Here’s Part 1 of a 3-part series on my remembrance of the 1979 Texxas Jam rock concert at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas.
Great moments in live music aren’t planned, they just happen.
That was never more indisputable than on the sizzling summer night of June 9, 1979, at the Cotton Bowl stadium in Dallas.
I was there.
By the time nearly 100,000 dazed and confused rock music fans witnessed the American band Heart take the massive stage nearing sundown at around 8 pm, many trapped within the parched crowd were already running on empty. They were dehydrated, sunburned, doped up, laying down, passed out, or simply exhausted beyond any comprehensible resemblance of humanity. Many in the crowd had been standing on their feet for 10 hours with no reprieve, sardined like stick figures in a sea of bodies and sweat, brined in a ghostly cloud of marijuana smoke, and sweltering in on-the-field temperatures of 130 degrees in the brutal Texas summer heat.
Earlier that day, concession stands had shut down. They’d simply run out of selling anything that was cold or liquid. There was nothing to eat or drink. So, the stadium’s concrete restrooms turned into watering holes. The Cotton Bowl was a giant cattle ranch. Hundreds in the crowd fainted and had to be resuscitated inside makeshift tents set up behind the main stage. It was so hot that, between bands, giant firehoses were turned onto the scorched crowd. Everyone lurched towards the spray desperate for a blast of cool water or anything that was wet.
The Dallas Police Department, a heavy presence at the concert at the outset, ignored the chaos and eventually gave up providing any sense of law and order. They gradually disappeared from the scene. It was a lost cause. Or, maybe it was the police lacking any foresight by wearing black uniforms and hats that made patroling all but impossible in the blistering conditions, baking under the blazing sun. By midday, cops out of sight, the insane asylum had been turned over to the inmates.
Indeed, music and marijuana and mass madness do intoxicate the mind and even numb the body, making inconvenience not only tolerable but an expected part of the glorious experience in a “hurts so good” sort of way.
But that was 1979. Let’s go back to see how we got here.
The story of the 1979 Texxas Jam cannot be told without recalling its inaugural predecessor held the previous year — the 1978 Texxas World Music Festival.
Long before mega rock concerts became a thing, starting with the Monterey Pop Festival (1967), then Woodstock (1969), then California Jam (1974), organizing big concerts seemed impossible. Getting a dozen or so big-name rockers to be released from contracts and perform on a common date inside a giant outdoor sports stadium simply wasn’t workable — not worth the time, the effort, or the immense risks. Sometimes, people even died.
And the Cotton Bowl seemed like the most dangerous venue imaginable given all the challenges of pulling off a mega concert in the late 70s. The logistics were a nightmare.
For one thing, the Cotton Bowl was a rundown former NFL stadium with almost no facilities to handle such a gargantuan event, let alone the inevitable emergency conditions. Next, holding an all-day concert in the middle of summer might as well have been sticking everyone under a broiler. Then, add the on-the-field temperates reaching up to 30 degrees higher in some spots that were simmering atop a gigantic plastic tarp blanketing astroturf, and these weren’t conditions for a live concert. It was a recipe for smoked brisket.
Here’s a 3-minute snippet from a little-seen documentary of the memorable 1978 show:
Many who were there insist Van Halen stole the ’78 show. The inaugural lineup at the first of two shows included — Walter Egan, Van Halen, Eddie Money, Atlanta Rhythm Section, Head East, Journey, Heart, Ted Nugent, Aerosmith, Frank Marino, and Mahogany Rush.
Between acts, while the stage was being reset for the next band, Cheech & Chong then at the height of their popularity, entertained the crowd with comedy routines. The dope jokes were a big smash. The whole place went Up in Smoke.
Aerosmith got the prime spot on the bill as the headliner. They launched into their set promptly at dark. Incredibly, there’s very little footage of the concert, other than Aerosmith’s drug-hazed performance.
Turned out, this was the first southern stadium rock show since ZZ Top played to 80,000 people at UT-Austin’s Memorial Stadium in 1974 and tore up the field. In the aftermath of the destructive ZZ Top UT-show, there was never supposed to be another stadium rock show in Texas again, a prohibition that lasted all of four years.
I didn’t attend the ’78 show, which even had an encore concert hastily scheduled weeks later that included three more big acts on the bill — including The Little River Band, Steve Miller Band, and Fleetwood Mac. But some of my close friends attended both shows. Afterward, they talked about their experience for the rest of the summer. Everyone who was there talked about those shows. It was like seeing ten concerts for the price of one. Tickets cost $12. I promised myself that I’d go if they did it again next year.
And so when June of 1979 came around I was lucky. Not only did I get a ticket (this time for $15) — I also enjoyed the accompaniment of three friends who were experienced rock concert-goers. They’d all been the year before, so they knew the layout. They knew what to expect. They were prepared. And, fortunately, thanks to them, so was I.
When it’s blazing hot and you’re outdoors and you know it’s going to get up to 100 degrees with 80 percent humidity, the last place you want to be is on the field. That’s a mistake. For a number of reasons. First, the view of the stage sucks. Second, there’s no seating. Third, it’s next to impossible to get to a restroom. Fourth, food and/or water might as well be non-existent. And then finally, it’s hot as fuck out there!
Who wants to stand on their feet from noon until midnight?
So, arriving two hours before the show started at around 9 am, we took four seats right next to a tunnel in the stadium’s lower deck, which even provided a sliver of shade. It was perhaps 30 rows off the field, on the 20-yard-line if there’d been a football game. In other words, perfect seats.
By 11 am, it was already nearing 100 degrees. The day’s forecast called for a high of 104. The crowd which had swelled to full capacity and overflowing into the aisles began to roar. Drugs of every kind came out of nowhere. Bic lighters snapped by the thousands. TKO, a heavy metal band from Seattle, took the stage, blasted a guitar riff that exploded from racks of wall speakers the size of an apartment building, and the 1979 Texxas World Music Festival was officially underway.
In Part 2, the 1979 Texxas Jam continues. That story is coming next.