ZapTown

Following the success of their 1971 album Paranoid, Black Sabbath had become bona fide rock stars. They returned to the studio to record Master of Reality and went on the road in 1972 to promote it. This included a stop at the venerable Indiana Theater on Washington Street. I was lukewarm to it, being more of a King Crimson/Pink Floyd fan, but my friends loved the screaming vocals and searing guitar work, and so we bought tickets.

But you simply could not beat the venue. Built in 1927 with a 3,000 see capacity, the old place was starting to feel the effect of the multiplexes sprouting in the suburbs, and no doubt booked their first-ever rock concert as a survival tactic. I had last been there in 1968, for the premier of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

My friends insisted on early arrival, and we found ourselves, literally at the front of the line, cross-legged before the magisterial stained glass entrance doors. Luckily, it was a pleasant August evening, because we sat there. And sat there. And sat some more. There was a noticeable police presence, and so banned substances remained safely in pockets, which considering what ended up happening, was possibly a mistake. People at least might have been a bit more laid back.

By forty five minutes past concert time, order had broken down. The orderly line became a crowd of impatient adolescents bunched up behind us. One panel of the double door opened , and we were the first to step through. The crowd behind us pressed to get in, and I turned in alarm at a visceral crunch and saw that the crowd’s pressure had crosshatched long cracks through the thick stained glass of the unopened door. We made immediately for the third row, dead center.

The Indiana was one of the few theaters in the country to install Cinerama, a three-screen projection technique that was supposed to revolutionize cinema. The theater had long since “downgraded” to a 75 mm screen, but the vast wall that had housed the three screens remained, cloaked in rich red velvet curtains. Both mezzanine and balcony filled to near capacity.

But the curtains remained closed. We sent Junior, the youngest of our crew of proto-headbangers, for popcorn and four molded plastic, orange-shaped bottles of sugary orange drink. And waited.

And waited more. More orange drink. Sugar buzzes for everyone. Finally the curtains parted to reveal a couple of cheap guitars with amplifiers the size of radios and a drum set. A suited manager said that the band was late, so they’d like to take volunteers from the audience to come up and play the instruments.

Plenty of volunteers, but no one who could really play. Sporadically, someone would toss one of their empty orange drink containers at the stage. Finally, some kid came on who could play a little bass, and that got the crowd going, but failed to stop the orange drink containers.

And then one of the amateur musicians decided to throw one back.

Plastic oranges rained down on the stage in an orange, sticky sheet sending both good and bad musicians diving for cover. When the barrage ceased, the suited manager shooed them off the stage and the curtains closed.

The concession stand either ran out of orange drink or stopped selling it, but it wasn’t long before the Ozman himself, svelte and still unravaged by excess, told us that he was really sorry but they wouldn’t be playing for us because their equipment got shipped to Chicago by mistake.

I ended up getting a refund in the mail five months later and to my recollection never returned to the Indiana. I hear that it is still open and home to less unruly live events by the Indiana Repertory Theater, for which I am very happy. It was a great place to be, even when it was raining orange drink bottles.