Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Jan. 28, 1976)
Wednesday, January 23, 1976
"Photo by Ktvln Higtfy
Mick Jagger in concert in Kansas City last June
during the Rolling Stones Tour of the Americas 75.
Continued from p. 6
Susan Scorpio was addicted to concert meccas. Surpris
ingly, this was the first time she had heard the Stones. She
had hit Elton John, Led Zeppelin, George Harrison-al-most
every other major tour that had passed through in
the last three years.
If only she had been at a Woodstock, Altamont, Con
cert for Bangladesh. Any of the landmark concerts in rock
history would do. She would then be more than a spect
ator, she would be part of a historical event. Instant
status. So, Susan goes to as many as she can, hoping one
will ignite into something that transcends music.
Susan's husband was having a tough time, his head
hopelessly addled by an opiumcocainesun combination.
Taking center stage among freak buddies, he showed them
his scars. "Vietnam," he said, indicating seams criss-crossing
The Vietnam war officially had ended. Already, the'
MIAs, the refugees, anything reminiscent of the mess,
were passe ... out of sight, out of mind. The canyons of
division caused by a 15-year abomination have magically
But this stoned freak knew better; he had his gnarled
seams as proof that the ugliness lives on. So, he did as an
Ayn Rand hero would do. He laughed.
4 pjn.: Bob Stewart of Des Moines, Iowa, was teed. He
was standing on the second blanket to the left, his lips and
teeth flipping off explosive fricatives. The band Rufushad
started to play,' Stewart was jumping onto the boogie
express, when-WHACKt!-a Frisbee nailed him below the
When Wham-0 unleashed the discus for home consum
ption, it created a symbol of summer, and, an instrument
with -hidden boomerang potential. It brought out the
venality in man.
Nobody likes to be clouted by one of these things. But
then again, no one lets a Frisbee lie.
So Stewart grabbed the Frisbee-it was OK, nobody
was watching-yeowled with pain and hurled the thing
with as much fury as a 5'9" frame can muster. Maybe it
hit the next person as hard as it hit him.
7:45 pjn.: It began: Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the
Common Man" . . . thousands strained for the moment
. . . out they came, Mick last, wearing the striped baseball
uniform-like outfit . : . Wc fought for the binoculars . . .
Richard started "Honky Tonk Woman" . . . The boogie
machine roared with Satisfaction . . . And Jagger began
strutting, waving, clapping.
For the next two hours, nothing else mattered as
53,000 persons forgot fatigue and sweat and lost them
selves to a force that could only be felt, not understood.
The next morning over greasy omelets we read the list
of casualties in the Kansas City Times: over 600 treated at
the first aid station: three hospitalized, surprisingly, none
for drug overdose; temperatures had hit 130 degrees on
the playing field.
"I don't think I'll ever complain about anything
again," S'wanski moaned. "IH just look back on this, then
nothing will seem so bad."
"We sound like a groups of diehards from the Veterans
Hospital talking about the war and trying to convince
themselves it was worthwhile," Craig said. .
On the way back to Lincoln Sunday evening, we stop
ped at the La Grande Cafe in Marysville, Kan., to wash
down Mexican food with Coors. S'wanski and I ordered
the hot sauce, which we assumed was midway between
mild and superhit.
Mid-tostado it hit us ... a thousand hot pepper scrub
brushes eat our lips. We dashed out, slobbering toward a
grocery store to snatch up a catalog of home remedies.
Gum, water, beer . . . nothing worked. We chug-a-lugged
to Lincoln, alternatively pressing ice packs to our lips and
swigging Coo rsl
It has been three weeks since I first sat in my kitchen
and watched my backyard. I've recovered, almost-the
rainbow bruises on my legs have healed, my sunburn has
faded into a farmer's tan (the line of demarcation between
t-shirt sleeves and skin), the dentist refilled my cratered
molar for nothing, and, although I don't understand it, I
found my right contact.
I had removed my one and only contact, replaced it
. . . something was still wrong. I took out my contact
again, and, there it was, my right contact, sitting on top
of the left one. I have no idea how it got there. Maybe it's
a sign. Things are going to pick up.
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