It Still Moves

Vol. 3, Issue 47

OThe first concert I ever puked at was Steve Miller at the Mann Music Center. According to a quick Google search, the exact date was August 3, 1991. I was 17 and stupid and that was forever ago.

I bought a ticket but never even made it to the show because, on the way to the concert, waiting in the long traffic line for the exit off the Schuylkill Expressway, I chugged Smurf Piss and smoked North Philly's finest flaky dirt weed out of a soda can and quickly got sick and almost died. The four other kids I came with made it into the show unscathed and upright. I stayed back and crawled underneath the car to spin and barf and barf and spin. It was still light out when we arrived and dark and mosquito-y when I passed out on the grass in the parking lot. I woke up intermittently to hear other concertgoers walking by to check on me. Dude, dude, dude – you ok? I'd nod, annoyed but alive, and wave them away. 

The concert finally ended. Someone lifted me into the front seat and drove me home. We got lost in South Philly on the way back, but I hung my head out the passenger side window like a dumb dog, and the hot summer night on my face was soothing. We pulled up next to another car and asked the driver to roll down their window. We asked them how to get to 95 North. He was kind and patient, and specific. But I barfed again out the window, and it ran down the side of the door. He promptly drove away in disgust before we could ask him to repeat them back one more time. We spent another hour driving around in search of an exit.

*****

Every concert I attended over the next 24 years after that didn't end with vomit and disgrace, but I always had something in my system. Enhancements were necessary – and fun! Most of the mindblowing concerts I attended were almost always because the drugs were mindblowing, too.

But once I got sober, I couldn't comprehend how to behave or enjoy a concert if I wasn't fucked up. Should I stand there and listen to the music? I've seen those types of guys at a show. They were always pathetic and weird. They always wore glasses. Sweaty, too. But I figured those were my people now. 

My first sober show was the Temple of the Dog reunion at Madison Square Garden, a concert I (and everyone else) had waited 25 years to see. I almost bailed because I was afraid of the possible dullness of it all. Or that everyone close by would smell the club soda and lameness on me. I began to sweat even before the opening act went on. 

We were close to the stage, but mentally, I was in the rafters. As the warm-up music grew quieter and the lights began to dim, I got anxious again about how I would possibly get through this sober. To combat the boredom and anxiety, I pretended I was part of a secret, very specialized security task force hired by MSG. I spent most of the first set with my arms folded, scanning the venue for bomb suspects. The rest of the time I spent looking for people I knew. The only person I recognized was Gail Simmons from Top Chef. She was completely trashed. I was so jealous. 

My friends couldn't stop talking about the show for weeks afterward. "It was sublime!" they said. I agreed, but I was half-lying. I know I was there, but I still feel like I missed it. Like, I didn't fully experience it because the only thing I ingested at the show was a giant soft pretzel. I thought my concert-going days were over after that, just another fun thing that could never be fun again.

*****

There's this one section from Night of the Gun when David Carr gets locked into his new sobriety and has become happy, joyous, and free, and all that crap, so he lists out all the many things in life he can now appreciate. Here's the part that stuck with me: "Clear-eyed and in the moment, I have put my hands in the air at a Hold Steady show, pushed my family down double-black-diamond ski runs at Lake Tahoe, gone ocean kayaking in Maine, and laid on the dock on a small lake in the Adirondacks, waiting to show Maddie her first "real" shooting star. It arrived on schedule."

”Clear-eyed,” I understood all too well. But “in the moment” baffled me. What was that? What was a moment now? Skiing. Kayaking. Shooting stars. It all sounded too good to be true. And that "putting his hands in the air at a Hold Steady show" was the most inconceivable part. I would never put my hands in the air at a rock show sober. Never. Especially not after the Temple of the Dog experience. 

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Ohana Fest, the big weekend-long concert in Dana Point Eddie Vedder puts on every autumn. My wife got me tickets as a birthday present. One of my best friends was flying in with his wife, too. I hadn't seen him in almost four years. I couldn't wait to see him.

Plus, the concert venue was right off the beach. The weather would be warm. Vaccinations are required to get into the show. Plus, My Morning Jacket would be there. It had been close to a decade since I'd seen them live. It would be a fantastic weekend if I let myself enjoy it. But the old anxieties crept back in a week before the show: would it even be fun for me? Would I make it less fun for everyone else?  

My Morning Jacket was supposed to be the second-to-last band right before Kings of Leon on the first night. But a death in the family kept Kings of Leon at home, so now MMJ would headline and play an extended set. Still: I secretly wished we'd have to cancel. Not a death in the family, but something significant enough to where I wouldn't feel guilty. Car trouble or a work emergency. A tsunami, maybe. No such luck.

We went and checked into our hotel with plenty of time before MMJ went on. Even then, I debated whether or not I wanted to go – if I needed to go. Next year would be better for me. I'd be ready next year. 

We got there early enough to be close to the left side of the stage and it wasn’t even that crowded or congested down in front. The people were pretty tame and old, lots of wavy folks who looked like they'd seen their share of Jimmy Buffet shows. That didn’t make me less jumpy.

But when the lights flicked on, and MMJ kicked in, I started to settle down. Eventually, I looked up, and there were stars behind the dark clouds. The wind blew sweetly and I could smell the sea. Just then I felt a rush of love for Julieanne and my dear old friend in that unique way that seemed impossible without an ounce of mushrooms. He leaned into me and yelled above the noise directly into my ear. "Too long, my friend. It's amazing to see you! I love you!" The music made my ribs vibrate, and it felt so good. It had been too long.

Halfway through the set, they went into "One Big Holiday," and everyone sang along like children. Was a bad man from… California! I realized halfway through the song that I had put my hands in the air. Here was a moment – I would remember this moment. It blew me away.

For some of you in your early days maybe that’s tough to believe moments like that exist but trust me. I want you to know someday it will happen for you, too. Be patient – just be patient. Something amazing will be here soon. I promise you there is so much more.