From Screams too Young: Remembering the Beatles at Red Rocks

And how concert culture has changed since 1964

What Was Your First Concert?

I attended the Beatles concert at Red Rocks, over half a century ago, with my older cousins and a few friends. My father was one of the lawyers for Coors, and it was the Coors family—then the wealthiest in the state—who pulled the strings to get the Beatles to play Red Rocks. Who else could have made that happen? That’s how a seven-year-old like me ended up at a concert people would’ve done anything to get into.

It should’ve been the most exciting moment of my young life. And in many ways, it was—but not for the reasons you’d think.

To be honest, I didn’t enjoy the concert that much.

It wasn’t the Beatles—I loved (and still do love) the Fab Four. It was outrageous screaming. Thousands upon thousands of girls—and a surprising number of grown women—screaming at the top of their lungs. Behind me. Beside me. In front of me. Every direction. Nonstop.

The sound was so deafening I had to hold my hands over my ears. At seven, I was genuinely afraid I’d lose my hearing. (To be fair, it came back a few days later—though it wasn’t Ringo that left that ringing in my ears.)

Cotton balls would’ve been smarter than bare hands, but who thinks of that at age seven? Nobody thought of earplugs back then—not even at Woodstock. When the Beatles finally stepped on stage, a tidal wave of fans surged forward. You could barely hear a single note over the shrill, chaotic devotion. Then, just like that, they were gone. Twenty minutes, maybe. “Let it Be,” indeed.

That surreal, noisy night set a strange benchmark for every concert I’ve seen since—good, bad, and unforgettable.

I’ve been lucky to catch more than a few unforgettable ones. Pink Floyd at Mile High Stadium! Legendary. And now, you’ll find cover bands trying to recapture that sound. At Red Rocks, I’ve watched classic acts like U2 on that sacred stage.  With newer, otherworldly performances like Heilung—their proving that musical magic still happens under the stars. Today’s European sensations bring more melody than mania, and thankfully, no endless screaming.

But concerts have changed. Now we have Global Dance Festivals, DJs like Destroid, and a generation raised on beats instead of lyrics. I’ll admit—it’s not my scene. Or maybe I’m no longer the target demographic. These are events where the bass never stops and the music never breathes. You either join the movement—or you realize, like me, that you’ve become the guy quietly walking away, feeling a little out of place.

Younger festivalgoers in glow gear, bikini tops, and glitter face paint—bless ‘em. But for someone a few decades in, the line between “cool older fan” and “creepy old guy at the ticket booth” gets blurry fast. That’s usually when I retreat to the comfort of familiar voices. Give me Neil Young on the Rocks, if he’s still wandering out there in the summer haze.

Music evolves. And so, do we.
But Red Rocks? It stays the same. Towering, sacred, and open to all generations. Speaking of being off in the clouds… I was there.