The best concert I’ve ever experienced was Eric Clapton in 1994.
I’ve heard better music. David Crowder’s concert in 2016 was a thousand times more impactful on a soul level. John Mellencamp and Toby Mac were each more fun in their own ways. I’ve heard better music in orchestras, at church or in sweaty dive bars. But the Clapton concert was exceptional mainly for a single reason: Out of the thousands in attendance that night, I was front row, center.
At one point in the concert I looked over my shoulder and saw James Belushi sitting three rows behind me. George Harrison and other celebrities were just walking around. I was kinda starstruck and it was pretty darn cool. Added to that was the fact that Clapton is a legend, one of the greatest guitar players of all time, and this was more or less his farewell era.
The front row has its benefits.
Like most students I avoided the front row growing up. I eventually got over that and learned to appreciate sitting up front in college. I got over the fear of getting called out, mainly by studying and being ready. I also got over not knowing the answers, and learned it was okay to say, “I don’t know.” I was there to be taught, after all.
With the possible exceptions of a movie theater, or a Sea World show, the front row is my preference. Of course, when I mentioned this to my wife the other night, she gave me a look like I was crazy. She then went on to remind me of the personality types that often populate the front row, and I immediately recalled more than a few individuals. Yes indeed, I remember that girl who sat up front and always commented on every point the teacher made. Man, she was annoying. Or the guy who, time and time again, derailed the discussion the teacher was trying to facilitate. Attention seekers love the front row.
For the past seventeen years, I’ve been a middle-row guy for the most part. When we had our first baby we were strictly back row. Parents with babies don’t sit in the front — not twice, anyway. As soon as the baby begins doing baby things, the back row starts looking pretty good to most parents. And because we’re predisposed toward things that extend the duration of our time in the new baby stage of life, the back row has been home for much of the last eighteen years. But I loathe the back row. It’s too far away with too many distractions. There are shirkers back there, doors and windows opening, and people coming and going, some of whom assume you’re willing to converse with them. The back row reminds me of those bad old days in high school, doing things we thought the teacher wouldn’t know about while the filmstrip beeped along. As much as I like the front row, neither of us like the back row.
And so we’ve settled into a compromising position in the center. The center has good sound, and it isn’t too distracting if we have to excuse ourselves when the latest baby has a blowout. The center has normal people; people you might actually enjoy speaking with if the speaker is one of those front-row types who demand the audience repeat things out loud, or “turn to your neighbor and say___.” (On a side note, let me just say, don’t ever do this to me, or anyone, ever).
I like the center. It’s safe. In my heart though, I still long for the front. I want to be where the action is. I want to be at the tip of the spear. I don’t want to take my cue from the mass around me. I want to stand when I feel moved to stand, kneel when the spirit says to kneel and not just when I see everyone else doing it. I don’t want to lead the pack, and I don’t necessarily want others to follow my example, but I want to be genuine, and I want to learn and not get distracted. I also want to have a good view when the magic happens, to be amazed by how the fingers dance over the piano keys, to see the look on the performer’s face when they are enjoying themselves as much as I am, to make eye contact and not lose myself in distraction, and feel the rhythm of the words, the beat, or the spirit.
The other night I was at a small-venue event with one of my kids. We went to find seats and I asked him where he wanted to sit. He said he didn’t care, and since this was the first time in forever I’ve had the luxury of choosing with full license from my companion, I went straight for the front row. I sat down and stretched my legs. It was liberating. Then I looked up at him. He was standing there with a look of deep apprehension. I know that look when I see it on him; it’s the look that says I’ll do this if you make me, but I thought you loved me. I took a deep breath and did the dad thing and asked if he’d rather sit somewhere else. A wave of relief washed over him and he offered, “Maybe one back?” I told him no problem. We moved back to the second row and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
Some time later during the event we got separated, and though I didn’t seek it out, I ended up in the front row, worshiping, singing. I looked around and noticed I was the only one there; the second row was packed full but I was all alone in the front. I don’t know if that means I’m that guy or not, but I didn’t care. I was right where the Lord had placed me, right where I wanted to be, and I don’t think it was by mistake.
It was sort of that way with the Eric Clapton concert. We originally had nosebleed seats way in the upper deck of Dodger Stadium. We couldn’t even hope to see the stage detail and were grateful for the two huge jumbo-trons on either side of the stage. We were happy. We were glad to be there. But something happened earlier that morning — the concert promoter opened up several rows in the front at the last minute (I suppose to make a quick buck on last-minute floor seating sales) but they didn’t sell in time.
So the organizers went to the upper decks. One of them spotted my sister and asked if she and her party might want to move to better seats. We jumped at the chance and they began to escort us down the stairs, around corridors, through tunnels, around barricades, past security, out into the blessed sunshine of a beautiful fall evening. We could smell the green grass of the baseball outfield. The closer we got, the slower we walked. Was this really happening?
A few more steps and there we were: In the center seats of the first row, a mere 280-pound blue-jacketed security guard all that stood between me and the greatest guitar player in rock history. I looked at the security guard and he gave me that blank stare. Later during the concert, though, I looked at him again. This time looked at me differently. He gave me a huge smile, and I smiled back with a grin from ear to ear, because we both knew there’s nothing like being in the front row.