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Flash forward to Tuesday in Vancouver. I hate the Pacific Coliseum. The seats are cramped, the arena itself is in a really choice part of town, and the staff are lame. When Terri went for a couple of bottles of water, the caps were removed "for security purposes". Huh?????? Booze and drugs are all over the place and they’re worried about a pair of plastic bottle tops? That said, onto the show.

We were feeling pretty pumped after Kamloops. Our seats in Vancouver were way further from the stage—two sections over from the in/out gate, in Row 18 of 19 at the top of the bowl, but still on the aisle. This proved to be more a trial than a bonus, as people kept coming and going all during the show. What the heck do people come to rock concerts for? It’s clearly not to see the band, since the Vancouver Lep experience was less a joy than an ordeal, with the band playing the soundtrack for a series of annoying incidents that started pretty well once the lights dimmed.

The good thing is that I had a better listen to Ricky Warwick this time, since no one comes to hear the opening act, and I decided to get his album as a result. I’m curious to hear how the studio tracks compare to him live and alone with his guitar. His voice is good and strong, his inflection passionate and his lyrics reminiscent of a 60s storyteller.

At 8.25, the boss’s mike stand was put in place. "Disintegration" started up. So did the crowd. I caught the distant shadows of people heading for the stage: Joe wasn’t as jazzed as he was cocky this time out, swaggering a bit as he crested the stairs. All attitude, and with a bigger crowd to conquer than he’d had in Kamloops.

We knew going in it would be rougher than the ‘Loops show. The sheer number of people was going to be a challenge. When the folks in front of us jumped to their feet, there were immediate problems. I could only see by standing, myself, thus blocking the view of the well-mannered guy in the seat behind me. Even on her feet, Terri couldn’t see past the heads and shoulders in front of her. As I’ve said, she’s only five foot four, and slipping into the aisle for a quick glance at the band she also paid $45.00 to see but couldn’t see, she was nudged back into place by security. This was not going to be fun.

Shock of shocks, the band played "Action" instead of "Rock Rock"; a cover instead of an original, which was cool even if it wasn’t "Stagefright". I’d hoped they would play that song for my sister, also in the crowd but in way better seats, as this was her first Leppard experience and "Stagefright" is her favourite song. Other than that, the set list was almost identical to the one played in Kamloops. Phil was highlighted for the first verse and chorus of "Miss You In a Heartbeat"—Joe introduced him "in this corner, all 128 pounds of him", and when he was finished, the boss added, "If you liked that, you should see him tap dance."

At one point (I can’t even tell you which song was playing), one of the guys in the row behind us was so drunk that he tripped over the empty seat beside me and would have smashed his skull on the concrete floor had his buddy not grabbed him by the belt and hauled him upright again. Beer was spilled on my sweater around that time; combined with the unwelcome reek of pot, it set me up for a good dose of nausea because I despise beer in any form, and having it soak into my clothes is a pissoff in the first degree. The little girl next to me made a dozen trips to and fro during the entire course of the set, apologizing every time but interrupting nonetheless. Not that this was any bigger a distraction than the bobbing heads and waving arms above eye level. By the time "Rocket" hit, I gave up and sat staring at the roof, thinking that maybe, maybe Joe would salvage the show with a snippet of "Radar Love" during the bridge. When he repeated his Who offense with the same nugget of "My Generation" he had sung in Kamloops, I was so wrought that I challenged the legitimacy of his birth at the tops of my lungs, at which point Terri decided it was time to get me out of there before I killed someone. People were hanging out in the stairwells, obscuring the "do not stand in stairwell" signs, so we thought we’d try the same trick. We got busted and sent back to our seats. Terri ventured down to the front of the section in hopes of a closer look at Joe during one of his forays to stage right; just as his foot hit the soapbox, security intervened and asked her to return to her seat.

I think "Sugar" was playing when we finally snapped. The guy who had earlier saved his buddy from a smashed skull when he toppled over the seat beside me was suddenly doing the same thing himself, diving down between the girl beside me and her boyfriend, pushing her into me and me into Terri, who wound up in the aisle again. I figured security would bust her for being out of place, but not this time, not when we needed them. So this guy is now clambering head first over the seats. Security finally gets the idea that something is awry and steps in with a flashlight. He’s looking for something. Yikes, thinks I, he’s dropped a toonie or something and he can’t let it go. Terri and I exchange looks, rapidly nearing the end of our mutual ropes. Then the guys is righted once more, people move back into place and I give the girl beside me a quizzical glance. Her boyfriend, you see, had been the recipient of a grateful hug from the back row. She leans in and shouts. "He dropped his glasses!"

Ye gods. I tell Terri. She gapes at me, forgetting to be pissed, then starts to laugh. Hysterically and with abandon. I laugh with her. We work ourselves into a total frenzy, and suddenly it dawns on me that the next few moments are our last with Def Leppard. They were there, you know, playing hit after hit while we fought and failed to pay attention. My apologies to the preppy collegiates in the seats directly behind us; we tossed courtesy to the wind and threw ourselves full tilt into the shattered remains of the gig. We screamed when Joe commanded us. We took a zillion pictures—few of which turned out—and dared security to confiscate the cheapo camera at this late date. They didn’t. We waved and danced and laughed and almost cried. You want to cry when it’s over. These guys mean so much and you don’t know when or if you’ll see them again, so you tear up and bite your lip and get through it, waving and shouting as if Joe can actually isolate you in the crowd at the top of the bowl. Then they were gone, swallowed by the Coliseum as the lights came up, destined for Seattle in the next couple of days.

Looking back, I remember bits and pieces that were not so bad. Joe did not razz anyone in the crowd, nor did he mention Kamloops. He was taken aback at 20 years having passed since their first visit to Canada. "Twenty years," he said. "Holy shit." Sav praised us during the encore as he had in Kamloops, saying we were "amazing". Rick Allen was the last to leave the stage every time; during his intro for "Rock of Ages", Joe said, "This guys sits up there every night and never says a fucking word." Rick then stood up and did an admirable impression of Mr. Fisty, howling as he does whenever he’s finally acknowledged. He’s the world’s bravest drummer and he gets so little attention on stage—though his solo on "Switch 625" was rewarded by 10,000 throats in Vancouver instead of the 5,000 in Kamloops. The sound was better in Vancouver, though it may have been due to proximity. And during the Kamloops gig, Joe had to keep motioning for the sound guy to up the volume on his mike. When his voice finally did come up, it did so with a chilling vengeance. There is no throat in rock and roll that can beat Joe Elliott. There are comparable voices, but no one yowls like the big golden cat.

Thanks, guys. You did your best and we love you for it. Vancouver was bittersweet, though I understand that other people (those who don’t care about smaller people in the back, allergies to pot, or anyone who dislikes beer—especially wearing it) had a great time, just as I understand that Kamloops was an ordeal for some while we had a blast. I suppose it’s relative. What matters is that the Leps rocked out both times. Sav is the dishiest bass player on the planet. Phil dazzles when he plays. Viv plays a mean solo. Rick is just the greatest drummer in the world. And no matter how unruly the crowd or how arduous the concert experience may be, Joe Elliott is always God.