It was 1972. I was
16 and I loved outlaw country music. My
vinyl collection boasted music by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Kris
Kristofferson. Not many of my high
school peers shared my taste in music, but my best friend, Dusty, who I’d known
since we were 11, was as crazy about it as me, which is just one of the reasons
we were best friends.
The day we learned Kris Kristofferson was going to be in concert, we begged our parents for permission to go, collected our saved up our allowance and babysitting money to buy the tickets and waited impatiently for THE night to arrive.
The day we learned Kris Kristofferson was going to be in concert, we begged our parents for permission to go, collected our saved up our allowance and babysitting money to buy the tickets and waited impatiently for THE night to arrive.
The concert venue was downtown and I was nervous about
driving in unknown territory. Dusty
assured me that with her riding shotgun, we’d be fine. That night we climbed into my 1966 VW Bug and
traversed the puzzle of one-way streets to the concert hall.
We sat on the edge of our seats in the balcony and dramatically
sighed, when, at last, Kris Kristofferson sauntered on stage, dressed in a pale
blue wrinkled shirt, sleeves rolled up, faded jeans, worn boots and his guitar
slung over his shoulder. We were in ‘teenage-girl-with-a-crush-heaven’
when he began singing. We knew every
word to every song and were disappointed when he left the stage after his final
song. We hoped we could score an
autograph and pushed our way out of the venue to the street and around the
corner, hoping for even a glimpse of our beloved star.
We giggled and looked around, surprised that we were the
only two waiting outside the side door.
We stood in the glow of a streetlight, otherwise draped in
darkness. Suddenly, the door opened and
three men emerged, each carrying a guitar case, laughing and
mid-conversation. They stopped abruptly
when they saw us.
Even in the dim light, we immediately recognized Kris
Kristofferson. He smiled at us and I
felt my knees shaking and I suddenly couldn’t even remember my name. I could not believe I was standing next to
Kris Kristofferson. He was so close to
us, I could smell him. He smelled like
whiskey.
Dusty and I were so star-struck that we could hardly find
the words to speak, but I remember finally gushing about how much I loved the
concert, and then asked for an autograph.
He scratched his head and drawled, “Well, this is the first time anyone
asked me for my autograph. I’m not sure
what I’m supposed to do.” I was in
disbelief but dug into my purse and pulled out a scrap of paper—which happened
to be the receipt from the concert ticket purchase. He took it from me, our
fingers touching briefly (I was never washing that hand again), signed his name
(I was staring at his face) and handed it back to me. I could not stop smiling
and giggling.
Then, he grinned again and queried, “Do you girls want to
party? We’re going to a party.”
I remember freezing in place, blushing and then panic hit me. I stammered and muttered something about our
curfew and thanked him for the autograph.
We raced back to the Bug, slid in, slammed and simultaneously locked the
doors. My hands were still shaking as I
turned the key in the ignition and drove away.
Neither one of us had said a word.
I was still waiting for my heartbeat to slow down. Dusty, in her usual style, and too loud voice, blurted
out, “THAT was crazy!” I laughed
hysterically and we both started singing ‘Me and Bobby Mc Gee’.
I’ve never been to another Kris Kristofferson concert but I
still have his autograph on that faded receipt and wonder if it really was the
first one he’d ever signed.
