To reach Red Rocks, America’s #7th best amphitheater, you must consult a trail map. Hump it up the Trading Post Trail to Ship Rock Road and then look sharp for the entrance. Otherwise, you might climb Mount Blue Sky by mistake. And you can’t see the stage from there.
That #7 ranking is just out from USA Today, which somehow found six other amphitheaters that were better. Of course, five of those are near sea level, which means that performers and audiences have an advantage: they can breathe. After the famous alpinist Ringo Starr conquered the rocky venue, in 1964, he said: “It was very high, and the air was thin. They were giving us hits from oxygen canisters.”
Our legendary amphitheater was the only venue the Beatles failed to sell out on their first American tour. It’s a tough crowd up there. Of course, it has to be.
Red Rocks is at 6,540 feet, so it looks down on Mount Washington, New Hampshire’s highest peak. At Red Rocks, you gain and lose 200 vertical feet just to reach the bathroom. And you’ll need that after three $12 beers. Your ticket budget will likewise be elevated. Is it worth a grand to hear James Taylor sing “Fire and Rain,” again and again and again? 19,050 people found out last weekend, attending two sold out shows.
I personally have seen both fire and rain at Red Rocks. Just not James. Our sons goaded us into buying tickets for Beck. The famous views were blotted out mid-concert, by an onrushing gale. “I’m a loser, baby,” Beck sang. We chattered back at him, “So why did you chill me?”
But risk is part of the thrill. And Red Rocks is always a thrill.
A couple of years ago I was the only guy among 9,000 women who turned up there to hear Brandi Carlile. There was zero line for the men’s room.
Brandi bounced her soaring alto off the cliffs, charmed her fans, and drove off mountain lions waiting to eat late arrivals in the Upper North Lot. Between songs, she reminded us that, back in the day, she was a regular at the Mishawaka Amphitheatre, up Poudre Canyon. So she already knows not to stand too close to the mic during a thunderstorm.
For all of that, I feel like my summer is wasted if I don’t climb high for a concert there. I think of it as “type-two” fun.“Type one” fun requires no effort. “Type three” fun kills you. So “type two” is the sweet spot, which co-mingles pain with pleasure.
You emerge with a story to tell.
Like that time John Prine and I met up at Red Rocks, along with the entire Colorado Symphony. Prine would die seven months later, when Covid shut his lungs down. So now I’m left with grateful memories of the strings swelling as Prine sang “Paradise,” an environmental lament.
The story sounded familiar to me.
Mr. Peabody, the villain of Prine’s song, used “the world’s largest shovel” to haul away the coal, and soul, of the mountains. Likewise, developers in the 1940s used big trucks to pound bleacher seats into the famous red rocks of Morrison. Good for concerts, bad for a mountain.
“When I die let my ashes float down the Green River,” Prine sang. “Let my soul roll on up to Rochester Dam. I’ll be halfway to heaven with Paradise waiting, just five miles away from wherever I am.”
I feel that way at Red Rocks, too: in paradise. For how long, nobody knows.
So, I better buy some tickets soon. The Kiwi pop star Lorde will be at Red Rocks just before ski season starts. I’m sure the weather will be fine on October 24. And if it isn’t? At least I’ll have a story to tell.
