I don’t remember the exact date until I went looking for it later—March 28th, 1979. Chicago. International Amphitheatre.

But I remember the night like it’s still sitting there, idling.

I was seventeen. I had just bought my first car—a brand new ’79 Chevy Monza. Black, tan interior. Beautiful little coupe. My grandfather had to co-sign for me, but I made the payments. I was proud of that car. Proud in the way only a seventeen-year-old can be when something is finally his.

There were five of us going to the show.

Three of us mattered to the story. Two of us were just… there.

Todd, my oldest and largest friend, sat up front with me—he had to, he was too big for the back seat. Todd and I had recently started a new band, Das Energi, and we were focused on playing progressive/improvosational music. My second oldest friend, Gino, was in the back. Gino and I had been playing in a band for almost 5 years, Flight, doing album rock covers and pop chart classics for dances and festivals. I had recently quit Flight, but still played a few remaining gigs with Gino.

And then there was Wadsworth and his girlfriend, Sandy. They came along because Todd asked me if I’d give them a ride. They lived nearby. That was enough reason.

We got there early. Real early. Sat in the parking lot for a couple hours before the doors opened.

And we got very, very stoned.

We had a little bong in the car, windows mostly up, just hotboxing this brand new Monza like it was a sacrificial offering. Smoke thick enough to turn the inside of the car into fog. Good California weed Todd had gotten his hands on.

And we talked.

We talked about Supertramp.

I was making the case for Roger Hodgson—not the hits, not the radio stuff everyone knew—but the deeper thing I thought I was hearing. That there was something more going on in those songs. That he could write the stuff that brought people together, sure… but also something more complex, something more intentional.

Gino backed me. He usually did.

Todd didn’t. He played devil's advocate.

Todd pushed back on everything. That’s why I trusted him.

Dreamer’s catchy Todd nods, but it’s corny.

Give a Little Bit sounds like something McCartney tossed off, Todd tossed back.

He wasn’t buying what I was selling.

And somewhere in the middle of all that… Wadsworth and Sandy disappeared and came back with a grocery bag full of food. Just… random, greasy Chicago food. Italian beefs, hot dogs, bratwurst, burgers, fries , all mashed together in paper and grease.

Everybody else dug in like animals. Munchies.

I was the only one pissed.

Not about the food—about the car.

Grease in my brand new car.

And Sandy kept chirping, “Come on, Dave paid for all this…” like that was supposed to mean something.

I remember telling her, “Yeah, that’s the cab fare.”

She didn’t like me. I didn’t like her.

Didn’t matter.

We finished eating, did another round with the bong, and went inside.

The place was a dump. Concrete walls, metal seats, bad acoustics. Sold out crowd. We were up in the nosebleeds but directly across from the stage, so we could see everything.

I don’t remember the full set.

I remember waiting.

I remember the opening tune, “School”.

And then I remember “Fool’s Overture”.

That’s where the night turns.

Something about the way it was performed… the way the band held it together, made something complicated feel almost effortless…

Todd turned to me.

Just turned his head, like he was checking what we’d been arguing about back in the car.

And he said it.

You were right. I was right.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… settled.

For a second, we were hearing the same thing.

After the show, everything fell apart.

Or so we thought.

We wandered around the amphitheatre trying to find Wadsworth and Sandy. The parking lot was chaos—cars everywhere, nobody moving, people yelling. Sandy was already panicking about being stranded in Chicago like we’d been abandoned in a war zone.

We finally made our way back to where the car was.

And that’s when I realized…

I didn’t have my keys.

Pockets. Nothing.

Todd checked. Gino checked. Nobody had them.

So now we’re back inside, talking security into letting us search the seats. Flashlights. Ushers. Forty-five minutes of looking for something that isn’t there.

Back outside again. More searching. More panic. Sandy crying now.

I leaned on the hood of the car.

It was warm.

Too warm.

And that’s when it hit me.

I looked inside.

The car was unlocked.

The keys were in the ignition.

The car had been running the entire time.

Three hours.

In the middle of Chicago.

Full of smoke, a bong, and whatever else we’d left behind.

And nobody touched it.

We laughed like idiots.

Todd was already packing another bowl.

Wadsworth and Sandy were furious—about the keys, about the car, about us, about everything.

We didn’t care.

We got in the car and started driving.

That’s where the story really ends.

Not at the show. Not at the car.

On the ride home.

We had a cassette in the deck. Fool’s Overture was at the beginning.

Todd kept rewinding it.

Over and over.

He wasn’t arguing anymore. He was working it out.

Can you play that on piano?

Yeah. I’d been working on it.

What about that voice part? That’s Churchill?

Maybe. Or maybe we do something else. Something ours.

We talked the whole way back. Broke it apart. Tried to rebuild it. Tried to imagine how we’d make it live in our band.

Das Energi wasn’t Flight. It wasn’t performing monkeys. We were trying to build something real.

That night felt like we’d found part of it.

He kept playing it.

Long after it was over.

When we got back, he took the tape.

Can I borrow this?

Sure.

Of course.

We worked on it after that.

Next day. Rehearsals. Tried to play it. Didn’t quite get there, but we were close in places.

It was fresh.

Still unfolding.

Todd died a few months later.

July 5th.

The band didn’t last long after that.

Some things don’t.

I never got the tape back.

I don’t need it back. I still have it in my soul’s memory.

I’ve thought about that night more than most.

Not because it was perfect. It wasn’t.

It was messy. Loud. Stupid. Funny. Full of bad food and worse decisions.

But there was a moment in there.

A small one.

Where something I heard… something I trusted… was met by someone who didn’t give that kind of thing away easily. Somebody I trusted. Someone I loved.

And it happened while the music was playing.

I suppose I’m still the fool.

And this… this was the overture.

By d’Philip