CONCESSIONS AND CAPITULATIONS: June 21, 1981 with Ted Nugent, Blackfoot and Krokus

In the spring of 1981 Ted Nugent launched a nationwide concert tour in support of his latest album Intensities In 10 Cities. Since 1974 my father and I had been to a number of concerts together. Sometimes the whole family, sometimes just me and him. More often than not these were Country & Western artists performing at county fairs and high school auditoriums. (Far more common back then than you might imagine.) Just a kid at the time, I enjoyed them all. There was something magical about that moment when the house lights went down and the crowd roared with excitement and barely contained anticipation. No matter who the artist was they came to see, nor the city, nor the venue. Goosebumps every time. KISS in September of 1979 was the first show we attended that I myself had begged my Dad to take me to. I had been a KISS fan since 1976, but up to that point I had been unsuccessful in convincing my parents to take me to see the band. That's another story for another time. But what followed through 1980 and into '81 was a string of requests made by me that were one by one categorically denied. My Dad's tastes were strictly Country music and oldies hacks with a few exceptions like the Bee Gees and Sinatra. But he had good taste. He was a songwriter and a musician with many years of experience. When I asked him if we could go to the Ted Nugent concert, he paused to think for a moment then said, "That guy is actually a pretty good guitar player. Yes. We should go."

I got my first guitar in 1978. As a musician and a songwriter himself, my Dad tailored our concert outings toward the kind of shows that he felt would be a positive influence and encourage my development as a musician. Setting aside Ted Nugent's idiotic song lyrics and boneheaded caveman riffs for the sake of argument, his lead guitar work in the '70s was unquestionably superior to almost every other guitarist of the era. With the possible exception of Ritchie Blackmore, I honestly don't think anybody held a candle to him at the time. Even Ted's closest peers typically withheld the fireworks in every song until it was time for the guitar solo or the big finish at the end. Ted, on the other hand, absolutely wailed from the minute the show started until the last note of the final encore. Many times he was often the lead singer fronting his own group as well. And that's another remarkable skill set altogether, to be able to play guitar like that and sing at the same time.

It would be years before Ted did his obligatory stint in the Puff Metal supergroup Damn Yankees. Later still he would expand the Nugent brand to more prominently feature his love of bow hunting as exemplified in his cookbook called "Kill It and Grill It". Most recently of course we have all come to know him for his right wing nutjob politics. Trump's most ardent supporters love the Nuge for his willingness to open his fool mouth and blurt out the most baseless and imbecilic claims you can imagine. Back in the 70s and 80s at least Ted could be counted on for comparatively intelligent statements like "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang" and "Yank Me, Crank Me (But Don't Wake Me Up To Thank Me)".

"But he could play a guitar just like a-ringin' a bell." ~ Chuck Berry, Johnny B. Goode

Ted's recorded output in the 1970s was largely redundant. If you've heard one of his albums, you've heard them all. Many Rock music fans and record collectors will (somewhat begrudgingly) admit that Ted's self-titled debut album from 1975 is in fact a stone classic. "Stranglehold" alone is a guitar showcase that places Ted in the upper echelon of the era's most fearsome gunslingers. The Free For All album certainly has its moments. But it was Ted's third album Cat Scratch Fever and its title track that put him on the map. Double Live Gonzo (with its cover photos taken at a Cincinnati Gardens appearance) continued Ted's upward trajectory into the late seventies. With State of Shock, Weekend Warriors, and Scream Dream, Nugent maintained a brutal non-stop routine of studio albums and relentless touring all over the world through the end of the decade, becoming a huge concert draw along the way. He was a total road dawg who lived for the stage. But by the time of Ted's 1981 appearance at Riverfront Coliseum in Cincinnati, it could be said that his fortunes were beginning to flag.

Several of Ted's 1970s LP releases sold in the millions, earning him a number of gold and platinum records. But sales were declining and 1980's Scream Dream album would be Ted's last to sell over 500,000 copies. The idea behind Intensities in Ten Cities was to capture the raw energy of Ted's newest songs performed live in front of an audience. Each of the ten tracks on the album was recorded in a different city. The result wasn't exactly a bad album, by Ted's dwindling standards. But it lacked the natural flow and easy energy of even the most mediocre live recordings. Nor did it hold together with any cohesive through line as one finds when listening to most studio albums. With nothing even resembling an obvious single on the record, this was the first Ted Nugent album that just kinda lied there. I won't say dead on arrival because he continued to sell concert tickets in the tens of thousands, especially in the Midwest. But the warning signs were there. Ted had peaked.

