<p>When raucous Detroit rockers The MC5 toured with <a href="https://www.thoughtco.com/most-influential-figures-in-alternative-music-94497" data-component="link" data-source="inlineLink" data-type="internalLink" data-ordinal="1">The Velvet Underground</a>, they didn&#39;t come alone. Instead, the band —and, more notably, their manager, John Sinclair— brought along a posse of White Panther Party crazies to preach their revolution. In Boston, one Party member took to the stage, after The MC5&#39;s set, to exhort the audience to tear down the venue, and burn it to the ground. The Velvets already resented the entourage before that (Sterling Morrison would later call them &#34;leeches&#34;), and this mooted act of schoolboy sedition pushed <a href="https://www.thoughtco.com/timeline-of-punk-music-history-2803347" data-component="link" data-source="inlineLink" data-type="internalLink" data-ordinal="2">Lou Reed</a> to denounce the openers from on stage. &#34;&#39;I&#39;d just like to make one thing clear,&#34; Reed spat. &#34;We have nothing to do with what went on earlier and in fact we consider it very stupid.&#39;&#34;</p><p>Tangerine Dream —those <a href="https://www.thoughtco.com/bands-of-san-francisco-748086" data-component="link" data-source="inlineLink" data-type="internalLink" data-ordinal="1">krautrock</a> innovators turned new-age synth wallpaperists— picked an amazing venue for a show in December, 1974: Notre-Dame de Reims Cathedral; which had historically hosted the coronations of French Kings. Unfortunately, the promoter of the gig got a little swept up in the grandeur, overselling the show so blatantly that the crowd, when eventually crammed in, couldn&#39;t move; leading to audience members urinating where they stood. The Catholic Church was apoplectic, and banned concert events in Cathedrals for eternity. The show&#39;s legacy grows over the years thanks to a bootleg of opener Nico, playing her haunted, pump-organ dirges in a house whose natural reverb makes them sound like the ghostliest hymns.</p><p>On the Sex Pistols&#39; first-ever tour outside London, the pre-fame punks attracted only 40 kids to the Lesser Free Trade Hall. Yet, these ranks included countless soon-to-be superstars of the post-punk movement. The gig had been organized by Pete Shelley and Howard Devoto, who&#39;d just started The Buzzcocks, and the crowd featured future Smiths frontman Morrissey, future Fall mouthpiece Mark E. Smith, future Warsaw/Joy Division/New Order founders Bernard Sumner and Peter Hook, and future Factory Records founder Tony Wilson. After being cited in the 2002 movie <em>24 Hour Party People</em>, the myth of this show grew so much that one English journalist, David Nolan, wrote a book about it called <em>I Swear I Was There: the Gig that Changed the World</em>.</p><p>For 1970s audiences, the simple fact that Suicide —Bowery toughs Martin Rev and Alan Vega— took the stage with neither guitars nor drums was, itself, a provocation; a brazen mocking of rock convention that rarely went down well. Like when they opened for Elvis Costello in Brussels in &#39;78. The Belgian crowd booed, heckled, and eventually stole Vega&#39;s microphone. Disgusted by the crowd&#39;s treatment of the opening act, Costello refuses to play the conquering hero, delivering an abrupt, pissed-off set. When Costello leaves, the crowd erupts in a frenzy. Riot police are called in, tear-gas is unleashed. Later, Suicide release a bootleg of their set, as <em>23 Minutes Over Brussels</em>, and it enshrines the night in infamy for generations to come.</p><p>With Robert Smith still applying the pancake make-up, it&#39;s amusing to think of The Cure playing a &#39;final&#39; show back in 1982, at the end of <em>Pornography</em>&#39;s European tour. But that&#39;s what the Ancienne Belgique audience thought when the band fumbled through a freeform 14-minute jam, loaded with venom, that they called &#34;The Cure is Dead.&#34; It featured Cure roadie Gary Biddles on the mic, and he seized the spotlight with a drunken tirade attacking Smith and drummer Lol Tolhurst. Smith responded by throwing drumsticks at Biddles&#39; head, the band had it out on stage, and bassist Simon Gallup quit. Two years later, Biddles brokered a reunion between Smith and Gallup, who rejoined the band. Three decades later, Smith and Gallup are still soldiering on.