Piped music suddenly stops. The screen, only moments ago blazing brightly with instructions for song requests at tonight’s show, flickers to black. And the stadium lights fall dark. My heart races and my feet are already itching to dance. I know what’s about to happen, I’ve seen this all before. But, around me, no one moves.
No one, that is, except my travelling companion, who’s already jumping and jiving down by the stage. She sprinted there as soon as the lights dimmed. But that doesn’t seem to interest anyone.
Especially when words that look entirely too biblical start flashing on the screen at the back of the stage. Somewhere behind me, a baffled husband mutters, ‘I’m not here for a sermon.’
Except, he is. At least if you ask the twenty or so returning fans I can recognise from dozens of other Bryan Adams concerts we’ve all been to.
And I use the term ‘dozens’ loosely. I don’t count out the number of shows I’ve been to anymore. Firstly, because I just don’t. Who can be bothered? Secondly, because who cares? Thirdly, can I even remember them all?
Sort of, maybe, yeah, but nah.
Bryan Adams Hasn’t Heard Of You Either
If the crowd at last week’s concert was anything to go by, I need to introduce anyone under the age of forty to Bryan Adams.
Singer, song-writer, philanthropist, and photographer, Bryan Adams has been part of the music world since … let’s call them the mid-Seventies. He fronted Sweeney Todd after the departure of Nick Gilder, aged just fifteen. By eighteen, he’d signed with Bruce Allen’s A&M records for the grand sum of $1. Imagine that. One whole dollar was all it took to inflict all this on the world.
And by inflict, I mean share his talent. Adams’ self-titled debut album was released in 1980, followed quickly by You Want It, You Got It. That album was originally titled Bryan Adams Hasn’t Heard Of You Either and, frankly, they should have kept it. Now, both of these albums were great, but nothing really stuck to the charts until 1983’s Cuts Like A Knife.
In late 1984, we were gifted Reckless. With bangers such as Summer of ’69, Run To You, and Long Gone, Reckless was the first album by a Canadian artist to go Diamond. To give you an idea of how big that is, Adams toured for two years off the back of this album alone. Solid stuff for the mid-80s where, in a sea of hair-metal bands, he’d roll up to the stage in jeans and a t-shirt.
Into The Fire, a wholly more political album, flew under the radar in the late Eighties and, once Mutt Lange was done with Def Leppard’s Hysteria, he jumped on board the Waking Up The Neighbours production team.
Radio listeners were bombarded with Bryan Adams during 1991 - 1994. His song, Everything I Do I Do It For You from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves spread like tinea at the local swimming pool. That itchy ear-worm sold a whopping 16 million units alone and kept lovers enraptured for months at the top of worldwide music charts.
Seriously, ask your mum about Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and the terror that soundtrack inflicted on people. RIP Michael Kamen.
And, because that’s the bulk of what you need to know about Bryan Adams, I’m going to leave the history lesson there. Everything post-Waking Up The Neighbours, while not the runaway success of its predecessor, has been solid, enduring, and the soundtrack to my life. On A Day Like Today is a criminally underrated album, and I dare you not to love I Thought I’d Seen Everything - which was my Bryan Adams Wedding Song of Choice.
While he’s dabbled with styles over the years, his value as an artist hasn’t changed. If you want a good time, dial 555-Please Forgive Me.
With that in mind, the changes I’ve seen over my twenty years of touring have me fascinated. They’ve kind of crept up on me and, this year, with this tour, I’ve really enjoyed reliving the moments that have made this part of my life special. My love for Adams and his music has been an ongoing, long-lasting All For Love-fest that started when I was about eleven years old. I slipped into the fandom at the perfect time - right on the release of the greatest hits. I am a late bloomer, after all.
But it wasn’t until I was fourteen that I finally got to a live performance. February 10th, 1997 - if we want to be precise. Somewhere in all my moving boxes I probably still have an old newspaper advertisement from that period. Tickets on sale from BASS.