Krokus, on the other hand, had every reason to believe they were on the way up. The band's fourth album Metal Rendez-vous had gone platinum in their native Switzerland. Lead singer Marc Storace was rumored to be on the short list of potential replacements for Bon Scott when AC/DC lost their charismatic vocalist to an untimely death by misadventure. 1981's Hardware LP provided Krokus with their first opportunity for extensive touring in the USA. My father and I were among the very few paying customers to arrive early on the evening of June 21, 1981 so we could be sure to catch all three acts on the bill. When the house lights dimmed and the members of Krokus took their positions on the darkened stage, they'd been on the road since early April.

Being the first of three bands on an arena tour is a position almost completely devoid of any discernible rewards. Willing suspension of disbelief is a prerequisite for any artist willing to sign on for such a thankless task. While major label support provides a tour bus and a budget for other amenities a young band could not otherwise afford, all the expenses are basically charged back to the band, taken out of an advance the artist is contractually bound to repay from tour revenues and album sales. This bottom rung of the ladder can feel like a dream come true for some. But eventually a bill comes due for all as the artist is expected to pay back every penny spent on tour for crew, hotels, gasoline, food. Every bit of it.

After the headliner and second act have completed their afternoon soundcheck on the day of the show, there is just enough time for the opener to set up their equipment on the stage before the venue opens the doors. On a US tour that ran from April to July 1981, it is unlikely that Krokus had a chance to soundcheck even once. The first band on the bill is given a 30-minute time frame in which to perform when very few people have even taken their seats. Their front of house sound engineer has just enough time to dial in a good mix as the band is wrapping up their set. Purveyors of third-rate Sludge Rock, you can probably guess how Krokus sounded when I saw them. History has shown that their star was indeed on the rise, with major success on MTV and headliner status right around the corner for Krokus. Their tunes highly derivative of early AC/DC, and lead vocalist Marc Storace's blood-curdling screech perhaps better suited for the role of "crazy neighbor lady" in a community theater production, my 13-year-old self thought, "These guys are fucking GREAT!"

With Krokus on their way up, and Ted's best days behind him, Blackfoot was perfectly positioned in the middle of this triple bill as they were at the absolute pinnacle of their powers in 1981. After many years of slogging it out on the road,

the Strikes LP from 1979 had produced the band's first radio hits "Highway Song" and "Train Train". Blackfoot was already a headlining act for all intents and purposes. And in the American South they were being heralded as the heavy metal cousins of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Guitarist and lead singer Ricky Medlocke had in fact played drums on the first two Skynyrd albums. So he was practically grandfathered in as Southern Rock royalty. Some years later he would rejoin Skynyrd on guitar.

Trying too hard to replicate the success of your previous albums is almost never a good idea. But on Blackfoot's otherwise brilliant Marauder LP from 1981 it was only the single "Fly Away" that smacked of pandering for airplay. Every other track on the record was brutal Southern Rock that bordered on Heavy Metal, as if Metallica had been raised by gators in the Florida swampland. Krokus was about to blossom. Yet even at full bloom just a few years later they were still kinda jokey. Maybe it was the language barrier or something like that. But even at the peak of their popularity it was hard to take them seriously. And as a fan of Nugent's output in the 1970s I have to say I wish I'd seen him sooner. But in the case of Blackfoot, this was unquestionably their heyday. It took me years to figure that out. And certainly my father and I were unaware on the night of this show exactly where Blackfoot was at in their career trajectory. Marauder was the band's third really strong album in a row, with sales and radio response increasing with each successive release. After several directionless years and multiple changes in personnel, Medlocke had finally secured what is now known as the classic Blackfoot line up. Add to that the fact that three-quarters of this band were full-blooded Native Americans and you find an outfit that brought a special brand of fiery vengeance to the concert stage. Blackfoot absolutely burned the place down. Raising the bar so high that Ted probably had to pull out all the stops every night on this tour so as not to let Blackfoot steal the show.

