Electric Light Orchestra, Live in Stuttgart
S.E. Schaible
In the early morning hours of July 13, 1986, Gordon, Barry and I finished our final Holsten Pilseners and strolled around the red-light district in Hamburg, Germany. Drained from the prior day’s train ride from Amsterdam (and from the Space Cakes – if you know, you know) and feeling the effects of numerous pints, a gaggle of punk rockers took an interest in us and kindly pointed the way to the metro that would return us to our hostel. It was unseasonably cold in Hamburg, and we were glad to get underground. Referencing a non sequitur letter to the editor from the December 1984 issue of National Lampoon, in moments like these we jokingly referred to ourselves as three white guys in space. We even signed a few postcards that way when dropping a line to friends back stateside. The Hamburg Metro featured bright silver and red train cars that were remarkably clean – not at all what I was accustomed to growing up outside of New York City. There were improvements underway at several stations, the initial phase of an overdue facelift. I sat on one side of the train and my friends sat across from me, each of us maintaining a good buzz. There were no phones to command our attention; we kept our heads up, interacting with our surroundings, nodding at curious locals, mumbling “Guten Morgen” to people that sat near us. Above my friends I noticed a small poster advertising a concert in Stuttgart. Electric Light Orchestra with Rod Stewart. Apart from the band names, the only section not in German was the date. I was vaguely aware that Stuttgart was the place where Mercedes-Benz and Porsche were headquartered.
“What day is it?” I asked across the well-lit and surprisingly quiet train car. I had joined my best friends in Paris 9 days earlier and we were on the Eurail Pass plan for the entire summer. Party people on the train who likely suspected we were from the US – me sporting a disintegrating LL Bean polo and Nike sneakers – received confirmation when we spoke.
“Well, it was Saturday when we hit those St. Pauli bars. It’s early Sunday now,” Barry said.
“I mean, what is the date?” Barry focused on the Ironman watch on his wrist. We had all watched Top Gun together in May, right before graduation – two dozen guys from our fraternity at the local theater in Allentown – and when we exited the movie Barry had announced succinctly, “That’s what I’m going to do.” And he did it; he punted a contract to play professional soccer for the Memphis Storm and became a Naval Aviator. Barry may have been motivated in part by the Hollywood impression that he would find himself forever in a target-rich environment wearing his future Service Dress Whites – he openly copped to it – and he was due at AOCS in Pensacola in the fall to launch a distinguished career spanning four decades.
“It’s the 13th. Why?”
“Because I know what we’re doing tomorrow. Tonight, rather.” I pointed at the poster above them. They turned to check it out and promptly nodded in agreement. This was how we made most all our moves that summer – one of us would overhear something from a group in a youth hostel or on a train, or read something on a message board, and that was that. It was so perfectly analog - young travelers today don’t seem to possess the skillset to learn (or even to ask) about things organically anymore – today there’s an algorithm-driven shortcut for pretty much anything. Several hours later we were sleeping on a 6-hour train to Stuttgart, Gordon poking around in the dog-eared Frommer’s Europe travel bible that he grabbed from his older brother, to see about finding a hostel. We departed the Hauptbahnhof into bright sunshine and walked a mile or more uphill to the youth hostel Gordon selected. Like most days, when we took off our packs, our backs were soaked with sweat. We crushed bottles of Volvic and Gerolsteiner to stay hydrated.
We were informed, scolded at, by a stern woman at the hostel that we were lucky that there had been a last-minute cancellation, and then she harshly cautioned that the doors would be locked at 1:00am – no exceptions. If we missed the cutoff, we would not have access to our gear until breakfast, and we would not be allowed to sleep on the front steps. “Don’t even think about pounding on the door,” she said, with extra stink-eye. We were not rule followers, and she either saw us coming or more likely had had her fill of traveling 20-somethings each summer for too many summers. We weren’t troublemakers, not in a shit-starting intentional way. Our first morning in Germany, the three of us looked both ways at a red light and seeing no cars, we strolled across the street. You could hear a collective gasp from the phalanx of pedestrians, patiently waiting for permission to cross, aghast at our reckless disregard for the flashing red hand. Comments like “Was ist das?” seemed to follow us like a stray dog, undeservedly so in many cases. We agreed to the woman’s terms, stowed our backpacks, changed clothes and started out toward the velodrome where the concert would start in 2 hours.
