Ode to Sweaty Crowds
My parents ditched my first birthday to see Bob Dylan in concert. I can’t blame them. At least he could kind of perform then, and it wasn’t like I was any the wiser.
I would skip much more important things for that kind of an opportunity right now. Well maybe not Dylan per se as I would most likely fall asleep (I have at The Who twice). My fantasy is a little more gross. I want a disgusting bar/club hybrid that serves $2 vodka cranberries and all the men look slightly predator-like and somehow washing your hands in the bathroom makes you dirtier. I want to use my pathetic height as an excuse to be close enough to the stage to touch it and then touch it. And I want to bask in the glory of hearing a favorite song at thirty times the normal volume as I shout the words and a stranger’s elbow spills into my vision. A filthy fantasy sugarcoated by memory’s balmy glow.
As the world seems to plunder into several shades of chaos, it can be hard to legitimize the more trivial desires, regardless of the validity they may possess. In the wake of the pandemic and suffering on a global scale, I find myself mourning the places I may not have the opportunity to visit. When I was younger and learned of the grimy, glorious legacy of CBGB, I was saddened to learn it had closed when I was 5, even if its infamous years had been long since. I would dream of being at an age where I could construct my own version of time-travel, not visiting dinosaurs or stopping World War II, but reliving Leonard Cohen’s “Chelsea Hotel” on W. 23rd St. or The Velvet Underground’s “Live at Max’s Kansas City” on Park Avenue South. It’s a reminder of the fleeting unpredictability that leaves us crushed if desires collect dust with no action.
I started my first year of college last fall and moved out on my own for the first time. Like practically every other arts-oriented kid I had always fantasized about New York City, so I did my best to get as close to the tall buildings as I could. One night that September I took a shuttle, then the metro, and then walked fifteen blocks to Central Park where I saw Mitski perform her last concert before “retiring.” It was uncomfortable standing for five hours, completely alone in the city for the first time and worrying about the hour-long journey home before an early morning class. Yet none of these things come to mind upon reflection. To hear her sing the words, “I’m not the moon, I’m not even a star,” after feeling as though they had been sketched onto my skull while knowing nothing else could be less true, was staggering to my small person. The precious moments weighed heavier than the humid air, and though Central Park hosts 37 million annual visitors, as far as I was concerned she was the only that mattered. It felt like an honor to be nothing more than a witness, which is a feeling hard to place for someone who doesn’t subscribe wholeheartedly to the obsession of a fan. But for those that do get it, they know it’s some of the best therapy you could ever receive.
The days of “safe” mosh pits seem to be the small dot at the end of a very long tunnel. Not that I’m complaining about the lack of 37-year-old biker dudes who have decked me recently; trust me I’m definitely not. But I could take a “girls to the front” call à la Kathleen Hanna with pleasure right about now.
“Socially-distanced concerts,” while currently the only responsible live-music option, make arena shows look intimate- which is a reality most of us never want to face. Because of the pain felt in the last year, it is difficult to allow a space for the more superfluous desires, despite the significance they may hold to the individual. The fact is each of us have a simple pleasure that grounds our faith in the excellence of the human experience which in itself is worth celebrating. For some it is witnessing the capacity of a football in skilled hands, and for others it may be examining the strokes of an artist's brush from centuries ago. Personally, life’s greatest thrill may just be the feeling of liquid joy a guitar’s fuzz can coax out of me when threatening to burst my eardrums, as a stranger's sweat flies onto my cheek. It may be a good while before we can bathe in the live melodies of our favorite artists again, but when that day comes, I’ll be first in line.