There's a lot to this post, so I'll get this out of the way first:
Matt told me Tyler got tickets to the free Rage Against The Machine concert and I leaped from bed.
Within thirty minutes, we were in the Denver Coliseum, and despite the fact I hadn't eaten anything yet, I was feeling elated. I was more than willing to put aside my indie-cred to admit that, yes, I loved Rage Against The Machine as a kid, and, yes, I still do love Rage Against The Machine.
Yes, I recognize that they market anti-capitalist revolution through a corporate major recording label that pays them handsomely. Yes, I understand that the rap-metal trend of the 1990s is single-handedly their fault.
But I don't care. They do what they do well. Very well.
What greatly disappointed me was the general apolitical nature of the crowd. The majority of the audience were merely there to see Rage. Each time Jello Biafra, who acted as host of this thing, would launch into one of his famously witty political rants, the crowd was blatantly not into it, and more interested in getting their $6 nachos and $3 bottled water than realizing why they were here in the first place. Any attempts to get chants going were embarrassing. It made me fear for our generation as a whole.
Who impressed me greatly were the Flobots, a Denver band you may have heard on the radio or MTV, ("...I can ride my bike with no handlebars/ No handlebars/ No handlebars...") While I doubt I could listen to their album for extended periods of time due its often sloganeering lyrics, their live show was something incredible, due in no small part to their endlessly talented violist. She made the band.
Rage's set was one of classics, playing to the audience every hit, every song the fans would like to hear. Fortunately, I had met up with Brock incidentally, and Tyler and I sat with him, getting perfect seats. At first it was weird being in the seated area during a show as volatile as Rage Against The Machine, but as soon as they went on, I'm really glad I wasn't down there.
The crowd went absolutely nuts. There were waves of people moshing and shoving one another, especially when Wayne Kramer of classic proto-punk band, the MC5, (who played the 1968 Chicago DNC), came onstage with Rage to perform "Kick Out The Jams".
Watching this crowd explode, knowing full and well that the concert preceded a march into downtown Denver, had me vaguely worried about the level of violence that was about to ensue in the streets. Though everyone from Jello Biafra to the Flobots to Rage themselves made an intense effort to preach non-violence to the crowd, I figured there was no way it wouldn't be.
The march that followed the Rage concert was sponsored by protest groups Tent State University, and mostly, Iraq Veterans Against The War. The veterans led the nearly six-mile march into downtown from the Coliseum. I figured other people would be covering it and decided to get some food and wait until it came into town.
Two hours later, while walking to pick up my camera from Kate, I see a massive wall of people coming through the Auraria Campus. "This is impossible," I thought to myself.
An estimated 6,000 people marched with the Iraq Vets Against The War, and my faith was renewed.
After finagling my way into the fray, (the only time this entire week my press pass worked), I blew past the police that were blocking delegates and other citizens from getting through and started filming. The amount of people in this protest was staggering. They had begun to sit in the streets and block traffic. A lot of them got out their guitars and starting playing Bob Dylan songs. One woman's voice was a dead ringer for Janis Joplin's. Protesters were shaking hands with one another, meeting for the first time and sharing water with one another. Others freestyled imagistic rhymes about the state of affairs, about liberty, about rising up. Music held this place together, much like it has throughout the city this week. Connections to our current decade and the Sixties were never more justified.
As the march sat up and marched onto Speer Blvd., I knew there was going to be trouble. We all could feel it, that itchiness.
American soldiers, in full uniform, stood in lines and stared down the police, who had entered in full riot-gear. The police surrounded the marchers, as well as the soldiers who led them, in SWAT Team vans, on jet-black cherry-pickers, and on foot. The image was staggering, to say the least, these two symbols of authority squaring off in an almost unbearably heated standoff.
Everyone was awaiting the thunder. The vets were protesting Obama's war plan, asking him to accept the three tenets of their organization [1) Immediate and complete removal of all troops from Iraq, 2) Full healthcare benefits for returning vets, 3) Reperations to the Iraqi people we've hurt from our occupation of their country].
Until Obama agreed to meet with their group, they would remain in the streets.
Obviously, no one thought Obama would be bothered by this protest group during what is probably the most important political week of his career thus far, so we were all awaiting the violence.
It was dusk. Our cameras were trained on the tense showdown, and our bandanas were over our faces. The police had asked them to disperse. They were immovable. The police adjusted their position closer. They were immovable.
And just when it seemed like all was going to break...
"Obama's agreed to meet with one of our members!"
Rather than break out into violence, a protest march of roughly 6,000 people broke out in celebration. A protest march of roughly 6,000 people began dancing, hugging, and crying, even chanting Obama's tagline: "Yes, we can!"
This, more than anything else this week, reaffirmed my hope in this country. That non-violent, civil disobedience could actually work, if only this one time.
The sun was low. Colors illuminated the sky. And somewhere within them, our forefathers were smiling.
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