Rookie Photographer Tests Living Legend (San Diego 1976)

Photos by Kirk Christ

Rookie Photographer Test Living Legend

By Kirk Christ

Daily Times Advocate

June 27, 1976

    The gate holding back an odd collection of press and spectators slammed shut as the Cadillac limos backed down the San Diego Sports Arena stage ramp. An occasional scream pierced the purr of the engines. Chauffeurs nervously chatting, waited to take Paul McCartney, his wife Linda, and the Wings entourage away from the 14,000 roaring fans and me, a wide-eyed, nervous, anything but cool photographer, more used to watching rock concerts than recording them on film.

     The sounds from the arena were dying down as the audience, a strange blend of old Beatles fans and younger Wings fans, headed out to their cars for the beginning of the "Sports Arena 500." The race, famous to local hardcore rock fans, is a mad dash of nearly 10,000 cars vying for the 220-foot-wide exits. They call it the "500" because that's the usual number of fender benders that occur during the course of the event.

     If that wasn't bad enough, most of the drivers had been smoking some self-rolled cigarettes, drinking, or both, while listening to ear-splitting music and wondering when their sun yogurt would curdle. It is beyond most humans' capability to adequately function after such an experience. As the San Diego police guided these glassy-eyed motorists on their merry way, I waited to get a glimpse of a legend.

     By now, the backstage area was filled with workers busily disassembling equipment. McCartney himself was nowhere to be seen, a court of onlookers without its king. "I'm sorry, no one gets past here without authorization," shouted one older guard. 

    More and more people kept jamming into the small hallway as the exit became less and less visible. Someone suggested rushing the gate. It wasn't a bad idea, except for one thing: I was in front. It's not that I didn't want to lead these people on a mini Bastille day charge, but with my luck, if I didn't end up as a permanent ornament on the gate, I would face certain death at the hands of the two angry-looking 300-pound Samoan guards standing a short distance away. 

    I saw a faint light at the end of the tunnel (sorry Henry) and decided to get away fast onto the bar where John Denver had been spotted, and to have a few drinks. After a couple of rounds, it looked as if McCartney wasn't going to join the party. One of his agents, who had been keeping the press well in hand most of the evening, was the only one of the Wings group still visible.

     But to get back to the beginning, being a rookie at first, I wasn't sure what was status quo. I found out soon enough -Nothing. Minutes before the show started, the photographers were led to an area in front of the stage. There we were threatened with expulsion if we stood higher than the partition separating the audience and the stage. While talking to one of the six-foot-three-inch Hells Angel-type standing guards, I asked him if, on occasion, I could stand for a better shot. He said that was all right, but if he caught me, he would have to smash me. That posed quite a dilemma. I wasn't sure which I preferred: getting smashed beyond recognition right away or trying to explain to the boss why I didn't get any pictures and then getting creamed.

     In retrospect, I'm glad the guards were there. Being near the stage affords an unrestricted view of the audience. If that isn't frightening enough, it's unsettling to know that when a rock audience rushes the stage, which always happens, people will do anything to touch the star, including using a human body as a vaulting pole. Improvisation granted, but quite effective and deadly. The only somewhat pleasant aspect to this onslaught was that the guard, also known as Big Fist, would end up battling the fans to protect me.

     About an hour after the concert ended, the crowd in the bar was thinning out. I was still waiting for the legend, but also losing count of my drinks. Time to call it quits. As I walked out of the arena, a giant roar came from near the stage entrance. McCartney's  Cadillac procession was leaving, so Wings could catch a flight to Los Angeles, where there would be three more shows and possibly three more rookie photographers covering "rock and roll at the Hollywood Bowl."