Behavior: The Gathered Tribes

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Explicit Suggestion. The Butte, Mont., high school marching band was on hand to honor Knievel, a native son. The pretty drum majorettes were immediately harassed by shirtless bikers, one of whom grabbed a majorette's breasts and explicitly suggested further contact. The girl retained her fixed plastic smile, but her eyes bulged in terror. "Lord, get that band moving!" a security officer shouted, and the band marched into the fenced enclosure tootling "Off we go into the wild blue yonder."

It was very hot, in the high 80 s, and a 20-m.p.h. wind blew gritty white dust into everyone's face. At the big moment, the VIP gates were thrown open and the crowd surged forward for a better view, nearly sweeping some onlookers over the canyon's rim. One 15-year-old who was pushed 100 ft. to the edge fell into a 5-ft.-deep crevice in rocks hanging over the chasm. Then, as Knievel's rocket disappeared below the canyon lip, hundreds of spectators began dashing for their cars or bikes, apparently caring more about beating the traffic than finding out whether Knievel had lived or died.

After Knievel was helicoptered back to the launch site, some of the crowd began smashing TV equipment, ripping off technicians' headsets and cutting wires. Later several hundred bikers burned the concession stands to the ground, then pushed a car to the ramp and set both afire. Even Evel took abuse from the fans. He had promised free beer in the event of a successful landing and, when none was served, some of the crowd cursed him. The next morning, when Knievel was about to be whisked away to the airport to go back to Butte, his car came to a screeching halt. Someone had let the air out of his two rear tires.

An Italian sculptor, David Ciavarella, who flew to the event from Verona to gain artistic inspiration for a sculpture of the stunt, seemed despondent. "It is too confusing for artistic abstraction," he said. "There is no division between farce and drama here. Madness."