I have been to quite a few concerts in my short life. Like any teen with skin problems and an interest in excessive eyeliner, I aligned my self identity firmly with my CD collection during my formative years. Going to all-age shows, spending the whole concert in line to buy a commemorative t-shirt, then blogging about how amazing it was took up huge chunks of my adolescence. “They played an amazing acoustic version of ‘Angst Riot’,” I would brag in class the next day in my saucily belted XL tee. “He actually sweat on me. Amazing.”
Ten years later, though, I’m realizing that I don’t actually like concerts very much at all. Whether I’m just getting older and more curmudgeonly or whether I was just in denial in my youthier youth, it’s hard to say. Festivals, I like: there are delicious deep fried things, a lot of opportunities for lounging instead of swaying in someone’s impossibly sweaty personal space, and the sun is usually invited. But the more I think about concerts, the more I find to complain about in my head during drum solos, and I wonder why I keep bothering.
Concerts? More like No-Fun-certs!
Opening bands
Like Shakespeare once said, “If the ticket says the show starts at 7:30, why doesn’t it just start at 7:30?” Although I am perpetually late because my time is obviously more valuable than anyone else, I get quite stressed waiting around for things to happen. The time where the roadies move mic stands around a stage for half an hour between some opening Winnipeg-ian band and the main act is like purgatory, presuming purgatory looks like the Vogue theatre / is real. Recently I have learned to just eat crepes and drink beer until an hour and a half after doors open, which has greatly eased my tension.
Jam sessions
Perhaps I need to get into drugs. I don’t understand or enjoy a seven minute song on any level. Some of us have to get up for work in the morning, guys.
Arms: On throwing them in the air and waving them like I just don’t care
I usually frequent shows that are less “toe-tappin’” and are more “unorthodox use of the banjo”, but however the performer challenges basic notions of rhythm, I still feel like a little bit of dancing is expected at a public performance.
Unfortunately, though I learned a really sweet dance move for the bottom half of my body last week where you just spell your name with your butt, above the belly button, I am a mess.
Ponytails
There is always some dumb girl in front of me who needs to re-do her ponytail like 12 times, so she flips and flops her hair in my face for 45 minutes. I suppose this could be avoided by standing behind people with shorter, lower-maintenance hair, but that means she wins. No dice.
Encores
Clapping for one minute is fine, but clapping for five minutes makes my hands feel fuzzy. Upon further consideration, this may be something I should contact a medical professional about. More importantly, however, it is a metaphor for the pain of a performer leaving you alone, hooting in the darkness with stupid ponytail’d bitches. At the hand-numbness point, I don’t even want to see the band any more. We don’t even really need to clap them back on stage, anyways. They know it’s coming; we know it’s coming. It’s an uncomfortable charade that needs to stop.
Closing remarks
It’s not that I don’t like “music” or “fun”. I would gladly go to a concert again, but I probably will stop paying $60 for a balcony seat. If you’d like to take me as your guest, that would be nice! But I’d like to bring my own chair and sit perfectly still while enjoying the music. I’ll also need earplugs because these things can get pretty loud sometimes.
Prime. Of. My. Life.
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