Status: one-shot contest entry.
Let Go.
one - one
The sea of bodies was moving in time to the beat, all eyes followed the thin boy on stage as he worked the crowd. He was singing his lungs out, jumping around, and really putting his heart into this performance.
“Just drop us a beat!” he yelled, his skin glistening with sweat.
Every person in the tiny room was dancing to the music, letting it take control. Not a soul cared what others might be thinking about them; they just let go. It felt so good to be alive, to let the singer’s voice and the sweat and the lights and the smell of the guy next to you all sink in. It felt so good.
“Stay seventeen!”
At the front of the stage, a huge mosh pit was forming. When someone dropped to the floor every few minutes, they got picked up and asked if they were okay. Bodies were being carried and thrown through the air, surfing the crowd. Every person in that microscopic venue had a huge smile on their face, adrenaline seeping through their pores.
“The party scene has got the best of me and you, we've got to let this go!” the singer belted out those words with such power that the crowd roared until their voices gave out.
Whether you were at the bar sneaking drinks with your fake ID, moshing and falling down, flying through the air over the crowd’s heads, or simply dancing ‘til you couldn’t breathe, you were part of something huge. Part of something so amazing it made your hands shake. That night, you made love. Whether or not you went to a cheap motel after the concert; you made love. You made love happen with the music. The notes flying from the vibrations of a guitar, the strum of a bass, the beat of a drum, or the words from a mouth; you made music into love. And, man, it was beautiful. When the final notes of the song played, cheers rang loudly, wanting more. The band immediately launched into another song. As the opening chords flew out of the amps on stage, the people in the room yelled their lungs out; the air pregnant with thrill.
“Make it a sweet, sweet goodbye.”
The boy onstage sang his face off, not once holding back in the act he was displaying that night. The guitar in his hands was cradled with such comfort it seemed to be attached to his frail body.
“Scream to be heard, like you needed anymore attention.”
The crowd wailed out the lyrics with every bit of energy in their bodies. The drummer was beating on the drums with such momentum it seemed impossible that they hadn’t burst. Power. This band had power. They could mold this room into whatever they wanted; make these teenagers do whatever they pleased. All the kids, all the misunderstood adolescents’ hearts beat to the rhythm of the drums that night. Their bodies moved in synch as the singer belted out the final lyrics: “Sing me to sleep; I’ll see you in my dreams. Waiting to say: I miss you, I’m so sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
After the final strums were silenced, the whole room shook as the mob bellowed in appreciation. They wanted more from the four high schoolers on stage. But, alas, it was the last song of the night.
“Thank you, Maryland! We love you, baby! Come and hang with us! We’re All Time Low!” the singer shouted over the sound of the swarm of sweaty, happy kids.
Most of the teenagers at the show had curfews to get home to. A few were trying to get home, while a few didn’t care. They were rushing out to go party some more with their friends. And only about ten people stayed behind to hang with the four guys who had just rocked their world. A girl of about the age of seventeen had shoved her way to the front of the line, trying to talk with the band. When she had finally squeezed through the mass of exhausted kids, she ran over to the singer and gave him a huge, unexpected hug.
“Hey, I’m Melanie and oh my God, you guys are sick! That was incredible! I totally love you!”
After she had calmed down a bit and finally let go of the scrawny singer she smiled sheepishly and apologized, “Sorry. I totally just fan-girled.”
“Just drop us a beat!” he yelled, his skin glistening with sweat.
Every person in the tiny room was dancing to the music, letting it take control. Not a soul cared what others might be thinking about them; they just let go. It felt so good to be alive, to let the singer’s voice and the sweat and the lights and the smell of the guy next to you all sink in. It felt so good.
“Stay seventeen!”
At the front of the stage, a huge mosh pit was forming. When someone dropped to the floor every few minutes, they got picked up and asked if they were okay. Bodies were being carried and thrown through the air, surfing the crowd. Every person in that microscopic venue had a huge smile on their face, adrenaline seeping through their pores.
“The party scene has got the best of me and you, we've got to let this go!” the singer belted out those words with such power that the crowd roared until their voices gave out.
Whether you were at the bar sneaking drinks with your fake ID, moshing and falling down, flying through the air over the crowd’s heads, or simply dancing ‘til you couldn’t breathe, you were part of something huge. Part of something so amazing it made your hands shake. That night, you made love. Whether or not you went to a cheap motel after the concert; you made love. You made love happen with the music. The notes flying from the vibrations of a guitar, the strum of a bass, the beat of a drum, or the words from a mouth; you made music into love. And, man, it was beautiful. When the final notes of the song played, cheers rang loudly, wanting more. The band immediately launched into another song. As the opening chords flew out of the amps on stage, the people in the room yelled their lungs out; the air pregnant with thrill.
“Make it a sweet, sweet goodbye.”
The boy onstage sang his face off, not once holding back in the act he was displaying that night. The guitar in his hands was cradled with such comfort it seemed to be attached to his frail body.
“Scream to be heard, like you needed anymore attention.”
The crowd wailed out the lyrics with every bit of energy in their bodies. The drummer was beating on the drums with such momentum it seemed impossible that they hadn’t burst. Power. This band had power. They could mold this room into whatever they wanted; make these teenagers do whatever they pleased. All the kids, all the misunderstood adolescents’ hearts beat to the rhythm of the drums that night. Their bodies moved in synch as the singer belted out the final lyrics: “Sing me to sleep; I’ll see you in my dreams. Waiting to say: I miss you, I’m so sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
After the final strums were silenced, the whole room shook as the mob bellowed in appreciation. They wanted more from the four high schoolers on stage. But, alas, it was the last song of the night.
“Thank you, Maryland! We love you, baby! Come and hang with us! We’re All Time Low!” the singer shouted over the sound of the swarm of sweaty, happy kids.
Most of the teenagers at the show had curfews to get home to. A few were trying to get home, while a few didn’t care. They were rushing out to go party some more with their friends. And only about ten people stayed behind to hang with the four guys who had just rocked their world. A girl of about the age of seventeen had shoved her way to the front of the line, trying to talk with the band. When she had finally squeezed through the mass of exhausted kids, she ran over to the singer and gave him a huge, unexpected hug.
“Hey, I’m Melanie and oh my God, you guys are sick! That was incredible! I totally love you!”
After she had calmed down a bit and finally let go of the scrawny singer she smiled sheepishly and apologized, “Sorry. I totally just fan-girled.”