As great and powerful as they were at this stage in their career, 1981 was the beginning of the end for Blackfoot as well. Subsequent years would find them adding keyboards to the band, high gloss production watered down their sound, band members began to splinter off and quit. Medlocke installed a revolving door, billing himself above the band's name as he played the string out in fits and starts for another decade or so. The salad days fizzled, faded away, and Ricky re-joined Lynyrd Skynyrd as a full-time member in 1997. Blackfoot's moment in the sun was brief, their efforts never resulting in anything close to stardom or any measurable modicum of fame. Past members one and all made attempts over the ensuing years to recapture some refracted flashes of former glories to no avail. Even today I'm certain any association with the mighty Blackfoot is probably enough to secure a paying gig in the South. But this was an American band deserving of far more than what they were able to accomplish. The business is cruel. More often than not the worthy go unrewarded. You can't fault Blackfoot for chasing mainstream success in the 80s with the addition of synthesizers and shit. I'm sure they were just making the best decisions they could at the time. In the rearview mirror it is clear they were adrift and a Southern Rock band aping current trends is a pathetic sight indeed. The very same concessions and capitulations that

worked wonders and made millions for their friends and neighbors in .38 Special just left Ricky Medlocke and Blackfoot looking like they didn't know what the fuck they were doing. This writer would encourage fans of Hard Rock to check out the 3 long players Blackfoot released between 1979 and 1981. The Marauder LP in particular still holds up remarkably well. Some have said its fire and fury has been surpassed by very few albums released in the past four decades. Undeniable testament to Blackfoot's sadly unsung power and enduring charms. The high water mark set by this band at that moment in time has been matched by very few before or since. In short, it bears repeating, these guys worked their asses off for many years and deserved far more than what fate had in store for them.

On the night in question, the entire evening's program consisted of music with a very important role to play in a young man's life because teenage guitar players need to have records that are easy to play along with when they're just learning how to play. It's a big confidence boost when you're barely 13 years old and you can play along with every song on the latest Ted Nugent album. And I can tell you from experience that I spent countless hours with my guitar playing along to the music of all three bands on this bill. For the record, it was Blackfoot's music that presented the biggest challenge to me at that time. Perhaps that goes some distance to illustrate the greater depth in Blackfoot's music compared to that of Krokus and Ted Nugent, whose records were a breeze to play along with even as a kid after only a few listens. Blackfoot's heavy boogie simply had a lot more going on.

Did I mention this concert was loud?

A common clause found in almost every contract written since the dawn of the concert industry dictates that the support act will have limited use of the stage, lighting and sound system. Literal lines are drawn with duct tape on the carpet to indicate what parts of the stage are off limits to the opening act. Many are disallowed use of a drum riser or any other sort of platform to stand on or - God forbid - jump off of. So not only was Krokus likely denied a soundcheck everyday for four months, they were limited to a postage stamp-sized sliver of real estate at the lip of the stage where they were expected to set up in front of both Blackfoot and Ted Nugent's backline of amplifiers and drums. They are relegated to a small section of inputs on the house soundboard, routinely denied use of the full lighting rig and definitely no spotlights. No backdrop. No pyro. Even stage monitors - the speakers you see pointed at the band so they can hear themselves? - are sometimes not even turned on until the opening act has completed their set. (Reliable sources report that a string of opening acts were paid absolutely nothing to open for KISS on their 1996 reunion tour, one of the most talked about and lucrative concert tours of the past quarter century that featured all four original members in full regalia for the first time in many years. Without exception or seemingly any reservations whatsoever, all of these young bands signed on the dotted line simply for the honor and privilege of sharing the stage with KISS, perhaps believing the exposure and potential merchandise sales would be worth their time and considerable effort.) If you've ever witnessed an opening act that you thought was going overboard with their antics and choreography, maybe hamming it up a bit too much, perhaps this is why. Given the strictly enforced limitations placed on their set time, stage plot, sound mix and lights, it only makes sense that many opening bands will behave like crazed apes in a small cage. They have to do everything they can within the extremely limited time and space they are allotted so that maybe somebody will remember their name and go buy their record so they can pay back all that money they owe the record label. These restrictions also include limiting the level of volume an opening band's house sound engineer is permitted to reach. The overall effect that the headlining act hopes to achieve is that they are perceived as bigger, brighter, louder, translation: better than the bands that play before them. Among the many ways to ensure that specific perception is to not allow the opening act to A) have a soundcheck, B) roam freely across the entire stage, C) use the full arsenal of stage lighting, nor D) play very loud. In a nutshell, Krokus was certainly loud. But Blackfoot was louder. And - you guessed it - when Ted Nugent finally took the stage it was probably three times as loud as Krokus and Blackfoot combined. Only when the headlining act takes the stage is the sound system pushed to its limits and maximum decibels unleashed. And I'm sure Ted's soundman was under strict orders to open it up like a dragster in the desert. Forty years on and I can still recall the hurricane squall of guitars feeding back as Ted and his band took the stage that night.