Details like whether the show was sold out, did they sell tickets at the venue, or if we could legally scalp tickets near the premises without getting arrested didn’t get in the way – we detoured through a beautiful park along the route, grabbed some frankfurters and beers, and sorted it out as we went. ELO had been a favorite band for most of my life; nobody combined orchestra and rock-and-roll better than Jeff Lynne. Serendipity smiled upon our travels over the summer long. ELO was the first act, and to nobody’s surprise the acoustics of this modern cycling venue were brilliant. The setlist went as follows:
Twilight
Evil Woman
Livin’ Thing
10538 Overture
Showdown
Sweet Talkin’ Woman
Confusion
Telephone Line
Ma-Ma-Ma Belle
Rockaria!
Calling America
Rock ‘N’ Roll is King
Mr. Blue Sky
Hold On Tight
Don’t Bring Me Down
Roll Over Beethoven
The ELO set was a tour de force of classics, and Rod Stewart also put on a hell of a concert. He must have changed his outfit five times, a real showman. He also sent dozens of soccer balls into the audience, displaying exceptional full-volley football form despite wearing rock star boots and patent leather shoes. Several of the balls he kicked sailed well into the nosebleed seats. The high note for me was ELO’s iconic “Do Ya,” a personal favorite which was sonically staggering from its rumbling drum and cello crescendos to its dramatic pauses, through to its Mellotron-infused final movement. What I didn’t realize at the time, until just a few years ago when I looked up the setlist to create a mix, was that we were watching the final show before the original 70s-80s version of the band broke up. As a drummer and a longtime ELO fan, I was giddy to witness Bev Bevan pounding the skins for what would be the final gig. He may not appear on many top drummer lists, but the man is a beast. We had unknowingly witnessed an historic show, the end of an era, in a uniquely random and improbable way.
The entire summer went like that, making decisions easily on the fly. When we were invited onto a dude’s houseboat in Amsterdam and spotted a tray full of drugs and needles when he went out for beers, we promptly split without discussion. When a schoolteacher from Indiana drew us a map to find his secret place – a rustic olive farm on Anacapri situated a short but strenuous hike above the famed Grotto d’Azur – we stayed for three nights instead of one and savored pasta dinners and homemade wine with the family. We each called home once a week for proof of life and to check if anyone was looking for us – so we could either triangulate to meet up or make alternate plans. “Guys, we are not going to Rome on Thursday – someone pick another city, stat!” Had we overslept in Hamburg or if my mates had outvoted me on taking the train to Stuttgart that day, I would have eventually hunted down that setlist and learned that we had missed the final ELO show – only the post-Traveling Wilburys iterations and some limited ELO reunions would follow, bookending long periods of Mr. Lynne producing and doing other projects.
I celebrate all the random elements that had to align for us to attend that show. As we left the venue, called the Hanns-Martin-Schleyer-Halle, I spotted a Stevie Ray Vaughn concert poster in German thumbtacked onto a bulletin board – he was playing there the following week. I removed the tacks and rolled up the souvenir to bring home for my younger brother Drew. Once again, we heard a collective gasp from concertgoers who couldn’t believe this hooligan would abscond with such an item, however petty a crime it may have been. People were pointing at me, casting shame. I didn’t get arrested; that distinction would happen a week later when Barry and I were dragged off a bus in handcuffs in Baden-Baden and perp-walked across a busy plaza to the Polizeistation.
Read my last story-Emergency Breakthrough for Scott