Summer Brings Concert Louts Out From Under Their Rock

Summer is upon us once again, bringing with it a seasonal pest that even repeated malathion sprayings haven’t been able to eradicate.

It’s known as the rock lout, a subspecies of the genus Homo imbecilus that also includes such near relatives as the opera hummer (“Dum dum de dump dump, dump de dump de dum”) and the movie talker (“You’ll love this movie, baby, honest--Norman dresses up as his own mother!”).

A co-worker raised the ugly issue after an encounter with a textbook rock lout last weekend at Don Henley’s concert at Irvine Meadows Amphitheatre.

Henley’s show, on the last leg of a tour that stopped at the Pacific Amphitheatre last fall, was an intelligent and sophisticated effort to touch on a variety of serious issues, from loss of innocence (both individually and culturally) to bureaucratic incompetence.

My colleague got steamed at a couple of young women seated near him who kept shouting requests for the few Henley hits they were familiar with (“Do ‘The Boys of Summmmmmmmmer’!!!”) , rather than take the blatantly obvious path and pay attention to the songs he was singing.

Oh, you’ll also encounter these oafs indoors, but for some reason, the degree to which they become a real nuisance seems to increase exponentially in any facility that doesn’t have a lid on it.

Maybe it’s the balmy summer nights.

Maybe it’s the exhilarating sight of a thousand points of light dotting the blanket of blue velvet up above.

Maybe it’s the beers.

Whatever it is, the rest of us jerks who ignorantly mind our own business must find what little comfort we can in remembering Woody Allen’s plea in “Annie Hall,” when confronted with a pseudo-intellectual chatterbox next to him in a movie-theater line, for “a large sock filled with manure.”

My personal favorite experience with the despoiling effect a rock lout can have on a performance goes back a couple of years, when Linda Ronstadt was doing her ‘40s-themed tours of big-band music. During her concert at the Pacific Amphitheatre in Costa Mesa, there was a particularly delicate moment when she was in the midst of a ballad; as I recall it was the Gershwins’ melancholy “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

Dressed impeccably in a period gown, her hair tastefully swept up in a snood, Ronstadt looked longingly up into the single beam of soft blue light that gently illuminated her face. As the strings of the Nelson Riddle orchestra sang ever so sweetly, and Ronstadt prepared to deliver the next verse of this lonely lover’s plea, up from the audience a voice came bellowing:

“Rock and Rolllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Excuse me, are you a complete moron or are you still working on it?

Do people like this see a marquee that reads: “Linda Ronstadt and the Nelson Riddle Orchestra” and buy tickets thinking it’s really a secret code for Motley Crue?

Or do they, perhaps, expect that after blaring out their request so tastefully that maybe Linda is suddenly going to drop her hand, turn to the band and say “OK, boys--gimme ‘Whole Lotta Love’ in A and let’s kick some butt this time!”

I’m all for fans showing their appreciation for a good performance, but all too often a small handful of--how can I put it delicately?--cretins can diminish enjoyment for the majority with their particular brand of celebrating.

Perhaps if everyone observed the following simple guidelines, there would be fewer sad cases like my colleague, who now argues that in terms of civility, the human race reached its zenith somewhere between the Bronze Age and the Worsted-Tweed Age.

* If you want to be assured of hearing all of Neil Young’s hits some evening, don’t shout for them at his concert. Stay home and play the records.

* If you feel the need to party all night long to your favorite Michael Jackson songs, don’t stand up and shake your body down to the ground in front of all your comfortably seated neighbors. Stay home and play the records.

* If you want to prove that you know the words to every one of Bonnie Raitt’s songs--even the one’s before the “Nick of Time” album--don’t assume that everyone else at the concert wants to hear you , not Bonnie, sing them. Stay home and play the records.

* Lastly, if you feel you simply must establish a personal bond with your favorite sensitive artiste, don’t cry out, “We love you, Axl!” during a tender ballad. Observe the advice of movie mogul Samuel Goldwyn--”If you want to send a message, use Western Union.”

Better yet, stay home and play the records.

Randy Lewis’ column moves to Fridays beginning next week.