Landlocked Beach Boys

In 1985, I went with my high school buddies to see the Beach Boys and Three Dog Night at the old steel-top coliseum in Charlotte, NC. Since I grew up near the arena, I showed by friends where we could drink beer in the woods on a trail that kids from my old junior high used to use to skip class. We carried a modest beer buzz into the venue and sat in the nosebleeds for Three Dog Night set. I recognized the two classic radio songs but was eager for the Beach Boys, one of my favorite old time rock groups. When Mike Love and the crew hit the stage we ran down to the general admission floor to dance with girls and old folks that were equally moved by the nostalgic Beach Blanket Bingo meets Chuck Berry sound. No sooner had we began to boogie than the police offers started ordering everyone to take a seat. There were in fact floor seats but they only filled about half the space, making it seem ridiculous that our dancing could pose a fire hazard. As the cops kept yelling at us, I quipped, "What is this, Footloose?" My friends laughed at the timely Kevin Bacon-inspired joke, but the police grabbed my shirt and led me outside. Adrenaline filled my veins as I was shoved against a wall by a cop brandishing a baton. Then the cop turned to a milquetoast lecture on respecting authority and obeying public safety rules. Clearly he was someone's dad. I guess he could tell I was relaxing as I realized I wasn't in too much trouble, so he made sure to finish with a line about never disrespecting the law. My best chance of returning to the show was to apologize and I did so, trying to explain that I didn't mean any harm. I actually uttered the words, "I just wanted to dance." The officers did let me go back to my friends where we watched the Beach Boys in seats, humbled, and quiet. The California harmonies and songs about surfing and hotrods blew over us like some wind that was too high up to ruffle our hair. I thought to myself, this is what it feels like to be landlocked.