It was 2003, I was nineteen years old and had just graduated from high school three months earlier, it was that last summer of freedom feeling, knowing that soon I’d be off to college and something new. It was a summer to be remembered, at least the parts that weren’t fogged over by the underage partying that I partook of. It was a summer of road trips for concerts, and generally just to go places. I drove across my terribly boring, flat home state to get to a real city to see real bands for once. You see, real bands rarely came to my ‘city’ of 85,000 in western South Dakota. So it became a rite of passage to flee the state at every opportunity because it was the only way you could get away from pickup trucks blasting pop-country. If it meant driving 8 hours to get to a real city? So be it. And indeed, that summer I drove nearly 600 miles to Minneapolis to see the Summer Sanitarium tour.
I went to either Denver or Minneapolis (or one time Boise, Idaho) frequently over the next several years, often with the excuse of seeing a band or an artist that would never come to Rapid City, South Dakota. I saw Metallica, I saw Iron Maiden, I saw Eric Clapton, I saw Dream Theater. All wonderful reasons to escape the doldrums of life in small-town America where we still had a Blockbuster in 2012. These weekends of freedom were exhilarating and only made me wish that I could get away for good.
But those excursions are not what I’m sitting down to write about, no, instead I want to talk about the band that I saw less than a week after Summer Sanitarium, this time closer to home. That Metallica concert was uproarious and energetic, but it didn’t compare to what the other concert would wind up meaning for me personally. Now, remember how I said that real bands rarely came to my hometown? There’s an exception to that rule – my hometown is about a half an hour drive from the yearly cesspool of drunken debauchery that is known as the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.
The quiet town of Sturgis, South Dakota with its population of fewer than 7,000 people would spend three weeks as the biggest party in the world. Hundreds of thousands of bikers and general ne’er do wells would descend on the town, filling acres of campsites and every hotel, motel, and spare bedroom for about 100 miles in any given direction. And not only would partiers spontaneously show up, but they’d bring the party with them. The bigger campsites – Glencoe, the Full Throttle Saloon, and the Legendary Buffalo Chip – would also attract those bigger bands that normally wouldn’t come anywhere near South Dakota.
Now, the audience for many of these skewed older – bikers in their 40s and 50s, trying to recapture their misspent youth – so many of the bands, while huge names, were well past their primes. The previous year, shortly after my 18th birthday, I went to my first concert at the Chip (and ever), and it was Poison. Headliners in 2003 included Blue Öyster Cult, Whitesnake, and Alice Cooper. For a kid who lived and breathed trashy classic rock, the Chip was a haven. From that year forward, I found myself there annually for some show or another, reveling in the party happening around me, a party that only became wilder when I became old enough to buy shots at the campground bar.
I wasn’t able to partake in 2003, and I’m probably better for it. That year, I wasn’t at the Chip for a classic band past their prime, I was there for something new for the Chip, a rare modern act – something that would become more and more common in the years following, but really this was the first time they tried to attract the younger audience. Now, don’t judge me by the headliner, as I was young and stupid, and hell, they had a song about comic books. Of course, I had bought my campground pass (see you didn’t buy tickets for Chip shows, you bought a pass to camp at their campsite, the concert was just an added benefit of the night) to see Three Doors Down. That band was flying high off of their two extremely successful albums, and I was stoked to see them.
I don’t remember a single minute of Three Doors Down’s set. I’m sure they played “Kryptonite” and I’m sure I went nuts for it, but I don’t remember it. Nor do I remember a thing about Our Lady Peace’s set, the third of four bands that played that night. I sort of remember “Broken” when Seether played their short set as the second opener. This was before that song hit big of course, and Amy Lee wasn’t there, but I have foggy memories of it all the same.
No, what I remember about that night, nearly twenty years later, is the raucous, noisy, virulent sound of the opening act. Because while I was waiting to hear “Kryptonite,” I was a bit annoyed that I had to sit through three bands before I’d get to see Three Doors Down. I didn’t know a single song from Our Lady Peace, Seether had two singles I didn’t care about yet (“Gasoline” would come about three weeks later, “Broken” was about another year from release).
And the opening band? Who the heck was this? I had never even heard of them. All I knew is that I had to suffer through them and two other bands to get to the one I really wanted to hear, but hey, the area around the stage wasn’t packed yet, so I could work my way closer so that when the main event was on I’d be in a great position. So as the roadies came out for the first soundcheck, I found myself front stage and center. Heck, maybe they’d be alright, if not, at least I was in a good spot for the main event.
Being the opening act of a four-band set, understandably they only had about a twenty-minute setlist. The setlist is lost to time, but I remember it extremely well. As the band took the stage it was still a couple of hours before sunset, the crowd not yet packing the amphitheater, though many motorcycles were already sitting in the field. Oh did I forget to mention that part? At the Buffalo Chip, you could ride your hog around pretty much anywhere in the campsite, even the concert amphitheater. Wild, right? As the fresh-faced band came out, their opening track screeched alive with brilliant feedback. “Crying Out” isn’t one of the band’s hits, but it was a perfect opening number to hype up a crowd that had been intent on waiting them out. A basic distillation of their earliest sound, it’s a high-energy anthem perfect to open a set. If I was going to sit through an opening band, at least it was going to be fun.
