How to Attend Concerts When You’re Over The Age of Twelve
but secretly wish you were weren’t…
Recently, I saw Calexico play live. My friend David had an extra ticket and I, of course, jumped at the thought of experiencing new music.
The place was a normal World Cafe venue. Curtained stage, with average lighting, a large open area in front of a raised stage with a bar situated in the back of the room.
The crowd was a standard NPR crowd. Hipsters in jean jackets sipping wine coolers (why they want to bring that back is beyond me). Elder NPR members that obviously got discounted tickets and had nothing better to do. And other random people that seem to fit into any music scene.
David and I found a comfortable spot on the floor. Not too crowded. Not to annoying. And we chatted as we waited patiently as the roadies positioned equipment, occasionally tapping skins, and testing mics.
The band came on stage to polite cheering and muted applause. The crowd was eager but I wouldn’t put them anywhere near Beatlemania level.
Since I had no expectations about Calexico’s music, and what to expect, hearing psychedelic Mexican-influenced music was way cool. I became an instant fan. Horns. Vibraphone. Pedal Steel guitar. Accordions. I’m in.
But then, I stood in the middle of the crowd and suddenly felt out of place. I forgot how to concert.
I mean, if I were a twelve-year old girl and if this was a Justin Beiber concert, I would know exactly what to do. I would dance wildly. Jump up and down. Scream as loud as I could. And make this the best possible night of my life.
But I’m not twelve.
And I didn’t know how to concert anymore.
As sweat began to bead on my forehead, I scanned the crowd. It was just as I suspected, no one else knew how to concert either. The elder crowd, huddled around, trying to hear better, obviously getting annoyed at people standing in front of them.
The hipsters kept hustling around and sharing their wine coolers and not paying attention to the music or the concert. They seemed more concerned about viewing the video or pics that they just snapped, than experiencing the actual band fifteen feet in front of them.
And me and the others just kind of stood there, trying to figure out what we should do with our hands.
Sure we all stood there, occasionally shifting our weight, side-to-side, kinda to the music. But for the most part, we occupied a 2ft X 2ft square like we were entitled to stand there. And that anyone encroaching upon that space would be looked at sternly.
David and I occasionally tried to talk about the music, the instruments, the massive talent that was on stage but being the volume was what it was. Such talking was kind of difficult.
It was about then that I began to break down the various things I should be doing with my appendages and devices.
Hands
Hands became a real problem. I had them both in my front pockets for a while. It was difficult to judge when to remove them and for what reason. I would occasionally position them in my back pockets, but that just felt weird, like I was Potsy from Happy Days. And crossing my hands in front seemed too confrontational. So, back in the front pockets they went.
Feet
Shoveling back and forth, trying to sway to the music was awkward for me. I’m not there with a significant other. I’m with a friend. And we’re not dancing together. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) It’s apparently not a Dead Show, so wildly dancing by yourself would look silly and out of place. So I just kind of did the weight-shift thing.
Head
Nodding is a big thing. It’s not a metal show, so I can’t go full on head-banger, but nodding my head to the beat of the music seemed appropriate. I did that for a while.
Beer
I got a beer. This gave me something to do with my hands. I could hold it by my side, while I shifted my weight in time with the music. But eventually the beer became a problem. When it came time to applaud, situating it under my arm while clapping was problematic because of the spill factor. So I ended up bending down and placing the beer on the ground between my feet any time that I applauded. That was annoying. So I drank the beer quickly and shoved the empty plastic cup in my back pocket until I found a trash can.
Problem solved.
Applauding
Applauding when you’re twelve is easy. You wave your arms in the air, screaming and jumping. Sometimes you clap your own hands, sometimes you high five your other twelve year old friends.
At my age, I clap with my hands situated around my waist area and occasionally switched which dominate hand was going to lead the applause. I averaged around 20 to 30 seconds of applause per song, depending on the what the rest of the audience was doing. It would feel awkward to raise my hands above my head to clap. So my hands stayed closed to the mid-section.
Phones
Okay, everyone had phones. Some were trying to do selfies with the band playing the background. Which, I’m certain that those shots will look awful the next day and they will question the logic and delete them immediately. It appeared that most of the hipsters were on their phones. Noses to the phone, obviously blogging to their editors about the show to get the review in before deadline, maybe. I can’t be certain.
Me, I didn’t know what to do. I was enjoying the show, but I felt an overwhelming feeling of capturing some sort of moment for prosperity. But finding which moment was best became futile, so I just grabbed a couple shots when everyone else put their phones down to give me a clearer shot. That seemed to work best.
Tall people
No matter how tall you are, chances are, someone taller will worm their way in front of you, pretending to ignore you, and stand directly in your line of view. Now I get it, they want their space too. They want their 2x2. But being a little situationally aware of others could be a safe thing to do. I know this is a Calexico concert but if this were Jello Biafra show, you’d be on your ass.
But some people just aren’t that aware. So that means I have a choice, to confront or adjust. It wasn’t that big of a deal, so I just adjusted. But still, my inner Italian wanted to throat punch this ignorant douchebag.
Encores
Encores are for chumps.
The lights don’t go up. The instruments are still there. The board is still lit. Everyone knows their coming out for another song or two. There’s no pretense that this is spontaneous. Encores are calculated and written into every rider.
With that, David and I looked at each other and headed for the exit. We figured it was time. Less time getting out of parking. And less time at the concession stand. Of course I purchased their latest LP. I couldn’t resist.
I guess that’s the difference between attending concerts at twelve and now. I have money to purchase schwag, less patience for crowds when exiting a venue, and know when to leave. There is a quiet beauty to simplicity.
I still wish, however, that I could dance like I was twelve.
