He Got High (Altitude) With a Little Help from His Friends

Ringo Starr visited one of my favorite places in Colorado. Which is also one of my favorite places, anywhere. WRITTEN, ILLUSTRATED, & even SPOKEN by PETER MOORE

Hello to my Road2Elsewhere fellow travelers!

Did you know that you’re one of about 13,000 subscribers and followers, here? You’re the reason why, just this morning, I was named the 33rd funniest writer on Substack. It won’t last, but it makes me happy, anyway.

I’m a medium-small deal here on Substack, but I’m just a pipsqueak in the NPR universe. And yet, I contribute regularly to our Colorado stations, which I know because my neighbors and friends frequently ask me: “Was that you, on the radio, last Friday?”

Answer: Yes! (If you enjoyed what I was saying.)

This week’s commentary answers a riddle: Where in Colorado do you have to hike to the destination, but it isn’t a mountain top? You can listen to the answer here, or read it below without my annoying voice to distract you.

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HOST: It’s outdoor concert season in Colorado. KUNC commentator Peter Moore is packing an umbrella, and a hard hat, for the concert, just in case the weather shows up, too.

TO REACH RED ROCKS, America’s #7th best amphitheater, you have to 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 venues are near sea level, which means that performers and audiences have an advantage: they can breathe. After the famous alpinist Ringo Starr experienced our rocky venue, in 1964, he said: “It was very high and the air was thin. They were giving us hits from oxygen canisters.”

(Translation into Ringo-ese: “‘Twas verry oi n’ th’ aer wuz tin. T’ey wus givin’ oos ‘its froom ooxygin can-sters!”)

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 from 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 to hear Brandi Carlile. It felt like Barbie World sprung to life. Better still: There was zero line for the men’s room.

Brandi bounced her soaring alto off the cliffs, charmed her fans, and drove off any 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 Mishawaka, 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.

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.

“When I die let my ashes float down the Green River,” Prine sang. “Let my soul roll on up to the 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 24th.

And if it isn’t? At least I’ll have a story to tell.

OUTRO. Peter Moore is a writer and cartoonist living in Fort Collins. You can hear, and see, more of his work at KUNC.org.

“So this is America. They must be out of their minds.” —Ringo Starr

A rare photograph from the Beatles show at Red Rocks, on August 26, 1964. It’s so rare, in fact, that I completed it this morning.

In all fairness, Ringo was a few bubbles off plumb, too.

I write and illustrate here because I love to, full stop.

BUT if you’d like to help me out, you could either…

…or you could leave a comment, to tell me that the Beatles never wore Bernie Sanders mittens in concert…

…or you could share this with a friend who also has trouble performing in concert at 6,540 feet.

Thanks so much for joining me here. Yeah, yeah, yeah.