I don’t know of any greater joy in my life quite like seeing a live band. While I am, by no means, a concert-elite (one who spends their weekends in front of music and art and all envious things), I have achieved the majority of my concert goals. I started my notable list with a Bob Dylan show at Lehigh University when I was fifteen. Over the course of my later teens and early twenties, I got to check off a few key items on my lyrical list of veneration.
The object of my affection during my freshman year of college was Arctic Monkeys. I had a particular connection with their newest album that year, as many, many fangirls did, too, AM. My friends and I didn’t have the money or the resources for full passes to the Firefly Festival that summer, but we did have enough to go the day that the Monkeys were playing. I went with my best friend, my boyfriend, and his friend; communication proves quite faulty in situations like these, so it was just my boyfriend and I for the band’s set. We were on top of the world (if you’ve heard the album, you know how damn sexy it is).
I had the pleasure of seeing Alex Turner again, but this time with The Last Shadow Puppets, his super-duo with Miles Kane. Held at one of my favorite venues in Philly, Union Transfer, this concert shook my bones. I get post-concert depression, as we all do, but I had never experienced post-show pain like this. When Project Pabst came to Philadelphia, I got to see Beach Slang, Guided by Voices, Mac Demarco, Diarrhea Planet (Good band. It took a bit to get past the name, but a really solid set), Animal Collective and a few other lesser-known bands that equally shook the Electric Factory. Up to this point, I’d seen all of these shows in the past few years with my boyfriend making concert-going a staple in our relationship. And isn’t that something we all want—someone to enjoy music with?
Now, when I say this, know that I’m not comparing it to the aforementioned because they’re both experiences everyone should have, but hear me out: go to a concert alone. Book one ticket to your favorite artist’s show and go wild by yourself. Two weeks ago, I happily checked off my most-coveted band, Brand New, from my “To see” list. Brand New came into my life the same year mid-puberty heartbreak did and had been one of those comfort bands that I always felt safe with. I’m pretty sure Jesse Lacey gave me my very first detailed dirty thought, too. Anyway, I went to this show with friends but I had a separate ticket—I was going to that show regardless of anyone accompanying me.
Photo courtesy of The Morning Call
When I found my seat I was less than satisfied. Modern Baseball was playing, and even with my glasses on I felt like they were a world away. I spent the entirety of Project Pabst in the front row and I was getting spoiled. Since the stadium was only about one-fourth full, I hung by the employee handing out wristbands for the floor. I didn’t plan this, but with a few passing smiles I decided to strike up a conversation with this nice middle-aged concert worker and asked to stand near his post to get a better view. He told me that I could sneak onto the floor with the next big group that came for wristbands. I gave my new friend a hug, and with the next bunch, found myself running 90s movie slow-mo style towards the crowd. I got to about the third row before I had to stop pushing through. When it came time for Brand New, I could control nothing: my feet, emotions, tears, etc.
I could write a dissertation about the feelings this concert and seeing this band stirred inside me, but that’s not the point of this article. The point is that you have to experience a concert by yourself at least once. Music is a personal thing and it’s actually extremely intimate to share the same love with an entire stadium of sweaty fans but be completely alone to absorb every minute of it.