The car began to fill with water on that August afternoon in 1974. The rain had been bad enough, but now a water main break had flooded Route 9, turning the highway into a river. Sitting in the back seat, I lifted my feet to keep my sneakers from getting wet. Tony’s father wanted to turn back, insisting the concert must have been canceled, but Tony convinced him to keep going. He continued driving dutifully, but it soon became clear that the four-door Pontiac would be the loser in a match against the deluge.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Tony said. “We can walk to the concert from here.” “It’s not far,” I added. I had no idea where the stadium was. I’d never been to Jersey City before. For all I knew, it might have been five miles away.

Tony’s father pulled the car over to the side of the road.

No sooner had I opened the car door than water rushed into the car like a tiny waterfall. Tony’s girlfriend Aileen was next, followed by Tony, Matt, and Steve. The car pulled away, leaving a small wake behind it. Jersey City wasn’t a pretty sight at the best of times. Today, it was a hot, wet, ugly mess. Undeterred, set our sights on the stadium ahead.

It was August 17, 1974. I was fifteen. Emerson, Lake & Palmer was my first concert.

We headed out on Route 1 in the direction of the stadium. The flood didn’t matter. We were going to see Emerson, Lake & Palmer, and nothing was going to stop us.

There was a cemetery across the street, separated from the road by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The landscape was littered with factories and desolate vacant lots. Two feet of water in the road kept all but the bravest drivers away.

We slogged through the flooded highway in the mid-August heat, water up to our knees. I was soaked from the knees down. But it was okay. We were going to a concert.

I hopped onto the concrete highway divider to stay out of the water, balancing like a tightrope walker. When I lost my balance, I jumped down into the water and climbed back up again.

A rowboat drifted by, going north in the southbound lane, its owner working the oars as if it were perfectly normal to be rowing a boat along a major highway on a Saturday afternoon.

We’d been walking for some time when we noticed a couple of older teens examining a car pulled over on the side of the road.

“Hey, can you guys help us with our car?” one of them called out. “We need a push.”

“We can’t,” said Tony. “We’re going to a concert!”

We soldiered on.

I gave up walking on the divider, resigned to trudging through the water.

About fifteen minutes later, a car approached, slowly making its way along the road, submerged up to its tires. It stopped when it reached us.

“You guys need a ride?” called the driver.

“Yeah!” we cried out in unison.

“We can’t,” said the driver. “We’re going to a concert!”

Their peals of laughter rang out across the flooded highway as the car accelerated and receded into the distance.

We must have walked for the better part of an hour before we reached our destination.

We made our way to the entrance, handed our tickets to the ticket taker, and went inside. The field was a muddy, rain-soaked mess.

Torrents of rain and strong winds had battered the stage. A mini-tornado had drenched Keith Emerson’s keyboards. Equipment was scattered across the stage. Much of the gear was ruined, though the roadies managed to salvage enough to keep the tour going.

It wasn’t long before we were informed the concert was canceled. We were stranded in Jersey City, with no way to get home.

Steve’s mother was supposed to pick us up when the concert was over, but that was hours away. We looked for a phone booth so he could call her. As we made our way around the perimeter of the stadium, we spotted a limousine waiting in the service road outside the band entrance.

I pressed my face against the car window. Inside sat Keith Emerson, wearing the famous brown leather knee-high lace-up boots that I’d seen in so many photos. On the seat beside him sat a large bottle marked “orange juice,” which was more than likely spiked with vodka. He looked wasted. He barely seemed to notice us.

While we crowded around the limo, Tony took out his SLR camera and began shooting photos of Emerson through the window. Meanwhile, fans were attempting to tear the car apart, including Steve, who was trying to break off the side mirror.

The limo inched forward, and we scattered.

Although we were wet and stranded, I couldn’t believe our luck. I got to see Keith Emerson. Tony had photos he’d print, and I’d get copies to put on the wall of my bedroom.

We found a phone booth. Steve’s mother wasn’t home. Aileen called her older brother, Jim, who arranged to pick us up in his Jeep. The thrill of seeing Emerson faded quickly on our walk back—what we stumbled on next would stay with us far longer.

We headed toward the rendezvous point, prepared to wait the forty minutes it would take for Jim to arrive. Ahead of us, we saw a police car on the side of the road. Behind the cruiser, a cop was beating a black man over the head with his nightstick. He stood still, not resisting, possibly handcuffed, his white T-shirt covered in blood.

Tony had his camera out in no time. He began shooting photos of the scene. We watched, transfixed.

Another officer appeared from out of nowhere.

“Give me that camera,” he said, grabbing it from Tony’s hands.

“Take the film, not my camera,” Tony pleaded.

The cop fumbled with the camera, trying to open it.

“Let me do it,” said Tony.

The cop handed the camera to Tony. He popped the back open. The officer grabbed the camera and ripped out the film, exposing it to the light. He shoved the camera back.

“Get out of here!” he barked.

We got out of there.

The concert was rescheduled. Three dayhs later, we returned to Jersey City for the show that never ends.