I have been to more concerts than I can count. My first concert was Ross Lynchâs, who was in âAustin and Ally.â I did not even know his real name, but at 13, my hopeless crush was reason enough to go. I stood in a sea of girls screaming “take your shirt off,â pretending I cared about the music, when really I was just mesmerized by him on stage.
After that, attending concerts became a routine: the Weeknd, a pop R&B singer, in Chicago, festivals with Lil Tecca, a rapper, and countless nights filled with music I loved. But nothing compared to the rapper Drakeâs concert. I had the perfect outfit, the perfect energy and the perfect friends by my side. My friends and I even made it into the pit without paying for outrageously expensive tickets, thanks to my friend Kyleeâs brilliant scheme. Kylee bought a bunch of colored wristbands online, hoping one would match the ones for the pit. When we realized the pit wristbands were neon orange, we slipped our matching wristbands on and walked straight in; it worked like a charm. It felt rebellious, electric and unforgettable.
That night, surrounded by flashing lights and the pulsing rhythm of the crowd, I thought I discovered what concerts were really about, screaming every lyric, dancing until my feet ached and feeling like the music was written just for me.
But my most recent concert changed that.
My boyfriend had an extra ticket to see Riley Green. I had never heard of Green and had to look him up. He is a country singer with a tan, a charming smile and a mustache that practically introduced itself. I had never been to a country music concert before, but something about it intrigued me; maybe it was the thought of sundresses and cowboy boots, or maybe it was the idea of sharing a new experience with my boyfriend.
Still, I was nervous. I love concerts where I can sing every word, not ones where I stand there guessing. Between organic chemistry labs and biology exams, I barely had time to listen to his music. The only song I managed to learn by heart was âDonât Mind If I Do.â It was soft and tender, sad in the sweetest way and it quickly became my favorite.
Then came the hardest part: choosing an outfit. I wanted to look perfect for my first country concert with my boyfriend. After spending $50 on a new dress I did not need but absolutely loved, and rescuing my cowboy boots from beneath a layer of dust under my bed, I had the perfect outfit.
When the night finally came, we arrived just as the show was starting. Our seats were high up, but the view was great, thanks to the massive screen. The crowd around us was older, but we did not mind. The openers played for what felt like forever, and we spent two and a half hours waiting, shifting in our seats and wondering when Riley Green would finally appear. But the moment the lights dimmed and the first notes of âIf It Wasnât for Trucksâ echoed through the stadium, everything shifted.
Even though I did not know the lyrics, I could feel the energy ripple through the crowd, the collective cheer, the stomping boots, the laughter and the swaying. The air smelled faintly of beer and summer air, even in the midst of November, and the lights painted everything in shades of gold. My boyfriend sang along softly beside me, his voice warm against the noise, and suddenly, it did not matter that I was an outsider to this genre. I was not just watching the performance; I was living inside it.
During âWorst Way,â even the older couples around us stood up and sang with a joy that was contagious. I laughed, swaying to the rhythm, picking up fragments of lyrics, letting the moment carry me. After every song, my boyfriend leaned in and whispered, âPlay âDonât Mind If I Do,ââ because he knew it was the one I liked the most.Â
When Green finally played it near the end, joined by one of his openers, the entire atmosphere softened. The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, and the melody felt both intimate and alive. My boyfriendâs arms wrapped around my waist as we sang, him confidently, me quietly. For that moment, everything was still.
That night, I realized concerts are not really about knowing every lyric or following every beat. They are about connection, the people beside you, the emotions that rise uninvited and the way music can make a strangerâs voice feel like a memory.
With my boyfriend’s arms around me and the music washing over us, I did not need to know the songs. I just needed to feel them. After all, at the Riley Green concert, I was with my favorite person, my favorite dress and a song I barely knew. It was more than enough. It was perfect.