Who? That’s right. BASS.
She’s Only Happy When She’s Dancing
Way back before internet holding suites (hello, Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour and Benedict Cumberbatch’s Hamlet), there was this little shop called BASS. There were shopfronts and desks inside Myer stores. You had to be one of the first in line to get a good seat and, frankly, you had to be there to get a seat at all. Unless you won a ticket on the radio or knew a friend of a friend. Neither of which were my options - I was headed straight for the fan club seats, and a phone call to Canada.
Picture it. Tickets went on sale late 1996. Mobile phones weren’t a lifestyle standard, the internet was a secret society, and you could still buy vinyl in most music stores. I was so ridiculously underage that there was no way my parents were going to be happy about leaving me on some dank Melbourne city street in the middle of the night to get a single ticket to some bloke they were - understandably - sick to death of listening to.
Long distance phone calls were bloody expensive. And I needed to make one. My fan club pack had come in the mail a few weeks earlier. A sheet or two of dot matrix instructions for how to get the best seats in the house for the upcoming Australian tour. Breathing into a paper bag, I had my membership number, a parent or guardian's permission to dial and, standing in my Mama’s kitchen … that ring tone seemed to last forever.
Until it didn’t.
Somewhere in among my teenage babble I managed to snag a ticket. Back in the days of the fan club, we’d get the first few rows reserved for fan club members. As long as you got through on the phone, you had yourself a solid view. And I did. I’m not sure I understood that at the time, but by the time Bryan Adams was standing in front of me and I could count the lace holes on his shoes and see bang up his nostril while he was singing something about the only thing looking good on him is … me, well, you catch my drift.
Back in the day. Those famous words. We were looked after at the fan club. It was a great time to be part of it all, and we did get amazing seats and privileges. Things change, though, and the fan club disbanded - as well the web forum full of women swearing that particular songs were written about them. Now, we’re left to fend for ourselves in Ticketek waiting rooms and emails full of presale links and passwords.
I tried this method for a few years, and you know what? You still get the best seats when you line up out the front of the ticket outlet on the morning of the sale. BASS is now Ticketek, but the song remains the same. Early morning, rugged up and ready to go. It’s what we did for this tour, and we were front row. No waiting rooms, no scrounging for passwords, and no fumbling credit card numbers as the clock on the shopping basket ticked down.
And you know what? We also got that sweet, sweet nostalgia of being teenagers again. Good times.
One Night Love Affair
My love affair, or lack thereof, with concerts has been well documented over the years. I went from going to every Bryan Adams gig I could get my hands on, to flatly refusing to go to any - even when someone else offered to pay. It was the growing pains of a mental health issue that hadn’t yet been diagnosed.
Even now, I’ll get random texts from people. ‘I heard Bryan Adams on the radio today and thought of you’. For a while, that was embarrassing. I’m more than my special interest. But growing more comfortable with my brain and how it works has allowed me to relax into more of a fuck you mentality and to just enjoy the things I enjoy. After all, dudes are allowed to obsess over football, and porno, and books about war. What’s wrong with love songs and feeling good?
Nothing.
So, this time around, I gathered the Thelma to my Louise and headed off to enjoy the shows.
Every concert, every artist, is different. You may not have had a good day. They might not have had a good day. There are a lot of variables, but a solid performer will always, always make the night worth it. I can’t say that I’ve got that from every performer I’ve seen live - and it’s a long list - but I can say this with confidence: what you hear on a Bryan Adams album is what you’ll get at a live show.
His albums are easily reproduced live, meaning you spend less time thinking ‘What the hell is this?’ and more time dancing. Trust me, I’ve done that. Not with Bryan Adams though. My only problems at his show: there’s not enough time in the night for everyone to hear their favourite songs.
