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Gonzo Report: Iron Maiden’s undead mascot Eddie surfing...on sharks... on a shirt
The unwritten rule of not wearing the concert performer’s shirt is ignored.
Eddie makes his first appearance at the show, dressed as a samurai warrior.
Chula Vista’s North Island Credit Union Amphitheater is less than 30 miles from D.Z. Akin’s, the place from which Mrs. Steffenhagen and I set out at 4:30 pm. The Iron Maiden show isn’t slated to start until 8, but I know the doors open at 5, much like European festivals where it’s first come, first served. (I also know that my proximity to the performers is likely to be further impacted by the fan club members who have won the drawing in a “first to the barrier” contest.) I’m used to local traffic patterns, but for some reason, it seems impossible to reach the venue. At one point, we spot a group of metalheads jumping out of their car and running into a clearing. My wife rolls down the window to offer them a ride, but their black hair and black leather jackets fade into the darkness, until all I can see is a “Maiden Mexico” flag streaming behind them. Having noticed the bounce in their steps and the gridlock ahead, I don’t think their car broke down. I believe they know a shortcut and have the right idea.
A man in a red staff jacket offers only an interpretive dance instead of tangible directions to the “V.I.P.” parking we paid for. But once we’re in line, it moves faster than I’m used to, and it’s not long before we gain access to the grounds. I am pleased. This is an Iron fucking Maiden show, and my fellow fans are like family I’m meeting for the first time. In my experience, Maiden concerts defy convention in all things. The unwritten rule of not wearing the concert performer’s shirt is ignored. Most attendees sport gear from years and tours past, and it takes only a cursory scan to count shirts from 16 tours and 12 countries — including Sweden and England. Several fans stand in line to buy even more merch. Because this is my 21st Maiden show, and because I’ve seen this tour already, the pull toward the booth is less powerful than usual. At first, anyway. Then I see a shirt designed just for the California dates, showing Maiden’s undead mascot Eddie surfing...on sharks. It’s a wearable trophy, one that I visit three different booths to score in my size. The Mrs. spots a jersey and balks at the price tag. I do not balk, however. There are few things I find more attractive than my wife in an Iron Maiden shirt.
Priority is given to getting to the seats and not missing a note, so we always account for merch lines and beverage purchasing in our timeline. Missing any part of a show for an overpriced can of water is unacceptable. A sailor sitting next to me admires my tattoo, the one with the cover of the band’s second album, Killers. This is his first time seeing them, and he questions me cautiously, not wanting any spoilers. He’s correcting me on the make of the prop plane used in their opener on the last leg of the tour when UFO’s “Doctor Doctor” blares through the house speakers. The song has served as Maiden’s intro tape since the early days, and fans sing along, as loud and as frenzied as they will be for the headliner.
The band’s performance is a shared experience, exhibiting the bombast of a Kiss concert but influenced by the theatrics of Marillion, with maximum-volume history and literature lessons thrown in. I can’t resist looking around when Eddie makes his first appearance of the night, dressed as a samurai warrior. The nearby sailor is screaming loud enough to be heard over the band, and behind me, the entire row is wall-to-wall smiles.
Post-show, my friend Chad, with whom I have seen most of my Maiden shows, yells at me from the floor. He was one of those lucky few who was first to the barrier, and his knees are screaming for a chance to sit down. Security is cool when I explain he’s a concert buddy, one I haven’t seen in over a year, and they let us chat for a minute before telling us to leave.
The afterglow of satisfied fans is dimmed by a few self-vetted twits who dictate what the setlist “should have been.” They complain about the inclusion of too many new songs, despite over half of the evening’s selections coming from the first five records. I laugh as a group of fans walk by who weren’t even a thought when the song “Flight Of Icarus” was released, all singing the chorus of that track as if the band were still onstage. Their song drowns out the twits and attracts other singers as they move through the exiting stream of humanity.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Iron Maiden’s undead mascot Eddie surfing...on sharks... on a shirt
The unwritten rule of not wearing the concert performer’s shirt is ignored.
