Status: Complete
Anticipation
Anticipation
It’s after nine, and the lights go out. Each body in the room swells with anticipation. The cheers begin and grow louder, similar to my heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump pounds my heart and my palms become slick with a nervous, yet excited sweat, as I wait impatiently in the crowded stands. The stage is dark, illuminated by a few, lonely, yellow lights.
“Sing us a song of the century, that’s louder than bombs and eternity…”
My ears embrace his slow, static-laced voice as it hums from the speakers and his mournful crooning sends chills up and down my spine. I hear him, yet I can’t see him. My eager eyes scan the stage awaiting his entrance. My best friend stands beside me, her petite frame on tiptoes, her neck arching over heads, and her eyes fixed on the stage. My dad stands behind me. He doesn’t know what to expect when he consented to take two sixteen-year-old girls to a punk rock concert. Yet, I imagine he was as thrilled and as eager for the show to start as I was.
“…tell us a story into that goodnight. Sing us a song, for me.”
As the haunting tune comes to an end, my heart leaps as three dark figures rush onstage and the crowd goes wild. My knees go weak and I grip my friend’s arm to prevent myself from falling over. This is what I’ve been waiting for. One figure takes his place behind a magnificent drum set; his bright red Chuck Taylor’s visible in the darkness. The second figure stands aggressively behind a microphone at stage right, his white bass guitar shining like a beacon of expectation. Finally, the last figure, the one I’ve been waiting for, the lead singer, takes his place at center stage behind a microphone, several feet in front of the catwalk, and hundreds of feet in front of me.
I close my eyes and imagine him holding his guitar firmly in his hands, almost as if he’s afraid to let go. The lights split the darkness, the pyrotechnics spray upward, and the three dark figures are suddenly clearly visible. The sudden sound of the thundering bass surprises me, my eyes quickly open, and I snap to attention. The band bursts into the first song of the night, expertly hitting each familiar note. The crowd roars with excitement as the lead singer leans into the microphone, his skilled, calloused fingers clutch a guitar pick, and he strums the first chords of the opening song perfectly. With his dark eyebrows furrowed, he begins to sing:
“Born into Nixon, I was raised in hell…”
I notice that his voice is markedly different from the opening tune. This time his vocals are rough, powerful, angst ridden, furious, and heartfelt. I watch him carefully and I notice how his body stands hunched over the microphone and his small, yet muscular arms pump up and down, striking the guitar strings.
I recognize the lyrics to the opening song and smile lightens my face. I throw my hands up into the air and I’m so happy I could cry. The lead singer’s tattooed arm thrusts the microphone forward inviting the audience to sing and I just can’t help myself. I close my eyes and belt out the lyrics along with the rest of the crowd as a sudden surge of energy pumps through my veins. My friend and I squeeze each other’s shoulders for support, and we jump up and down, screaming at the top of our lungs, our black Converse slapping the concrete floor. My dad stands his ground behind me, nodding along to the song. His face is unreadable, although I suspect that he is enjoying every minute of the show. The song comes to a close as the last chords are played, and thousands of fans scream their appreciation and scream for more.
“How are you St. Louis?” the lead singer bellows, and his question is answered with raucous cheers.
I call back with the rest of the crowd and the lead singer laughs, satisfied with our answer, before bursting into the next song. One song blends into another and the rest of the concert passes quickly, although I feel myself moving in slow motion. The antics and theatrics on stage seem to be moving slowly too, and my wide eyes drink it all in. With my waving arms stretched above my head and my body moving to the music, I lose myself in every song, and in every brilliant lyric.
Finally, after two and a half frenzied and fantastic hours, the dark curtains sweep shut, signaling the end of the show. As the lights flicker back on, no one moves. I gaze at the people in the stands around me and at the people standing motionless on the floor. We all seem to be levitating. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do, we just stand still, numb with elation. After what seems like an eternity bodies slowly begin to exit and shouts of satisfaction echo in my ears.
My dad leads us towards our car and my best friend and I follow, blinded, awe struck, speechless. As we make our way across the vast parking lot smiles creep across our faces and all the excitement we were holding in finally bursts forth.
“That was the best concert I’ve ever been to,” my dad says dreamily, having developed a newfound respect for a band he thought was only for adolescents. My best friend clings to my arm, her eyes wide, stunned, and she nods her head slowly in agreement. As they chatter amongst themselves, I stay quiet, lost among the thoughts inside my head. My natural high has me buzzing and I feel like I should say something, but nothing immediately comes to mind.
My mind drifts back to the beginning of the concert when the lights went dark, when the band came onstage, when he came onstage, the lead singer. I imagine what his face looked like in that exact moment in time. The screams of thousands of fans calling his name, here to see him, it must have been an overwhelming feeling, something indescribable. I imagine a smile, a radiant and gorgeous smile stretched across his face. His dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his heart racing, and maybe, a tear or two welling up in his eyes.
