Fiona and I looked at each other as we whipped our heads to the beat of “1234.” Our eyes locked and our smiles radiated with authenticity. It was a Monday night and we each had enough homework to drown both of us, but we were at The Sinclair in Cambridge, Mass listening to Colony House instead.

Earlier in the night we had half heartedly gotten out of our comfortable leggings and begrudgingly got ready to go to the concert. Our weekend was long and stressful to say the very least and neither of us wanted to go be pushed up close to strangers and listen to loud thumping music. But we sure as hell weren’t wasting the $20 we spent on tickets so off we went.

We met up with Fiona’s best friend from highschool Christine, nicknamed Tini from a lack of growth spurts in middle school, and two of her friends from college. When we got into The Sinclair, Tini’s two friends led us to their spot. This turned out to be the front right of the stage directly next to the bass speaker and the small gate that kept concert goers from destroying the expensive equipment. The gate was soon turned into a coat rack and a convenient leaning spot while we waited for the opener to come on. These girls were seasoned pros when it came to concerts. Being a country bumpkin myself with very little concert experience, I allowed them to take charge. They explained that this would be the perfect spot to hear and see the band without experiencing the barrage of sweat and spit that the center front viewers would endure throughout the night. It also gave us easy access to the water pitchers on top of the bar and a quick escape route after the concert was over. I was impressed.

The band started off okay. Fiona, Tini, and I were commenting on the various musical influences we could hear in their songs: a little bit of Lumineers, some Vampire Weekend, notes of The Black Keys. We were mostly talking about how very HOT the band members were.

And then they played “This Beautiful Life.”

Fiona and my jaws dropped as we listened to the lyrics

All that I know
All that I see
All that I feel
Inside of me
All that I’ve done
All that I’ve tried
There must be more
To this beautiful life

Where did this angelic voice come from and how did he know exactly what Fiona and I had been thinking all of last week? The acoustic song tore our hearts, reconfigured the pieces, and put them back together seamlessly. Somehow both she and I had gotten ours tangled up in knots, but after that song they were right again. The euphoria that I usually experience when listening to a song, which up to that point had been missing, came in full force. I couldn’t stop smiling. The stage had been empty for the song except for the lead singer, but slowly the other band members came back on, adding layers of harmonies as they crowded around a single mic. The spotlight shone on the back of their heads.

1, 2, I've told you that I need you
3, 4, give me just a little but more
Of joy and less of sadness
More of love and less of madness
Baby, I am yours
Baby, you are mine
Nothing is changing

After that we were dancing harder than anyone else in the venue. We didn’t care. We had let go of all of our sadness and decided to make our worlds beautiful again. We felt each other’s pure joy and threw our hands up laughing.

We walked out of The Sinclair happier than either of us had been in a very long time.

I haven’t been to enough concerts to even need hands to count, but I can with full authority say that they are more therapeutic than any leather couch or “how does that make you feel” I’ve experienced. Something about the anonymity collective energy a crowd of people brings just makes me feel alive. This isn’t to say that going to a concert will magically rid you of all struggle and confusion. It will give you the break that you need, deserve. So take a break from your usual routine and hit a concert. I’ll see you in the front right corner.