Gonzo Report: Iron Maiden’s undead mascot Eddie surfing...on sharks... on a shirt
The unwritten rule of not wearing the concert performer’s shirt is ignored.
Eddie makes his first appearance at the show, dressed as a samurai warrior.
Chula Vista’s North Island Credit Union Amphitheater is less than 30 miles from D.Z. Akin’s, the place from which Mrs. Steffenhagen and I set out at 4:30 pm. The Iron Maiden show isn’t slated to start until 8, but I know the doors open at 5, much like European festivals where it’s first come, first served. (I also know that my proximity to the performers is likely to be further impacted by the fan club members who have won the drawing in a “first to the barrier” contest.) I’m used to local traffic patterns, but for some reason, it seems impossible to reach the venue. At one point, we spot a group of metalheads jumping out of their car and running into a clearing. My wife rolls down the window to offer them a ride, but their black hair and black leather jackets fade into the darkness, until all I can see is a “Maiden Mexico” flag streaming behind them. Having noticed the bounce in their steps and the gridlock ahead, I don’t think their car broke down. I believe they know a shortcut and have the right idea.
A man in a red staff jacket offers only an interpretive dance instead of tangible directions to the “V.I.P.” parking we paid for. But once we’re in line, it moves faster than I’m used to, and it’s not long before we gain access to the grounds. I am pleased. This is an Iron fucking Maiden show, and my fellow fans are like family I’m meeting for the first time. In my experience, Maiden concerts defy convention in all things. The unwritten rule of not wearing the concert performer’s shirt is ignored. Most attendees sport gear from years and tours past, and it takes only a cursory scan to count shirts from 16 tours and 12 countries — including Sweden and England. Several fans stand in line to buy even more merch. Because this is my 21st Maiden show, and because I’ve seen this tour already, the pull toward the booth is less powerful than usual. At first, anyway. Then I see a shirt designed just for the California dates, showing Maiden’s undead mascot Eddie surfing...on sharks. It’s a wearable trophy, one that I visit three different booths to score in my size. The Mrs. spots a jersey and balks at the price tag. I do not balk, however. There are few things I find more attractive than my wife in an Iron Maiden shirt.
Priority is given to getting to the seats and not missing a note, so we always account for merch lines and beverage purchasing in our timeline. Missing any part of a show for an overpriced can of water is unacceptable. A sailor sitting next to me admires my tattoo, the one with the cover of the band’s second album, Killers. This is his first time seeing them, and he questions me cautiously, not wanting any spoilers. He’s correcting me on the make of the prop plane used in their opener on the last leg of the tour when UFO’s “Doctor Doctor” blares through the house speakers. The song has served as Maiden’s intro tape since the early days, and fans sing along, as loud and as frenzied as they will be for the headliner.
The band’s performance is a shared experience, exhibiting the bombast of a Kiss concert but influenced by the theatrics of Marillion, with maximum-volume history and literature lessons thrown in. I can’t resist looking around when Eddie makes his first appearance of the night, dressed as a samurai warrior. The nearby sailor is screaming loud enough to be heard over the band, and behind me, the entire row is wall-to-wall smiles.
Post-show, my friend Chad, with whom I have seen most of my Maiden shows, yells at me from the floor. He was one of those lucky few who was first to the barrier, and his knees are screaming for a chance to sit down. Security is cool when I explain he’s a concert buddy, one I haven’t seen in over a year, and they let us chat for a minute before telling us to leave.
The afterglow of satisfied fans is dimmed by a few self-vetted twits who dictate what the setlist “should have been.” They complain about the inclusion of too many new songs, despite over half of the evening’s selections coming from the first five records. I laugh as a group of fans walk by who weren’t even a thought when the song “Flight Of Icarus” was released, all singing the chorus of that track as if the band were still onstage. Their song drowns out the twits and attracts other singers as they move through the exiting stream of humanity.
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