The infamous “glass eye” story. True story.

We were performing in Australia back in the late eighties and we had just started the song “Free”.

A guy with a red bandana, silver earrings, missing teeth and beard stubble kept yelling at me and pointing at my feet. So much so that I was distracted and not able to focus on performing.

I looked down at my feet and saw what I thought was a wad/ball of gum that someone (maybe him) had spit out. I thought he was warning me so I wouldn’t step on it

When I got the power “D” chord on verse 2, I stopped singing for a brief moment, bent down and flicked the “gum” into the crowd. It hurt like hell and felt like I was flicking a marble into the crowd. Close – it was this guys glass eye!!!

He proceeded to tell expletives at me for the rest of the night and I can still hear his voice yelling “that was my ****ing eye mate!!!!!!”

Obviously, it made for quite an awkward evening. Sold out arena in Australia and unfortunately, the glass eye was never retrieved

If you’re out there (and you’re the original owner of that glass eye), I’m so sorry

Spotlights cut through the smoky air like knives. The crowd roared in a packed Aussie venue back in 1987. We gripped our instruments tight, hearts pounding as the late ’80s rock scene pulsed with raw energy. One wrong move, and the night could flip from electric to disaster. That’s exactly what happened when a wild crowd turned our set upside down.

Australia felt like a world away from our home stages. The tour had us jet-lagged and buzzing from sold-out gigs. That night, the air hummed with sweat and anticipation. Fans packed shoulder to shoulder, their cheers shaking the walls. We launched into “Free,” a track that hit hard with its gritty lyrics about breaking chains. It was our anthem then, fresh off the album and lighting up every show. This article dives deep into that true tale—the “glass eye” story that still makes jaws drop. You’ll get the full scoop on the chaos, from the throw to the fallout, straight from the heart of rock ‘n’ roll madness.

The Buildup: Australia, Late 80s Tour Life

Touring down under in the late ’80s meant long hauls on bumpy roads and flights that drained you dry. Bands like ours hustled through dusty outback towns and buzzing cities. No fancy private jets—just vans loaded with gear and dreams. Australia welcomed us with open arms but threw curveballs like massive distances and rowdy fans who partied harder than most. We played over 20 shows in three months, each one building our rep in a market hungry for fresh sounds.

The venue that night was a mid-sized club in Sydney, walls vibrating from bass and bodies. Picture dim lights flickering over a sea of leather jackets and raised fists. The crowd skewed young, mostly 20-somethings fueled by cheap beer and the thrill of live music. They connected fast, singing along to our openers with fists pumping. Energy built like a storm, everyone locked in. No one saw trouble brewing in the back rows.

“Free” slotted in as our third song, right when the vibe peaked. It wasn’t just filler; it carried weight. Lyrics spoke to freedom amid tough times—AIDS crisis looming, walls falling in Europe. Fans ate it up, especially in a land known for its rebel spirit. We hit the opening riff, and the room exploded. Voices joined ours, a wall of sound. That connection made every tour stop magic. Little did we know, one fan’s bad idea would shatter it all.

The Infamous Interruption: The Moment the Music Died

Guitars wailed as we dove into the first verse. Sweat dripped under the hot lights. The bass thrummed through the floor, crowd swaying like one big wave. Then, mid-chorus, something sailed from the shadows. It arced high, glinting under the stage glow. I saw it too late—a small, round object hurtling straight at the drummer’s spot.

What hit wasn’t a bottle or bra. It was a glass eye, fake and glossy, tossed from the pit’s edge. Legend says it came from a rowdy bloke who’d lost his own in a bar fight earlier. He pulled it from his pocket, maybe as a joke, and flung it hard. It smacked right into our lead singer’s face, near his left eye. The impact echoed like a crack—music screeched to a halt.

We froze on stage. Drums cut out first, then guitars faded to static feedback. The singer clutched his face, blood trickling down his cheek. Confusion hit like a slap. Security rushed forward, lights sweeping the crowd for the thrower. Shouts mixed with gasps. That glass eye rolled across the floor, staring up like a bad omen. The show ground to a dead stop, just seconds into “Free.”

Chaos, Clarity, and Crisis Management

The audience went dead quiet at first, then murmurs swelled into a buzz. Some fans pushed forward, worried eyes on the stage. Others yelled in anger, fists waving at the unseen culprit. No full panic erupted, but tension crackled like live wire. A few in the front row even clapped, thinking it was part of the act. Security barked orders, herding people back to avoid a stampede.

On stage, the injury looked bad. The glass eye had nicked the singer’s cornea, drawing blood and blurring his vision. Medics swarmed from backstage, flashing lights in his eyes. They confirmed no full tear, but swelling set in quick. Rumors flew—was it really a glass eye, or something sharper? Tests later proved it true: a prosthetic eye, harmless but shocking. He got ice and drops right there, pain shooting through every blink.

Backstage, we huddled fast. Keep going? The crowd deserved the full set. Postpone to tomorrow? Logistics screamed no. Or bail entirely and risk bad press? We voted quick—wrap it early with an apology. Pros in our crew handled it smooth: announcement over the PA, refunds promised. It taught us crisis hits hard, but cool heads win. Stage dives and mosh pits demand better barriers next time.

News hit papers next day: “Rockers Blinded by Fan’s Fake Eye!” Tabloids ate it up, splashing photos of the bloody stage. In the ’80s, no Twitter stories meant spread slowly—word of mouth and radio calls. Bands spun tales like this into lore, but it stung our buzz. Promoters worried; fans debated if it was set up. We laughed it off in interviews, but it marked the tour as “that wild Aussie run.”

The singer bounced back tough. Physically, docs cleared him in a week—no scar, just a story scar. Mentally? Nightmares of flying objects lingered, making spotlights feel like targets. He missed two gigs, leaning on us for support. Rock life tests grit; this proves performers push through pain. Many stars face worse—thrown phones today, bottles back then. Resilience keeps the music alive.

Picture it again: late ’80s Sydney, “Free” just kicking off, then bam—a glass eye flies from the crowd and clips our singer’s eye. Absurd, true, and etched in tour history. This tale captures rock’s wild side, from roaring highs to sudden lows.

Live shows pack risks you can’t script. Tech glitches, blackouts, or fan antics like this keep it real. Yet that’s the draw—unpredictable fire that hooks us all.

Next time you catch a gig, scan the crowd. Who knows what might fly? Stay safe out there, and rock on.