In the innocent haze of a pre-9/11 world, when that fateful date still slumbered in the future, Spanish Fork, Utah, awoke to an ordinary September sunrise. It was September 11, 1996, and by evening, something seismic would come barreling through our devout Mormon town — shaking its foundation and leaving echoes that lingered for decades.
I grew up on Spanish Fork’s tractor-churned streets, where the zip code 84660 was etched on our letters and hearts. In 1996, our small town was a Grandmother’s quilt of alfalfa fields and Steady Larry’s Barber Shop on Main. Our community’s pulse ticked to Sunday services and harvest moons. That warm September night, however, a demonic spark ignited, tearing our sacred fabric to shreds. It shook more than the ground beneath us, leaving only our beloved zip code unscathed.
Months earlier, while we unwitting townsfolk spun our well-worn Donny & Marie cassettes and wove our simple lives, a rebellion had been inadvertently invited to storm our dusty fairgrounds. Rage Against the Machine — with their fists-up anthems of defiance — had slipped in like a match struck in parched grass. The fairgrounds manager later admitted it was an honest mistake: a caller asked about dates, he said yes, and the contract was signed without a second thought.
Who thrust this abomination into our meticulously curated world? That mystery endures, as slippery as a songbird in the cottonwoods. Word spread like wildfire through Spanish Fork's pews and porches, tongues clucking in that classic small-town telegraph. Some blamed the fairground manager, others our dear Madame Mayor, a title we cherished alongside our “Pride & Progress” logo.
No one would be held responsible. Like the JFK yarns swapped over Larry’s hot lather, the more we learned, the more questions arose, conspiracies lingering like embers under a freshly smothered campfire.
Those embers fueled weeks of unrest, the most contentious in Spanish Fork’s history. It was as if Lucifer himself had been invited to preach blasphemy to our youth, urging defiance where devotion reigned. A rally was organized to raise more than $80,000 to buy out the heathen band’s contract, a desperate bid to preserve our hallowed streets and shield the innocent.
An inevitable exchange transpired between a group of ne'er-do-wells and the God-fearing rallygoers. “Let the majority rule,” the rally organizer cried, but the teens slipped away, laughing, rumored to be bound for our town’s non-existent liquor store to smoke Marlboro Reds and spin skateboard tricks past curfew.
A frightened woman told an intrepid news reporter on scene, “I got a brother coming down with some dogs, and hopefully that’ll scare ‘em away if they decide to do anything.”
Fear and loathing reached their peak the Sunday before the concert when a warning echoed from my church’s pulpit. Blinds were to be shuttered, ear muffs donned, doors barred against the unholy clamor. A shadow had fallen over our once clear streets, heavy with the ominous sound of forbidden chords that would soon emanate from a Fender Telecaster.
As an 11-year-old, I'd long since learned to heed such edicts from the elders. From that same pulpit, I'd absorbed warnings about the new Titanic film (slyly rated PG-13 despite an exposed female nipple), The Simpsons as Satan's cartoon, and the ban on BB-gun skirmishes at scout camp.
When the night of the concert arrived, over 8,000 hooligans descended on our peaceful town, instantly doubling our population. The fairgrounds weren’t too far from my house. I didn't witness the madness, but old-timers swore the moon bled red the moment the band hit the stage.
I sheltered under my bed inside the room I shared with my older brother. While praying in a fetal position, with the faint sound of drums and electric guitars in the distance, I heard my brother say, “I bet there’s a sick mosh pit going on right now.”
I began to cry.
Exhaustion must have claimed me; I woke to tear-crusted cheeks and morning light, crawling out to check if school attendance was required after an apocalypse. My brother was already up, cranking a Rage track on our Magnavox CD player, oblivious to the ruin.
“Some of those that work the forces are the same that burn crosses," lead singer Zack de la Rocha snarled, looping into "Killing in the name of!" My brother headbanged like it was just another Tuesday, prepping for the day as if our Eden hadn't tasted forbidden fruit.
I paused, listening. The riffs captivated me — the instrumentals appealing to sharp musical tastes developed over six months of grueling piano lessons. But the words? An endless snarl: "And now you do what they told ya... now you're under their thumb." Then, pardon my French: "F— you, I won't do what you tell me!" I get what all the fuss is about, I thought.
In truth, the concert played out as concerts often do. A smattering of underage drinking tickets, a few out-of-towners urinating on lawns, and a fair amount of reefer wafting in the air. An ordinance was passed soon after, slamming the fairgrounds shut to all future concerts. To this day, only fairs, rodeos, and 4-H shows grace the venue.
From that day on, I began eyeing grown-ups’ warnings with a squint. We’d been promised mayhem and blood-stained streets, but all we got was a lousy traffic jam and lawns caked in urine. It was an important night.
It was a night of rage.
I shared a version of this story on stage five or six years ago. I closed with the “night of rage” line to laughter and applause, giving a slight bow to thank the audience for their kindness and attention. I was pleased with myself. I had effectively mocked the culture I grew up in for a few laughs and mild praise. Oh, how I’d elevated myself above Utah’s prudish culture, I thought.
Time, however, has reshaped me. A lot has happened since that stage performance. I’m now an older chunk of coal with different beliefs and values, having witnessed the world burn and rebuild itself on a loop, starting with Covid-19 and continuing to this day.
The band that came to my hometown didn’t rage against the machine during those tumultuous years. They complied, as did most of us, myself included. Looking back, it’s striking how readily we granted trust to politicians, activists, and news hounds during that time. That was a mistake. One we must never repeat. Trust should be earned, not assumed, and never again blindly given.
Reflecting on that “Night of Rage” nearly 30 years ago, I no longer scoff at Spanish Fork’s overblown reaction to a rock concert. Why willingly invite underage drinking, urine-soaked lawns, and the skunky haze of marijuana to your community? A community’s values should be shaped by its people — not politicians, activists, or news hounds.
Utah, a quietly conservative state grounded in Christian values, often grapples with an inferiority complex, yearning to blend into the broader world. While Austin proudly wears its “weird” label as a badge of honor, Utahns bristle at “peculiar,” despite cherishing their unique identity behind closed doors.
When Charles Barkley dismissed Salt Lake City as a “boring a** city” during the 2023 NBA All-Star game, Utahns could have leaned into the jab, embracing our state’s quiet charm as a feature, not a bug. Instead, those who see themselves as “in Utah, not of Utah” called for a cultural overhaul, arguing that demographic shifts — specifically, fewer members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more outsiders with a secular worldview — were needed to rebrand the state’s image.
Such views deserve debate, not unchallenged acceptance. Utahns should feel free to counter them without fear of retribution. Coddling ideas that clash with your values does no one any favors. Last week, this hit home in the most tragic way: Charlie Kirk was assassinated at my alma mater, Utah Valley University, for daring to debate openly with students. A young man, radicalized by his own echo chamber, believed a bullet to the neck was the answer to disagreement. Two children are now fatherless, a wife widowed; a nation forever changed.
Utah Governor Spencer Cox has been criticized for urging Americans to “disagree better.” That young man ignored Cox’s message, and the consequences are now ours to bear. But calls for civility won’t be answered if we continue hiding our true values, professing one belief in private and another in public, searching for external validation that will never come.
Utah’s strength lies in its faith, family, and community — values we must boldly own, not just behind closed doors, but in the world’s view.
