what I miss…

Blasting the band’s music in my car on the drive to the venue.

Approaching the venue, with one eye looking for parking and the other watching the fellow concert-goers streaming towards the heavenly gates.

Standing patiently yet nervously in line. Hopefully hear at least one song from the opener.

Once inside, getting that first beer and then heading to the merchandise table. To me, there is only one worthy symbol of a show: the poster. It’s like a stamp on your passport signifying “I. Was. There.” Especially in the age of mobile tickets. But it’s so much more. Its art. It’s unique. Sometimes it’s even specific to the very show you’re at. Most of all, it helps tell the story about the night. The only “bad” thing is having to hold it during the show, but waiting to the end of the night only to learn that th posters are sold out is so much worse. Take my word for it.

Assuming it’s a general admission show, the last decision is figuring out where to stand. The proximity of how close I want to get to the stage is directly correlated to how crazy I (and/or my friends) feel that night.

I listen carefully, there is always background music playing very lightly while the stage is getting set up. I like to figure out what is playing. And who picks the music? The band? The sound guys? I heard that Arcade Fire partly got discovered when people realized that their music was being played at U2.

Sometimes, there is a brief silence when that background music is turned off - or when a song finished and another one does not begin. That means IT’S TIME.

And then the lights turn off and the crowd goes bonkers. The band takes the stage and they tinkers with their instruments.

Trying to think of what song they’re gonna open with. I do not go online and look at setlist from previous shows. I love being surprised. The sensation from ‘what song is next?’ should not be spoiled.

The energy of the crowd during the first song is a solid indicator of the type of ride I’m in for that night.

Hanging on to every lyric, every guitar solo every sing-a-long chorus. Looking over to a complete stranger- we both smile and nod at each other in appreciation and respect for what we are witnessing.

And then the last song is played and the band says ‘Good Night’ but I don’t want it to end. So I scream my head off and so does everyone else, hoping and praying for one more song. Or two? And the band almost always obliges and the guessing game begins again. What song???

And then it’s over for real and I am in such a euphoric state of mind. And I have my poster so I walk past the merchandise table with it’s long lines of happy people.

Stopping at Taco Taco in Countryside before heading home.

Inside my dark, quiet house. Resting the poster on the kitchen counter. Devouring tacos and Mexican Coke. Checking on the sleeping kids.

Laying my head down on my pillow, ears still ringing badly. Biscayne, beloved 9-year-old German Shorthaired Pointer allowing entry into our (his) bed, with a disapproving large exhale and full body shake before snuggling under the covers between us. My wife- one last check of Facebook. Me- cozying up to Biscayne and thinking about that encore.

So what do I miss? All of it. Every last ounce.

The noise made by wild hippos can be deafening.