There was a time when being a rocker meant something. You had to have balls, because it meant being an outcast. No one understood us. We, too, didn’t understand it much ourselves at the time. It was simply who we were.
Thirty bucks and a weapon search got you into Red Rocks where the toilet beside the stage always was rank, the plump girl in Goth gear always danced by herself and there would always be some punk who would get his head smashed. Bands that knew how to play their instruments were rare those days and bands that dared play their songs were even rarer. Local acts didn’t much airplay on popular radio stations back then. The only recordings you could get were musical compilations and underground audio tapes of punk bands from the Twisted Red Cross label.
Just a minor correction though. My surname is spelled as Oliva and not Olivia 😉