I went to my first concert during the summer of 2013 when I was 14. It wasn’t a full-blown concert like the dozens I’ve been to since, but I still count it. My mom was walking with me through Central Park at 6 a.m. to the Good Morning America stage set up in Rumsey Playfield when I heard One Republic sound checking their song “Counting Stars.” I had no idea where I was going, but I started sprinting up trails and pathways towards the sound of the music hoping it’d lead me to the right place. I kept running until the stage was in view, not even stopping to see if my mom had kept up with me––she hadn’t, running wasn’t in the terms and conditions of her getting out of bed at 4 in the morning to take me to a concert. When she eventually found me, with the help of security, I had weaved my way up to the second row.
Nearly every concert that has followed my first encounter with live music has more or less included the same two factors: running and getting as close to the stage, to the artists, as possible. If doors were at 7 p.m. for a general admission show, I’d line up no later than 1 p.m. so that I’d be one of the first people let into the venue. This often involved sitting on concrete for hours at a time, but it was always worth it. The rush of having your ticket scanned and immediately sprinting to grab the barricade in front of the stage while security yells at you not to run is a type of endorphin release I wish everyone could experience at least once in their life. It’s a feeling I didn’t realize I would stop having eventually.
When I saw the 1975 perform in 2016, I sat outside of the venue for eight hours. When doors opened, 17-year-old me sprinted up two flights of stairs, around a corner, up another two flights, and then down four and across half of the arena floor to get to the barricade of the stage. I sat on the floor for a while, basking in that feeling. When I saw the 1975 again in 2019, I was 20 and it was at a festival. They were playing at 7 p.m. at the Gov Ball NYC stage, about 10 or 15 minutes walking from the entrance. Naturally, I got to Randall’s Island Park at 7 a.m., waited for doors to open at noon, and sprinted that walking time down from 10-15 minutes to maybe 3. When I made it to the barricade, the euphoria only lasted a moment. Sure, I was ecstatic to be seeing one of my favorite bands in the world again, and from 6 feet away from the stage, but my lungs were burning, my body ached, and I still had seven hours to go before their set would start.
I’m thankful to have worked out a contract with my body in which I go to concerts running on a few hours a sleep, a liter of water, and maybe a bagel and all urges to use the bathroom, or eat, or anything else required to be a functioning human being disappear as soon as I’m in front of the stage and don’t return until I’m home. As I get older, though, I’m realizing that I may need to renegotiate some terms of our agreement. It appears that when signing this contract, I skipped over the parts about how every inch of my body, especially my back and thighs, would be sore for a minimum of a week following every show I’d attend after the age of 19. I hadn’t read the part about how I’d eventually stop enjoying being in crowds, either.
When I found myself pleading with my friend to let us move up to the balcony and out of the crowd at a Roddy Ricch concert just a few weeks ago, I could hear my younger self scoffing and calling me weak. To be fair, I didn’t really care about this show like I cared about the others. I only went because I wanted to have a good time, and the tickets were $15. What struck me though, is that I thought being immersed in a crowd, and moving in sync with it, was my idea of having a good time. What was once one of my absolute favorite things in the world, and one of the few places I felt secure and safe––and the reason why I’d always buy general admission tickets instead of seats––was now just the source of a headache and light bruising from people slamming into my body for two hours.
When I would go to shows as a teenager, I’d sometimes see older fans in line super early, too. They’d be set up with lawn chairs, or towels, and they’d stay to themselves until doors opened. I remember thinking sometimes that they were too old to be there, that they should just get their over 21 wristband and head up to the balcony. As I approached my 20s, I started to wonder when I would make the decision to stop making my body put up with my concert antics. I’m realizing now that it isn’t really a decision at all, it’s just one of those things that was once your first and would become your last without you even realizing it. It’s something I’ll probably just grow out of doing without a second thought. I think I’ve already started to.
So far, I have tickets to 10 shows between now and October. For the first time ever, I opted to purchase a seated ticket for the 1975 instead of getting a pit ticket with the added barricade euphoria. Only four of my upcoming shows are general admission, and I even paid extra for VIP for one of them so that I wouldn’t have to deal with the waiting and the sprinting. I wish the idea of sitting on concrete for hours and making friends with whoever else was antsy enough to get in line as early as me was still something that realistically appealed to me, beyond being a good idea in my head. The only thing worse than your body changing its rules and tolerance levels as you get older is being consciously aware that it’s doing this. No, I wasn’t expecting to still be dancing around in general admission pits at age 90, but I definitely thought I had more time.
Larisha Paul 