By MARK GILCHRIST

I don’t know who she thought I was or why she came up to me, but in a single gesture a woman at the Dogwood Festival in Fayetteville earlier this year had me savoring the ranch-dressing-draped cherry tomatoes of my salad days.

During the festival I was getting homesick for Orlando, Fla., reminiscing about the great times I’d had there in the 1980s and 1990s. I haven’t been out of Columbus County much in the past five years and had forgotten what it was like to spend a day at a special event among tens of thousands of people. Hootie and the Blowfish was playing that evening, but seating for the concert was on a first-come basis, so, if I wanted a good seat, I’d have to claim it early.

I have become spoiled after years of enjoying backstage passes and hospitality venues in Florida, and am loathe to sit with the masses for a crummy seat, but I decided to stay for Hootie, and I decided to stake out a place about 20 feet from the stage. I started at 5 p.m.

The next three hours had their depressing moments. I didn’t have a chair, so I stood, amid a crowd of people all sitting in chairs. I got to feeling very small, remembering the big times I’d had with my friends. We were a part of the crowd that put on events like these and we usually found ourselves either working events or lounging in hospitality areas.

I’ve been closer than most to the likes of Miles Davis, Spyro Gyra, Bruce Springsteen and Chuck Mangione. I chauffeured Maynard Ferguson to a concert and I handed Tito Puente a cash-filled envelope that he tucked into his trousers right on stage.

After all that, it’s humbling to stand all alone in the hot sun with your “no-access pass” – and the partying was all around me. To my left was a large group of people my age who had brought in drinks and chairs and were having a great time. Me? I had my camera, and I busied myself shooting the warm-up acts.

By 6 p.m., the sun began its descent and the crowd grew larger. People all around me were sitting in chairs, and I knew if I stayed there during the show I’d annoy a lot of people. I had spent an hour saving that spot, but I had to move.

On the edge of the street, stage right, was an empty spot on a steel railing. I gave up my prime spot center stage and went over there – at least I’d have something to lean on. Right behind the railing, though, after a 10-foot drop, was a rock-filled waterfall. If someone fell over the railing, they would tumble on rocks and crash into cold water.

Lean on the railing? Heck, I sat on it, and I spent the next two hours watching the crowd and making small talk with my neighbors.

By 7 p.m. the crowd started getting thick, and they would not sit down. More than 10,000 people were packed into one block of Green Street, and they all wanted to be with us near the stage. They stood up in front of the people in chairs, and inevitably, everybody was standing.

The college boys next to me spent their time trying to get backstage or into hospitality areas. They tried it all, and watching them brought back more memories, like the time we crashed a Rod Stewart concert in Miami by simply carrying empty boxes through a service tunnel, or when we scammed our way onto hospitality yachts at the Jacksonville Jazz Festival. I felt middle-aged, unadventurous and lame.

I sat on my railing and watched the crowd. Someone walked by with a huge pizza box held over his head, and brought it where I had first been standing, at the big party family. That’s my family, I thought. That’s where I should be. I’m 46 years old and I should have a wife and a few teenage kids by now and I should be dragging them to rock concerts, trying to prove to them how young I still am. At the least, I should be in my own crowd.

Coming up to 8 o’clock, I’d lost most of my light, but still got good shots with a slow shutter. The crowd pressed me.

Worse, they used the small space in front of me to walk, from one place packed with people to another packed place, and they pressed against my knees. This made me nervous because there really was nothing between my backside and a steep fall onto concrete, rocks and cold water.
Darius Rucker (Hootie) hit the stage with his Blowfish and the crowd roared. Thousands of people screamed and held up cell phone cameras, their LEDs lighting up like so many cigarette lighters.

I got some pretty good shots, and I got above most of the heads in front of me by kind of standing up on the railing a bit. It was strenuous and I could only do it for a few seconds, so I took some shots, sat for a while and took some more. I used my flash a few times, but it just lit up all the smoke above the crowd.

Standing up made me nervous not only because someone could easily bump me and send me cartwheeling into the water, but also because the police might send me packing so they wouldn’t have to fish me out of the water.

After about 20 minutes I actually got a little bored.

Then I saw her – well, I saw the badge, actually, right in front of me. I was propped up, focusing on Darius’ straw hat, and I could hear a woman’s voice directed up at me. My time was up, I thought. She was about to tell me to get off that railing or she would speak into her radio and three muscle-bound cops would come and toss me right over it.

That’s what I thought. I looked down, and sure enough, she was holding a badge right up into my face, just to make sure, I guessed, that I knew who she was. Already resigned to call it an evening, I leaned down off the railing and shouted; “What’d you say?” I turned my head and gave her my ear.

“If you take this,” she shouted, holding up a “BACKSTAGE NIGHT” pass, “you can go backstage.”

I was stunned, and I can’t even remember if I thanked her. She just disappeared into the crowd. I looked over at the college kids – their jaws were slack.

I put the badge lanyard around my neck like some kind of gold medal and pressed my way toward the stage, my camera held above my head. It took a few minutes to walk the 30 feet as I squeezed through the throng of, how can I say it? The masses, that’s it.

Approaching the security gate I tightened up. Could this be real? Is it a joke? Will this guy let me through or will he sneer at me and get his buddies to drag me three blocks and 10,000 people backward?

The guard nodded politely as he opened the gate, and this is where things got surreal. These guys at the Dogwood Festival run a tight ship, because this backstage was clean. Usually there are dozens of people who have the connections to hang around backstage, bother the roadies and rub elbows with entertainers. But aside from security, police and a few VIPs, there was just me.

It was as if someone sucked all the air out of the room. I was suddenly in a wide-open, empty space, and even the sound was different. The massive speakers were above my head, so it was actually quieter here.

A tall chain-link fence surrounded the area, and the people outside looking in looked like refugees. I had to act casual, I had to act cool, and I had to work incredibly hard to keep a huge smile wiped off my face. I was giddy.

I walked to the guarded area in front of the stage as the Fayetteville Observer photographer was walking away. I took a few quick shots when a guard grabbed my arm. “That’s it,” he shouted. “They won’t allow anymore photographs.”

Oh, darn.

I spent the next hour just wandering backstage, watching Hootie and nearly floating above the crowd of thousands of screaming fans. The ones in front, pressed against the fence, could see me and must have thought; “Who the heck is that guy?”

The most enjoyable part was watching the enormous crowd sing along. That must be such a rush for a performer, to see thousands of people smiling and singing your song. No wonder some entertainers never retire.

Rucker took three encores that night, and there was no talking with him between songs, as he darted from the stage to his tour bus and back. After 20 years in the business, you learn what works and you learn the damage drunken fans can do out of their love for you.

And you learn that you never really know just who will have a backstage pass.