What we do get is an amazing mix. When you remember that there are fifteen studio albums, a number of compilations, Taylor Swift-esque re-recordings, and plenty of soundtrack contributions, there are so, so many songs that could be on the set list for each tour. Of course, I cram all the albums the week before the show - just in case I get called on stage to sing with the band. You never know.
The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is Merch
Merchandise is wild - a law unto itself. Over the years, concert tickets have risen from the bargain basement price of $49AUD each, to $200AUD. You can bet merchandise prices have jumped in this direction as well.
Fourteen year old me saved her pocket money for what felt like years so that I could get to the merch counter in ’97 and slap down enough cash to buy ‘two of everything, please’. I walked away with about a dozen t-shirts, hats, key rings, posters and programs. So much so that I had to run my treasures out to Dad, who then ferried them to his car.
It’s all a bit more conservative now, owing to mortgages and utilities. Most of the time now, I opt for the tour programme and call it a night. I’ve got dozens that I’ve collected from concerts, theatre shows, and art galleries over the years. They’re glossy, thick paper, full of photos and stories and a roll call of everyone who made the shows possible. How cool would it be to see your own name in the back of one of them? I imagine it’d be the same sort of buzz as when I find my name in the acknowledgments of a book.
Most of my t-shirts have disappeared over the years. I’ve got a few vintage (early 90’s) tour t-shirts left, but most of the rest found their way to charity bins and other fans. Some days I regret that. On other days, I’m glad for the spare room in my wardrobe. For most of the time, I don’t think about it.
Considering what I walked away with in ’97, I got far less for my hard-earned this year. If the merch stands this year were anything to go by, I’d get six t-shirts if I were lucky - even less if I wanted to risk holding a vinyl LP for a few hours. Who am I to resist the pretties, though? I slapped on my t-shirt, spun the keyring onto my key fob, and hoped like hell my programme wasn’t going to be mangled by the time I walked out the door. Within a few minutes, well before the support act had wheeled himself on stage, something didn’t sit right.
My t-shirt smelled like fish fingers. I guessed this was likely due to the fact we were at the end of the tour. All the other merch had been sold, and tonight’s crowd were onto the last of the last; the stuff that had been stored for a few months. And, if I could smell it, I was sure everyone else around me could, too.
Maybe that’s why no one stood next to me all night. Suits me fine.
Room Service
Friends, hotels are an important part of this story. You might think I’m about to tell you that you need somewhere with a spa or a sauna, five-star ratings and a bellboy. But you don’t. All you need is a bed and shower. This becomes even more evident when you realise that - should you end up partying long after the show - you’re probably not going to sleep in that bed anyway. Instead, you’ll be pouring coffee in your face, having a cold shower, and rushing for the airport before you’ve even worked out what’s happened.
In 2005, our tour of the country took in wineries and city centres, and we stayed in pubs, clubs, and Hacienda Hotels. Some of the cheapest places were the most fun, and some of the most expensive tried to serve moulded bread for toast.
It’s a nerve-wracking thing, making sure you have rooms, flights, and rental cars all aligned. It’s the Concert Tarot and, if one magic number is out of alignment, then we’re all in trouble. But, so far so good. Like any other road trip, there’s a joyous effervescence in packing up the car and spending hours listening to your favourite jams.
The only difference between now and 2005’s trip? The cost of fuel - and we can both drive now.
You’ve Been A Friend To Me
There’s one person who’s been beside me over these years for concerts: Lenya.
We have shared beds, split rental cars, sat in car parks of supermarkets making cheap ham sandwiches, and running for the airport gates after nights with roadies. It has been the privilege of a lifetime to experience a friendship like this. And, as any of you in a fandom will know, the friends you make over the years are the best parts of it all.
What I love the most is that we’re not in it for autograph or show counts, we’re not smooching with the right people to try and get backstage, and we’re not crawling around on the floor arguing about a drumstick (unlike the dude staring right at the camera in the photo below). We just want to have fun.
Of all the things that have changed over the years, our friendship hasn’t. And that's the best.