I savor this picture in my mind as we climb into our car, pull out of the parking lot, and drive the two hour stretch home, anticipating the comfort of soft pillows and pleasant dreams. I start to drift off and I think of the lead singer one more time. As he scanned over the thousands of eager faces in the crowd, I hope that for at least one moment, his emerald eyes found me.
“Sing us a song of the century, that’s louder than bombs and eternity…”
My ears embrace his slow, static-laced voice as it hums from the speakers and his mournful crooning sends chills up and down my spine. I hear him, yet I can’t see him. My eager eyes scan the stage awaiting his entrance. My best friend stands beside me, her petite frame on tiptoes, her neck arching over heads, and her eyes fixed on the stage. My dad stands behind me. He doesn’t know what to expect when he consented to take two sixteen-year-old girls to a punk rock concert. Yet, I imagine he was as thrilled and as eager for the show to start as I was.
“…tell us a story into that goodnight. Sing us a song, for me.”
As the haunting tune comes to an end, my heart leaps as three dark figures rush onstage and the crowd goes wild. My knees go weak and I grip my friend’s arm to prevent myself from falling over. This is what I’ve been waiting for. One figure takes his place behind a magnificent drum set; his bright red Chuck Taylor’s visible in the darkness. The second figure stands aggressively behind a microphone at stage right, his white bass guitar shining like a beacon of expectation. Finally, the last figure, the one I’ve been waiting for, the lead singer, takes his place at center stage behind a microphone, several feet in front of the catwalk, and hundreds of feet in front of me.
I close my eyes and imagine him holding his guitar firmly in his hands, almost as if he’s afraid to let go. The lights split the darkness, the pyrotechnics spray upward, and the three dark figures are suddenly clearly visible. The sudden sound of the thundering bass surprises me, my eyes quickly open, and I snap to attention. The band bursts into the first song of the night, expertly hitting each familiar note. The crowd roars with excitement as the lead singer leans into the microphone, his skilled, calloused fingers clutch a guitar pick, and he strums the first chords of the opening song perfectly. With his dark eyebrows furrowed, he begins to sing:
“Born into Nixon, I was raised in hell…”
I notice that his voice is markedly different from the opening tune. This time his vocals are rough, powerful, angst ridden, furious, and heartfelt. I watch him carefully and I notice how his body stands hunched over the microphone and his small, yet muscular arms pump up and down, striking the guitar strings.
I recognize the lyrics to the opening song and smile lightens my face. I throw my hands up into the air and I’m so happy I could cry. The lead singer’s tattooed arm thrusts the microphone forward inviting the audience to sing and I just can’t help myself. I close my eyes and belt out the lyrics along with the rest of the crowd as a sudden surge of energy pumps through my veins. My friend and I squeeze each other’s shoulders for support, and we jump up and down, screaming at the top of our lungs, our black Converse slapping the concrete floor. My dad stands his ground behind me, nodding along to the song. His face is unreadable, although I suspect that he is enjoying every minute of the show. The song comes to a close as the last chords are played, and thousands of fans scream their appreciation and scream for more.
“How are you St. Louis?” the lead singer bellows, and his question is answered with raucous cheers.
I call back with the rest of the crowd and the lead singer laughs, satisfied with our answer, before bursting into the next song. One song blends into another and the rest of the concert passes quickly, although I feel myself moving in slow motion. The antics and theatrics on stage seem to be moving slowly too, and my wide eyes drink it all in. With my waving arms stretched above my head and my body moving to the music, I lose myself in every song, and in every brilliant lyric.
Finally, after two and a half frenzied and fantastic hours, the dark curtains sweep shut, signaling the end of the show. As the lights flicker back on, no one moves. I gaze at the people in the stands around me and at the people standing motionless on the floor. We all seem to be levitating. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do, we just stand still, numb with elation. After what seems like an eternity bodies slowly begin to exit and shouts of satisfaction echo in my ears.
My dad leads us towards our car and my best friend and I follow, blinded, awe struck, speechless. As we make our way across the vast parking lot smiles creep across our faces and all the excitement we were holding in finally bursts forth.
“That was the best concert I’ve ever been to,” my dad says dreamily, having developed a newfound respect for a band he thought was only for adolescents. My best friend clings to my arm, her eyes wide, stunned, and she nods her head slowly in agreement. As they chatter amongst themselves, I stay quiet, lost among the thoughts inside my head. My natural high has me buzzing and I feel like I should say something, but nothing immediately comes to mind.
My mind drifts back to the beginning of the concert when the lights went dark, when the band came onstage, when he came onstage, the lead singer. I imagine what his face looked like in that exact moment in time. The screams of thousands of fans calling his name, here to see him, it must have been an overwhelming feeling, something indescribable. I imagine a smile, a radiant and gorgeous smile stretched across his face. His dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his heart racing, and maybe, a tear or two welling up in his eyes.
I savor this picture in my mind as we climb into our car, pull out of the parking lot, and drive the two hour stretch home, anticipating the comfort of soft pillows and pleasant dreams. I start to drift off and I think of the lead singer one more time. As he scanned over the thousands of eager faces in the crowd, I hope that for at least one moment, his emerald eyes found me.