From Rock … To Shock

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even more dire consequences would result from a cancellation. Early reports indicate Coliseum officials opened only two of the many doors lining the front of the facility and refused to open other gates because of personnel shortages. It is a nagging concern that the tragedy could have been avoided. And it is a haunting thought that it hasn’t happened before. Crowd control is difficult at rock shows, but, surprisingly, the prevailing sentiment was that The Who throng was better disciplined than most. Inside the Coliseum, there were no obvious signs of the madness that reigned supreme outside the gates. A security guard caught me by surprise during the concert when he approached and whispered a name into my ear. When I explained that it wasn’t my name, he turned to a man seated behind me. The man and a woman seated next to him scurried from the room. In retrospect, the signals are clear. Coliseum vendors, who usually make a mint selling beer, told would-be patrons the beer taps were out of order. A yellow-jacketed Coliseum attendant told box seat and press persons that the fifth floor elevator was not working. All of it was meaningless. Until the radio reports. And as the deaths were substantiated — and the toll climbed from seven to nine to 11 — the after-shock prevailed. The concert had started on time, with The Who forging a stupendous performance which produced a multitude of thunderous roars from the 18,000-plus crammed into the arena. The legendary British band, unparalleled in the rock industry except for the Beatles and perhaps Elvis Presley and the Rolling Stones, are the symbols of troubled youth. At one point in the concert, someone in the crowd ignited a Roman candle, an obvious safety hazard. Peter Townshend, lead guitarist, strolled to the microphone and chided the crowd. "We don’t need any fireworks," he said. "We’re the fireworks." And 30 minutes later, the group launched into their classic "My Generation" — the stuttering theme of youthful rebellion. "Why don’t you all fade away? Why don’t you all drop dead while we all stay? I’m not trying to cause a big s-s-sensation. I’m talking ’bout my g-g-generation." The words were directed at the establishment of the 1960s. But the casualties fell in the wrong generation.

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wrote the rock opera "Tommy," which was made into a movie. Monday’s mob scene was not a first for Riverfront Coliseum. On April 19, 1977, police arrested 76 people who tried to push their way into a "Led Zeppelin" rock concert. "This is not violence, it is pushing. We had this trouble some time ago when the ’Led Zeppelin’ appeared here," Murray said. Coliseum officials could not be reached for comment. Access to offices was barred to reporters and telephone calls were refused. Electric Factory Concerts of Philadelphia, Pa., sponsor of the concert, also had no comment. Jeff Chaney of Carlisle, an Army veteran, said he tried to revive three of the victims. His efforts failed mostly "because people just didn’t seem to care. "I couldn’t believe it. They could see the people all piled up and they still tried to climb over them just to get in," Chaney said. He said one girl was clinging to his leg, but by the time he pulled her free, she was dead. News of the deaths brought parents storming to the Coliseum to find their children, but security guards refused them entrance. "Go home and see if they come home. You can’t come in without a ticket," said one guard to a middle-aged blonde woman. The woman beat on the door and swore before leaving in tears.