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Your Worst Concert Experience: A Touch of Brown

January 7, 2014  |  1:23pm
Your Worst Concert Experience: A Touch of Brown

Welcome back, everyone, to Your Worst Concert Experience. As you see, the franchise has survived, but we’re always looking for more good (read: awful) stories. In fact, we need some for next week. So send yours in! Do it! The email address is mailbag@pastemagazine.com. It can be your story, or somebody else’s, and it can be anonymous if you prefer. Long or short—you decide. Misery is the only requirement.

Today’s entry comes from Roger Toonoot, and though I hate to play favorites, I have to say that this is my all-time favorite. Roger calls this story, “A Touch of Brown.”

Roger:

Believe it or not, lots of crazy things happened at Grateful Dead concerts. But nothing could top what I witnessed at RFK stadium in the spring of 1991.

The Dead were at the height of their stadium-packing power, one of the top live acts in America. Whatever they did, people just ate up. And this night, one poor unfortunate fellow ate too much.

In the middle of a typical, unspectacular set, all at once I felt the crowd aggressively surge forward. I took a look behind me to see what was going on, when I saw it….

You know in the movies, whenever somebody is about to bust out some really spectacular, Travolta-esque moves, they clear the floor? That’s what happened here. Except instead of doing the Hustle, the crowd parted to make room for some poor hippie dude who was pooping in his pants.

There was a look of sheer terror in his eyes. Filthy shorts down around his ankles. And he was pooping like he just ate a box of laxatives.

Around him, a phalanx of thick-necked, yellow-shirted security guards were poking at him with folded up metal chairs like some macabre lion taming act. I guess they were trying to keep him away from the rest of the crowd, in case somebody felt the need to hug the tripping pooping hippie.

This display went on for about five minutes until the medics came in and ushered him out. Ironically, throughout the whole ordeal, the Dead were playing a Bob Weir song called “The Music Never Stopped.” All I could think was, it sure as hell stopped for that guy.

In my mind, the security guards were too nice. Thanks again, Roger, and see you all next week; IF, that is, you send in your story to mailbag@pastemagazine.com and keep the good (bad) times rolling.

PREVIOUSLY:

Built to Spill (Out of Your Pants)
The Bad Religion Crotch Incident
The Butt Arsonist
The Trench Coat Vigilante
The Phantom Grabber

The Handhold Switcheroo
The Accidental Threesome
The Elusive Sasquatch

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