Stephen Rea: Ozzy didn't show...but I survived the greatest hard rock weekend ever

In a crashing juxtaposition that would have made them cringe in their early years, these acts appeared at the rarified Empire Polo Club, in the ritzy desert town of Indio, California. The coiffed grass dazzled with perfect straight white boxes with red stencils outlining areas for chairs and blankets. The off-site ticket pick-up was at a tennis club.

Once, these bands targeted teenage tearaways, but the fans who trekked to swelter in the triple-digit Fahrenheit heat were a different demographic. The Geordie singer for AC/DC Brian Johnson is 76. Judas Priest frontman Rob Halford is a 72-year-old Brummie. It wasn’t a mob of long-haired youthful rockers.

The three-day general admission passes were $600, only allowing access to the back of the site. The polo field was so sprawling, the two biggest video screens I’ve ever seen flanked the stage - with another two halfway back.

The weekend shuttle pass for the local loop was $110. An iced tea was $7, a can of beer $14, and some of the bar staff could have been mistaken for Calvin Klein models.

I went with my friend Ray, who forked out $1,600 for a pit pass. We met on Ozzy’s road crew in the nineties: he was a lighting tech; I was assistant tour manager. We lost touch for years, then only days after I immigrated to New Orleans in July 2004, I spotted him walking along as I was driving past. No contact for years, then we end up with daughters enrolled at the same school.

The venue hosts the annual Coachella festival, but this was the first line up aimed specifically at fans of hard-edged music. The scale was staggering, three different checkpoints before the main arena, dozens of food stalls and bars, a hidden speakeasy you found by following red lights (I never did), colour-coded trails to get you in and out of 16 car parks.

It was hot, dry and dusty, and on the long trudge out, the trails swirled with clouds, fans choking and gagging as they pulled their shirts over their mouths like they had been tear gassed at a street protest. I spent the weekend gargling water to spit away the taste of grit.

The audience was as homogenous as one would expect - the vast majority white males in their forties, fifties and sixties, dressed in black t-shirts and denim and leather. “How's the old man festival going?” my friend Paige texted.

What was surprising was the number of foreigners who flew in to attend. The merchandise line twisted around five different barriers like a Disney World ride from a dark, twisted fairytale, and as I queued, I heard Danish, German, and French. I saw 14 different national flags on the first night.

London metal merchants Iron Maiden kicked the party off, delaying their start because of crazy traffic delays. The PA was crystal clear and throaty, like the roar of a pristine vintage race car.

I saw them just last year in Ormeau Park, their theatrics and robot fights and flash pots and giant mascot Eddie meaning there was always something to watch. Guns n Roses I saw even more recently, the previous week in Houston. “They were wild in the nineties, unstoppable on stage, like a jet engine,” said Ray, who worked with them then. They eased through a three-hour set finishing at 1.15am. Good to see some things don’t change.

Day two we arrived late afternoon to be greeted with an achingly beautiful blue sky, the green palm trees motionless, not a breath of wind, the vibrant orange sun causing shadows longer than Ozzy’s career.

Indeed, Ozzy was originally announced on the bill, and that’s why we booked flights, accommodation and car rental. When he withdrew, citing health issues, he was replaced by fellow Birmingham rockers Judas Priest.

They were the loudest group of the weekend - Ray’s meter reading 116 decibels at one point - and they sprung a surprise. Original guitarist Glenn Tipton, who retired from the band in 2018 after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s, joined them for a three-song encore.

The most eagerly awaited performance of the weekend was the return of AC/DC. Their 1980 album Back in Black is the biggest-selling hard rock album of all time, but they hadn’t played live in seven years, and many thought the Australians were finished.

But they blew the crowd away, metaphorically with their 24-song set, then literally (kind of) with six canons rolling onstage to fire fusillades for closer, For Those About to Rock (We Salute You).

The festival ended on Sunday. First, Tool, their avant-garde lights and electronic images swirling across the stage and screens in constant motion. Then heavy hitters Metallica, one of the world’s biggest touring artistes, who even got something of a mosh pit going amongst the aging fans. I counted 17 participants, and truth be told, it was more of a nudge pit.

I passed rows of campervans leaving the venue, and outside one hung a Mardi Gras display with skeletons, beads and signs. It was a Louisiana outpost on the doorstep of Power Trip, four pilgrims who drove 34 hours to see the show, a round-trip of almost 4,000 miles.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” said Tori Guidry. “We will never see these bands together ever again.”

They told me about an after-party on the next row with a wet t-shirt competition - first prize $300, second prize, a bag of pot. I declined the invitation - this old rocker’s days of Living After Midnight have long gone…

Stephen Rea, from Belfast, is author of author of Finn McCool's Football Club and World Cup Fever.