It's about 20 minutes until the opening band goes on, and I can't get
over how everyone around me has an accent. I shouldn't have to be
stifling my laughter, but the teens behind me are making fun of each
other’s sex lives, and their accents are making everything ten times
worse. The more I think about it, though, I don't care if I laugh or
not. I'm in another country at a concert where not one of these people
will ever see me again. So when one of the teens starts asking around if
he can draw on people, I turn around and offer myself up. Five minutes
later, I have a penis drawn on my arm. He wanted it to be my face.
Fortunately for me, I came with my mom, and while she may not be next to
me, she is a wonderful excuse for why I cannot have a penis drawn on my
face.
The first time I talked to someone other than my family or friends at a
concert, I was 12. My dad didn't want to get up close, and it was a
small enough venue that he would still be able to see me if I went
further on my own. I weaved up to the barricade, my small body allowing
me to easily split the crowd. Halfway through the concert, the artist
started throwing guitar picks into the crowd, and behind me, an older
teen caught one. Instead of keeping it to herself, she gave it to me.
She told me that she had guitar picks at home when I tried to refuse.
Now that he's drawn on me, he and his friends seem to have lost
interest, so I scooch up further and lose myself in the crowd. The
opening act comes on, and I am a little disappointed. I saw this band a
few months ago and two years before that, and both of the opening acts
could have been standalone, but this one is exactly what it says on the
box, an opening act.
I was in middle school when my friend and I went to see this band that
neither of us had heard of just because we thought the name was cool and
we liked the venue he was going to play at. Once he started playing,
though, we both realized that we thought his music was horrible.
However, we had not only brought my dad to chaperone us, telling him we
loved the band, but we also spent our hard-earned $12 on the tickets.
Leaving was not an option. We decided we would pretend like we were
having the absolute time of our lives. We screamed, we sang along even
though we didn't know the lyrics, we danced our little hearts out, we
even got a photo of my friend with the lead singer, and in the end, that
was probably one of the best concerts I have been to. Sure, the music
wasn't to my taste, but we had a riot that night.
The guitar player gets a solo, and I go absolutely wild. I holler at the
top of my lungs, and to my surprise, some of the people around me follow
suit. By the end of their set, I am thoroughly content. The stress that
I had come into the building with has mostly dissipated, and I am
psyched to see the main act. I sit on my phone for a while while I wait.
People are shifting around, trying to get the best view, and two younger
teens squeeze right next to me. I scooch to give them a little room
remembering what it was like to be that age at concerts and go back to
scrolling on my phone. “It would be nice if there was a pit tonight, but
I don't know if this is the right type of concert.” I overhear one of
them say. Now I am no stranger to mosh pits. However, I don't know if
the etiquette differs over here, but so far, there hasn't been a huge
difference, so I'm gonna take another risk. The last one turned out
fine. I pocket my phone and turn to face them. “If you two want to try
and start a pit at some point, I can try to help. Also, I saw them in
America a few months ago, and there was some moshing.”
I think my first time seeing a mosh pit, I had to be eight years old. I
had my heart set on getting to the barricade at Iggy Azalea’s stage at
ACL, and my father, who shares my love of music, didn't have the heart
to tell me no. He grabbed my shoulder, and we started weaving through
the crowds. He was a farm dog plowing his way through livestock, and I
just clung to him and followed. About three-fourths of the way to the
front, we hit the edge of a mosh pit, and I was mesmerized. I was sure I
wanted to join. My dad, however, knew that it was a bad idea for an
eight year old to mosh, and I was banished to sit on his shoulders the
rest of the way to the barricade.
The song reaches its climax, and we start a pit, and altogether it's
less than a dozen people, but it's fun, and the two kids who wanted to
start it in the first place are beaming as they bump their shoulders
into each other. I feel good. As the song ends, the pit fizzles out I am
back to being just another person in the crowd. I enjoy the identity of
the crowd. I am not me; instead, I am part of a group of people who know
absolutely nothing about each other, but every one of us creates the
concert. Without us, it would just be some nobodies playing music to
themselves in a large empty room, but that's not the case. All 2,300 of
us matter, but not as individuals we only matter together. The artists
address us as a collective, telling me that they are so happy we are
here tonight and that they wouldn't be here without us. They play their
final song, and we scream my heart out. Our grievances finally aired.
I wind my way through the crowd with not quite as much grace as my dad
would have, but I'm still proud of my efficiency. As I push out of the
crowd, I see my mom at our preset meeting place for the encore, and we
stand together as the concert finishes up and we wait for our ride back
to our hotel. I'll probably never be here again, but I don't think I
mind that.