</p><p>The mystical, eternal, iconoclastic &#39;Eye&#39; —the singularly-named leader of legendary shamans Boredoms— began life not as a percussion-bashing psychedelic tribalist, but as a noise-music provocateur with a bent for performance-art. His first band, Hanatarashi (later Hanatarash), were renowned for the literal danger of their live-shows, which included machetes, molotov cocktails, and circular saws. The band&#39;s most infamous spectacle —and, perhaps, the most infamous night on this list of the infamous— was the &#39;Bulldozer Show,&#39; which saw Eye driving a back-hoe around the venue, tearing it apart in front of a polite and respectful Japanese audience. Its legend lives on online; this act of Dada-ist destruction encoded as <a href="http://www5a.biglobe.ne.jp/~gin/rock/japan/hanatarasi/hanatarashi2/hanatarashi2.html" data-component="link" data-source="inlineLink" data-type="externalLink" data-ordinal="1" rel="nofollow">internet slideshow</a>.</p><p>Given all the gushing and fawning that greeted Pavement&#39;s 2010 reunion shows, it seems strange to think of them as anything other than beloved; but the memory of their time on 1995&#39;s Lollapalooza tour happily contradicts rose-colored &#39;90s nostalgia. For a crowd of teenage neanderthals ready to mosh, Pavement&#39;s laconic slacker-rock was rarely welcomed, and, in backwoods Charles Town, West Virginia, the band were showered with a hail of dirt-clods and rocks. In response, Pavement left the stage, but not before Spiral Stairs drops his drawers and moons the riled-up yokels. The incident is enshrined in Pavement lore when video of it is included in the documentary DVD <em>Slow Century</em>; Spiral&#39;s buttocks, once seen, something that cannot be unseen.</p><p>Long before her post-<em>Greatest</em> &#39;lounge-bar&#39; era as crooner out front of slick, soulful backing band, Chan Marshall used to play her shows, as Cat Power, by herself. And paying for a ticket was concert-going Russian Roulette. Identifying herself as someone who wasn&#39;t a performer, Marshall wouldn&#39;t &#39;perform&#39;; mostly figuratively, but sometimes literally, too. Playing her stark, spooked songs with no pretense or theatricality, Marshall laid her fragile psyche out in front of often-unimpressed crowds; slipping in and out of songs (as in her <em>Speaking to Trees</em> DVD) and often declining to finish them if the mood wasn&#39;t right. At their best, these shows were music at its most intimate; at their worst, it was like watching a bird with a broken wing.</p><p>In 2002, <a href="https://www.thoughtco.com/elliott-smith-artist-profile-93923" data-component="link" data-source="inlineLink" data-type="internalLink" data-ordinal="1">Elliott Smith</a> was in a bad place. He and producer Jon Brion had fallen out over Smith&#39;s drug intake —copious amounts of crack and heroin, smoked in the studio— making his sixth LP, and, with no record to make, Smith drifted; rumors placing him wandering Silverlake streets barefoot and being found passed out in toilet stalls. He would only perform three times that year, including a disastrous show at Northwestern University opening for Wilco, in which Smith failed to complete a single song throughout an excruciating 50-minute set. Afterwards, a writer at the website Glorious Noise famously eulogized: &#34;it would not surprise me at all if Elliott Smith ends up dead within a year.&#34; 17 months later and, sure enough, Smith was no longer.</p>Like many who&#39;ve arrived on the back of blogosphere buzz, Wavves —the work of 21-year-old Californian Nathan Williams— was thrust into the limelight way before his home-recording project came close to resembling a polished live outfit. Wavves had barely played more than a handful of shows when Williams and drummer Ryan Ulsh arrived at Barcelona&#39;s Primavera Festival, in 2009, for a 2AM set. Operating under a cocktail of alcohol, ecstasy, and valium, Williams fell apart in the face of the big-time; ranting, railing, and baiting the crowd in 15 painful minutes instantaneously enshrined in YouTube infamy. The debacle ended with Ulsh pouring a beer on his head, a whole European tour being canceled, and the two never playing together again.