And yes I said "guitars". In the plural. For the 1981 tour, Ted hired a local Detroit band he had discovered called the DC Hawks for his backing band and they had three guitarists. The setlist included all the classics that any teenage Nugent fan wants to hear: "Motor City Madhouse", "Wango Tango", "The Great White Buffalo" and more. Relatively recent tunes like "Flesh and Blood" and "The Flying Lip Lock'' were put across with a little extra force as if the tunes themselves were looking for a way to lock in as semi-permanent additions to the setlist. For his part, Ted stalked the stage like a rabid animal as usual, whipping his wet mop mane all around, eyes buggin' out of his head, and howling like a whole pack of wild wolves. It was crazy, funny, and scary all at the same time. He really did seem like a beast unleashed on the stage and I'm 100% certain that is the effect he was going for. (Several years later when I met Ted backstage at the Cincinnati Gardens he was soft-spoken, articulate and chivalrous. The complete antithesis to his onstage persona and not at all what I expected.) Four guitar players on the stage made for quite a racket. Ted's guitar always front and center in the mix of course, well above the raucous din whipped up by the others behind him. There were several segments within the show that were programmed to feature the guitars in four-part harmony. This made for such an unexpectedly sweet addition to the performance that even my father smiled and raised an eyebrow. After the show, this was the feature that Dad spoke of as the unexpected surprise highlight of the night, declaring, "That part was downright musical!" As I recall, Ted concluded the performance by setting his guitar on a stand and letting ferocious feedback ring out in the arena for several deafening minutes before the house lights came up indicating the show was over. Offering little more than a shrug in response to Krokus, my father saved his highest praise for Blackfoot's performance in general, Ricky Medlocke in particular, and the unpredictably harmonious four guitar arsenal of Ted and his backing band. Assuming that by this time in the evening my Dad wanted nothing more than to just get in the car and go home, I'm sure I was beaming from ear to ear. I am right now, just thinking about it. As was the custom back then, I had purchased the latest albums by all three bands we had just seen within a week of the show. Mission accomplished. Theirs and mine.

*

No man is all good or all bad. We are made of darkness and light. I don't agree with Ted's politics. And you don't have to dig deep to find some truly unconscionable behavior in the man's past. We are talking about a man who is not just politically incorrect. But one who is unashamedly, unabashedly, unapologetically self-involved, self-consumed, self-important and self-absorbed. That's a lot of selves. But for Ted himself there is only one. He is both arrogant and ignorant. On the bright side, the man has always shunned drug use and alcohol. Clean living is probably why Ted remains in fighting shape at age 72. Though I understand he has lost much of his hearing as a result of the decades spent performing at punishing volume levels. This is perhaps the only way I could see past to give him the benefit of the doubt for his support of Donald Trump. Maybe Ted just can't hear what the man is actually saying.

I cannot account for nor make peace with 99% of the vile bile that spews forth from Ted's mouth. And indeed the reputation he has earned with that mouth over the past couple of decades has all but eviscerated any goodwill he might have generated for himself in the Rock and Roll fanbase at large as a musician. Perhaps his own worst enemy, Ted may be one of those celebrities whose public behavior and statements make it all but impossible to separate our opinion of the man from an honest assessment of his recorded output. "Fuck that guy's music. He's an asshole." And I guess the other side of the coin is a musician whose work is of little or no value whatsoever but perhaps he garners and secures for himself a loyal following based in part on his political views. See: Kid Rock. "I love that guy! He supports Trump."

But I've been playing guitar myself for 43 years now. And for one shining moment - or what might have seemed like a small eternity to my Dad - on a spotlit stage in Southwest Ohio back in 1981, Ted Nugent claimed for himself a permanent place in my heart and my mind as one of the great guitar heroes of our time. If you look back over the 50 plus years since he began his career with the Amboy Dukes ("Journey to the Center of Your Mind"!), his ridiculous and some would say unforgivable public persona notwithstanding, there are very few Rock and Roll guitarists of the past half century who you could stack up against him that would come out on top.

(Ticket stub from a show two nights later in Grand Rapids, Michigan)