra bodies. I had no experience — just the promise of a free ticket, a cool security tag, and my first GA show.
At the venue, we got our assignments. The head of security put five of us on stage, crouched in front of the band to manage crowd surfers. At the time, I didn't realize how weird this was — I've never seen anything like it since.
The rules were simple: if someone surfed to the stage, they had to dive off immediately. If they lingered, we'd "help" them off. Things ran smoothly at first, but then one diver landed badly, gashed his face, and all bets were off. Security decided no one else could reach the stage. The crowd did not take this well. They heckled the band — "Dinosaur Jr, don't you like your fans?" — and turned their anger toward us.
The security guard next to me, Ron, was especially hot-tempered, and tensions escalated. Eventually, a fan grabbed Ron and yanked him into the pit. Bad idea. Ron went down swinging, absolutely demolishing the kid who pulled him in. Another guard and I rushed to haul Ron back up — unclear whether we were saving him or saving the fan from further damage. The chaos ended only when the set did. Dinosaur Jr walked off to a chorus of boos, seemingly unaware of the mini-riot unfolding at their feet.
Despite the madness, I fell in love with the small-show, GA format that night. Even though I don't particularly like being in crowds, nothing matches the energy of being immersed in live music. A big part of why I stay engaged with new music is to keep chasing that feeling — to keep finding times where the music and the moment collide in amazing and unpredictable ways.