Live concerts. Amazing theatrics. Back up dancers. Smoke machines. Lighting from Venus. The singer or band from heaven! In the flesh. Belting out songs heard on the radio. The real-life-person-actually-singing.
No thanks. Seinfeld reruns are in tonight and so are my pyjamas.
I do not like concerts.
I do like music. Yes, I love music! Live for music. But in the comfort of my car, while I clean the house. Just for the sake of it. Brings back favourite memories and moments. I sail off in my mind to “Hello.” By Adele. I totally understand Kei$ha. I think of Rocky running up those steps in his tracksuit and pumping the air. “Eye Of The Tiger!” I think of being bored shitless, aged about ten when I hear Elton John. Do not get me wrong, he is amazing. Just the songs must have been playing a lot at that time. In my childhood kitchen. Back then, when we had to play in the tree or netball and it was not my calling, so I just hear those songs and remember that stifling time. Not a little kid but not a teenager. The ages of limbo and crazy ping-pong-ball hormones. Anyway-
If I crank up my dance moves, my teen daughter says I look like a homeless person. Their cute phrases these days.
I’ve danced to the wii DANCE and got ***** star rating for my moves, so she has no taste anyway.
But, concerts. I’ll pass.
WHERE IS THE LOO? Where will I be in relation to the toilet. How many toilets will there be? What’s if I need to go twice. Can I really dance to Katy Perrie’s “Hot and Cold” .. “Cause you’re hot, then you’re—off to the toilet.”
The lights are so bright. Crikey. That speaker is loud. Do the back up singers wear ear plugs? No, I suppose they need to hear the music. Why are there so many people? Yes, I am an observer of peopley situations. A concert is a peopley event! Close together. Rubbing shoulders with a Reginald and on the other side a pint sized Ella. I will never see them again, after this but for now we just as close as these two: a pregnant mother bearing child at eight months. There is kicking here, too. And my feet are sore. No, not from kicking. It is from standing. Oh god I want my couch and my cosy arrangements at home. This is all foreign and seemingly abstract. Angles of the room. Black lighting packages facing the stage. Black flies waiting for the old lion to die. That was morbid, sorry.
These lights, I feel like a rabbit trying to cross the road in front of a truck. The smoke. Is that passive smoking? What is that pleasant scent? Is that to spray the body odour into inconspicuous low corners. Or have we secretly been fumigated by the government. Wow, I am tired, the voices of the crowd. That out of tune buzz of a crowd. I am letting my mouth dry out like a fossil. I will not drink as I will just be off to the toilet.
The songs sound better on my radio. An audience of one. I do not think they are meant to be sung live. But recorded in a sound room and played out to people in a beautiful dream. Where I can be where I want to be.
Now the break. Now the queue to the toilet. The staring at the floor, or ceiling. Not making eye contact with the number one fans, wearing raccoon make-up. And red faced, resting-bitch-face. Oh, that was me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Back to staring at the crack in the ceiling. Or is that a peep hole?
Back to the concert. Remember my row. Remember my row. Why go to a concert? Omg I find myself back next to Reginald and Ella. They are standing together, two strangers chatting, passed over into another friendship group. What is this speed-dating. I The NOW third wheel step into my seat. That is my seat and number. I have it etched in my brain with a trail of Hansel and Gretel places crumbs back to the way of the women’s bathroom. I wonder if there can be pupil damage from such bright lights. Would it be bad to leave now, to gaze off into the walls, wishing it was my bedroom and I was watching Netflix on my daughters laptop. Not here to see a super-star!
Leaving the concert. The musician disappears into a safe haven under the stage or behund it. God I wish I was them. If I had learned to sing, been THE singer I would be gone, already. Now we are just a lot of dazed people in one place, standing. Make-up gone. Confetti everywhere. Just a mob of non-singers who came to see the one who could sing. We did. We came, we saw. Now it is time to returneth from which we cometh which is seven different directions. Some for more beer. Others, to the bathroom. Some against the flow completely into no mans land. I am sure I saw someone get beamed up by the lights above the stage. A lot to the car parks. Some to the city lights. Pity the cleaners of this messy floor. Shiny confetti everywhere. Could choke all the ducks, you know on the pond two miles away. Hope none of it gets free to clog our environment Merchandise still on sale. Get ‘Em while they are ecstatic. $200 for a bookmark with the singers face.
The walk and drive out are as long as the concert. I hum my favourite song on the way home. I wonder where the singer is? Have they gone out? Are they getting their assistant to write everything on a notepad because of the damaged ear drums.
Or are they in their hotel room with Seinfeld reruns.