It used to be that we all went to shows. Fridays and Saturdays for sure. Sometimes Thursdays, too (“Friday eve”), and sometimes an early show on Sunday (“Sunday Funday”). Shows were concerts, only less formal, more loud. You might not remember. They took place in venues, in clubs, in listening rooms. The key word here is “in.” We went inside, together. Back when we were a we, in a nebulous, unstructured way.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I dunno. Probably going to the show. Everyone will be there.”
Everyone. People we couldn’t name off hand but would be happy to see when we saw them. People we’d fist bump, side hug, share sips of beer with from the same damp pint glass.
You might not remember sharing. It required a we. It often required close proximity. Sharing a kiss. Sharing a laugh. Sharing an experience.
Sharing was casual. In the moment. The shows created a space for that. The music wrapped around us, insulating, a bubble. What happened at the shows stayed at the shows. (Not really because everything was on everyone’s cell phones and blasted onto social media: “Look at the fun we’re having.”)
The fun. The we. The casual thoughtlessness of a presence free of masks and hand sanitizer and looming fears of infection from too much fun and too much we.
At the shows, we sometimes stood close enough to the stage that our ears stung from the speakers. Sometimes the lead singer slung beads of sweat on us. It was kind of gross but sweat was just sweat and anyway, we were sharing sips of beer from the same damp pint glass, so whatever. We also shook hands with strangers, touched our phones, wiped our sweaty foreheads on the back of our wrists, and ate palms of peanut M&Ms from the vending machine.
Our hands were not our enemies. We clapped for songs that were half-good. Half-good was good enough because a show was more than what was happening on the stage. It was the crowd, the drinks, the tight, hot room. It was the delicious relief of outside air. It was the promise of something exciting. Just the promise was enough. We went to shows to feel promise. To show up for possibility. To make good on opportunity.
You might not remember going. That was when we left the place we spent most of our time and went to a different place that was semi-familiar but not the same rooms, the same TV programs, the same FaceTime conversations. We drove across town, sometimes made pitstops, sometimes pre-gamed. (You might not understand the reference to pre-gaming because games, too, are a thing of the distant past. When groups of people — we or them, we and them — played rough and hard, sharing sweat and mud and exhalations, until we collapsed, dirty and winded and joyful.)
Now we stay. Now we play carefully. Now we lower our voices to keep from spreading droplets. Now we clean up every spill with a disinfectant wipe. Now we share nothing, and still spray everything with Lysol after each use. Now we play music on our devices and dance in small spaces as if only half-recalling The Mashed Potato, The Twist, and The Jerk through the storm-thick fog of time.
Now the shows have moved online. You might not remember offline. It was a place made up of many places. Really, it was a life. It was a way of being. A universe. Stuff wasn’t always good there. Crowds of sweaty people smelled gross. Warm beer tasted bad. The music sometimes sucked. Getting shoved by an overzealous dancer could lead to bruising and a flash of rage. The public restrooms were a shambles. A woman with smeared mascara was crying in a bathroom stall. Someone vomited. The peanut M&Ms in the vending machine were usually stale and, if they weren’t, shouldn’t they have been?
Still. We went to shows. We went, and we were a we, and the music played and the night was full of promise. It was The Way It Was and we didn’t bother imagining Another Way because That Way contained a simple magic.
Go, do, be, dream.
Hug a stranger, fist pump to an anthem, breathe deeply the smog of human hoping.
You might not remember hoping. But I hope you do.
Alli Marshall is a poet, performer, writer, editor, film maker and creative community builder. She’s interested in moving writing beyond the page, seeking the golden in the mundane, finding the intersection of art and social justice, and reconnecting with mythology — both ancient and modern. She recently released her spoken-word mixtape, “Bury the pennies and hoard the rain,” on Bandcamp.com.
