They dont know what it's like to love one band, one silly piece of music so much that it hurts - Almost Famous
I’m always trying to put into words the way I feel about my favorite band. I saw them twice this past week end and it was amazing, as always, maybe even more amazing than usual. I met up with lots of friends and used up $70 worth of gas in two days (it was worth it!) and took a million pictures.
If my life and my love for a certain band were a charm bracelet of occurrences it would look something like this:
When you’re twelve you discover the meaning of life, or at least how it applies to your twelve year old self. It’s from an album, a fandom and lots of songs that are fun to dance to/ kind of silly/ or everything you needed to hear in lyric form.
You begin to actually finish novels. What used to be strings of scenes and characters falling in love over and over starts to become something more real.
You’re fifteen you’re an extra in a college movie. The cute guy recognises the pendant around your neck and tells you he was in their music video.
The album that was released in 2004 smells like a dark room, it looks like the faint red light inside a dark room from all the times you developed film in there while playing the album on repeat.
Your friend’s mom accidentally becomes e-mail buddies with the keyboardist’s father in law. A meet and greet is set up and you’re set, after six years, to shake hands and share a picture.
They are playing at Mayfest in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where they live. You go to Houston with a friend and drive up to Tulsa for an amazing weekend, live music and a really bad sunburn (newsflash: Oklahoma in May is a lot warmer and sunnier than Massachusetts in May). There is also the very first Members Only Event: the screening of their documentary.
You get a ride with a fan club member from Sonoma County to LA. Sleep on the street. See two of their shows in one night (acoustic and then electric).
Somehow you acquire all of their phone numbers. You never use them, but they stay in your phone contacts for a while.
Shirley Temples become the signature drink of the Boston shows. You sit in the balcony every time and enjoy the show from above where you can both see and hear.
Outside the venue you’re by the beach hanging around waiting for appearances. All of a sudden the drummer is right there playing with an air soft gun. He’s running around cars, dodging people and shooting at one of the tech guys. Instead he hits your friend in the chest.
You start buying tickets for friends so you won’t go alone to shows. It’s fun but not the same. You count the connections you’ve made in the past on your hands. Maybe this is growing up, you think.
There are lots of members only events you aren’t invited to because you aren’t a member anymore.
And then there’s this year. Twenty-six hardly looks any different than the years before. You may be older, you may be more mature, but a string of songs live can bring you back far enough to remember everything you were about and everything you’ve lost and miss about yourself.