And as “Crying Out” played, a familiarity washed over me. Over the past four months, I’d occasionally heard a song on the radio, from a band trying to make it, a little number entitled “Fly From The Inside.” A song with a heavy driving riff, and a thumping bassline, but what really made it soar was Brent Smith’s high octane vocals. A wondrous mix of Ronnie Van Zant and Bruce Dickinson, “Fly From The Inside” perfectly highlighted his vocal range, a thing that would become the signature sound for the band. But I really didn’t pay Shinedown much mind with that first single, maybe they’d hit it big, maybe not.
It was the drive home from Minneapolis, five days before I’d be going to the Chip for Three Doors Down, that I really started paying attention. The DJ of whatever rock station I had found in the middle of the godless expanse of South Dakota prairie announced that he had a new single from a band named Shinedown. What came next was visceral and life-changing, I just didn’t know it yet.
The song that played started off slow and melodious, quiet and balladlike, lulled you into a false sense of security. But as the chorus approached, you could feel the song gather an energy about it, empty spaces between words where it felt like Smith was taking deep breaths to ready himself for the onslaught to come. The song suddenly shifted, the quiet guitar from Jasin Todd ramped up into another driving riff, punctuated by a change in Smith’s vocals as he screamed: “I’m staring down the barrel of a ‘45” into unexpecting ears. As quickly as the pace picked up, it dropped back off between choruses, just an ebb and flow, expending energy only to build it back up. Rock radio being what it is, I heard “45” several more times during that eight-hour drive, but it never grew grating or tiring, it always felt fresh and new.
“In Memory” was the band’s second number, a song similar in vein to “45” in starting slow before picking up steam, but one that unlike the newly released single didn’t ebb and flow in the same way, once it picked up it stayed there, with Smith holding notes that most frontmen can only dream of while Todd’s guitar work was intricate with a flashy distorted riff to support the vocals..
As the band continued their set they closed with the only two songs people in the general audience might be familiar with at this point. With it only being a handful of days old, “45” had not yet picked up enough traction to be their closer, but it was an instant hit with the audience as that same building of energy seemed even more powerful live. As the band built toward the crushing chorus, you could almost feel a chill in the air as it seemed like Smith was drawing all the air of backwater South Dakota into his lungs to unleash with a ferocity unexpected by the growing audience. And I’d be remiss to not mention the often overlooked drum work of Barry Kerch, keeping the melodic pace until it was time to amp things up.
Shinedown closed that short set with the safe choice, the song that had been on the radio for five months already, “Fly From The Inside.” And while it was the safe choice, it also didn’t compare to the energy that “45” had built, leaving us wanting for more as they prepared to leave the stage so Seether could take over. Before they did though, they left me with one last vivid memory as Brent Smith took the mic to thank the audience for their energy. Now it’s been nearly twenty years, so this quote might not be exactly what was said, but the feeling of it is accurate: “Man, y’all look like you’re having a blast out there! Can I get another engine rev? (cue hundreds of motorcycles revving their engines in response) We were just gonna go backstage and have some champagne, but damn if it doesn’t look like more fun down there. We think we’ll join you.”
My memories of the rest of the night are foggy at best, but I do have memories of rocking next to rockstars in the audience as the other three bands played that night. The following week I tracked down Shinedown’s debut album Leave A Whisper and it was a staple in my CD player for years afterward. It provided the soundtrack as I embarked for college seven hours from home. It was a constant road trip companion when I visited Denver or my dad, it became both a karaoke mainstay for me (brutally I did not do nearly as well holding notes as Smith) and an album I learned to play on guitar.
Nineteen years later, and that singular night helped shape my love of music and cemented Shinedown as my favorite band (okay it would be a few years before I declared them that, but that night was the start). Their albums have always had a way of connecting with me when I need them the most, even through lineup changes. The Sound of Madness came out shortly before I drove to meet my long-distance girlfriend for the first time in person, and when we broke up on that ill-fated trip, it provided the angry, broken-hearted soundtrack for my six-hour drive home from Denver.
Likewise, Threat To Survival came out a year after I finally escaped South Dakota. I moved across the country putting distance between me and everyone I loved, but also from the toxicity of my relationship with my mother. Several of the tracks on this album either resonated with removing myself from that relationship or worked to amplify the loneliness I felt 1,000 miles away from my closest friends. While “Cut the Cord” perfectly spoke the words I needed to hear in regards to my mom, “Thick As Thieves” became the melody I thought of when I longed to see my best friend.
As Shinedown ominously prepares to release their seventh studio album, I’m once more a year distanced from a momentous move, this time not only across the country but internationally. I’m excited to hear how the songs on this new album will reflect on my life as it is now because I’m sure I’ll find meaning in them.
Yes, it's Cori McCreery—strange visitor from DC fandom who came to Xavier Files with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal critics. Cori, who can leap tall buildings in a single bound, race a speeding bullet to its target, bend steel in her bare hands, and who, also works as an editor for a great Eisner winning website, Women Write About Comics, fights a never-ending battle for truth and justice.