Essays

Concert Memories

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.