Everyone has their own addictions. They start with an itch, and a scratch, and suddenly they're all you can think about. Their origin, their purpose all stems from a hole. The empty feeling deep inside your chest is the culprit, and it's up to you to fill it. Some people are addicted to fame, fortune, drugs, alcohol, soap operas. I'm addicted to something less sinister. I'm addicted to music in its purest form: live.
It's hard to say when I got hooked, but easy to show where it started. My first concert was Ringo Starr, hours away from my home. Being a Beatles fan since birth, begged my parents to take me. It wasn't hard to convince my parents to see one of the two living Beatles, so off we went. The venue was a historic theater, something old but beautiful. I was captivated by the interior, that is, until the lights came on and the curtain split in two.
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There is magic in music. Something beyond comprehension, something intangible, but we all feel it. For some people, this feeling comes from "Free Bird" or a Glee cover of an 80s pop hit or classical music made by men who have been six feet deep for longer than we can comprehend. I have always been drawn to rock music myself, and the feeling is only cemented by witnessing the great power of it in person.
I've now been to nearly fifty concerts, ranging from drives of half an hour to over six. I've gone with various friends, and met strangers at these shows who have become some of my closest companions. I've brought in others into this addition, stringing them along with all the coveted promises of a live show. I gave them the keys to something I could only hope will help. It is something that cuts deep, but sews the wounds shut. Music is healing.
The lights flash and the crowd roars, the musicians sometimes revel in the spotlight and sometimes shy away from the attention. There are moments of silence, when a crowd of thousands all feel as if the moment is too perfectly peaceful to speak. There are moments of chaos, when it is as if every single witness is unleashing some crazed inner emotion. I don't feel like a fan at a concert, I feel like a human being. I feel more at home cramped into a pit alongside people I have never met than in my hometown of over eighteen years. Music is inviting.
The people at the shows are just like me, in many ways. We obviously share the same taste in music, to some extent. We were willing to drop some of our paycheck into this event. We gave up a night for this celebration willingly. We subjected ourselves to crowds, loud music and lots of sweat and tears just to be here, in this moment, together. We will exist in the same space for a few hours, sharing the emotion of the music together. We will sing along to every song, together. All of us, in our separate microscopic lives, will all at once, be one living, breathing entity. Music is community.
The show will end and the lights will come on. The instruments will be packed away and the musicians will retire to their bunks. We will leave confetti and plastic cups and lighters. But we will take something home. We will harbor these memories, these moments deep inside. And when we feel reduced to nothing at all, when we feel invisible, tiny, and small, we will remember this night - the night when we were one. There were ties between us, uniting us all under one common love: a love of music. We will feel the spark in our hearts when we remember hearing our favorite song live, not just from the words of our favorite band, but from thousands of strangers' mouths who sang so loud they drowned out the vocals. There is hope in music.
