OK, so this is a weird little story. When I told it to my teenage sons, they looked at me with a jaw-dropped fascination. I read their expressions as: How could anyone be that stupid?
To begin: In the late 1970's and early 1980's I became a fan of the Boston-based punkish band, Mission of Burma. Their shows were amazing, I thought, and I went to see them every weekend or so for a few years, at various grubby venues in and near Boston. They had this one EP, Signals, Calls, and Marches, which to this day I believe is one of the best rock records ever. I hear Mission of Burma's influence in a lot of what has come since. They produced layered washes of sound, steadily building to transcendent moments. One song led straight to another, and they would often play continuously for the entire set.
I thought their concerts were so great that I would leave immediately after they finished -- so as not to pollute with other sounds my memory of the experience. At this time they were usually the opening act, and so my leaving meant that I'd miss the main show. I started this practice after seeing Mission of Burma one time at the Paradise, opening for a well known Los Angeles punk band. Mission of Burma played brilliantly for about 45 minutes straight, stopped abruptly, leaned their instruments facing against the amplifiers, and walked off the stage in the ensuing feedback. A few minutes into the main act I realized that I had no interest, and so I left.
To get to the point. I happened to be in Albany, NY (that's another story) when Mission of Burma passed through on one of their low budget tours. I saw them in a small rather typical club. I remember Mission of Burma gave a good if not outstanding performance, and I left after they played. Again, they were the opening act.
The main act was this new band from Ireland whose music I had not yet heard. I remember seeing, before I left, this skinny guy with long bleached hair fussing with the equipment.
So I walked out on Bono on U2's first US tour.
