I firmly believe inspiration comes to us every second of every day, but if we the do not let ourselves feel it, we are oblivious to it’s beauty.
It was an uncomfortably warm Thursday night that would lead into a strangely hot Friday, even by Bakersfield standards. The entire day was a blur of excitement and anticipation for what was to occur later that evening. A grey tank, jeans and dirty concert sneakers proved that fashion would have to take a back burner to the necessary comfort I would need to enjoy this occasion. The line I was in moved quickly into the building, and it occurred to me that the last time I had been in this room I was graduating from high school. I had a feeling that night would be eclipsed by the memories I was about to create.
I scrunched into the already clingy crowd as close to the stage as possible. From previous experience I knew the opening act would be a perfect start to the evening, and my anticipation grew as silly high school kids cheered and howled just to see a roadie setting up mics. Before the lights even went out, lighters lit up. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was unsettling. My sensitive lungs paired with floating illegal toxins AND my claustrophobia? I smiled at the thought of November trying to rid myself of pleasure simply because of that discomfort. Yea. Right.
Before I knew it, I screaming at the sight of two dirty blondes, one with guitar in hand, the other wearing a “Fuck Cancer” tank. As song after song started and ended, I could see the room fogging up, but I didn’t notice because I was too busy screaming my favorite line:
“She didn’t know the things they said that left her hurting,
Would actually made her a better person,
She locked herself inside her room, got to the rehearsing
Walking down a runway IN A DRESS SHE MADE FROM CURTAINS!”
I knew no one in that room felt that line like I had.
As they concluded their set with cheek to cheek grins and their severely overplayed, yet absolutely intoxicating, “Lay Me Down,” I was starting to feel pretty good. The smoke wasn’t too harsh and I had lots of room in my spot close to the stage, and was excited for this same chill environment into the rest of the show.
Little did I know, in about 25 minutes, where I was standing would be the middle of the mosh pit.
The crowd suddenly changed. I was no longer standing amidst chill concert goers, I was in the middle of a contest of “Lets see who can blow the most smoke at stranger’s faces.” I put my head down, and breathed deep into the air directly below me. It was hot, but it was clean. My lungs hated me, but I assured them what was about to happen on that stage would be completely worth it.
I honestly wish I could remember every single detail of what happened next, but I don’t. It fades in and out of my memory like a tide, bringing me details of something new, but also washing away some details in the process. I do remember the obnoxious man behind me warning me that when the band started, to watch out, because he didn’t want to accidentally light my hair on fire as he lit up his joint.
That’s when it all began, the lights dimmed, the musicians stepped onto the stage and the anticipation spilled out of all of us like a dam bursting in the form of screams and cheers. The music we’ve been loving for well over a decade began to blast out of the speakers, reverberated between the packed bodies in the audience and was screamed back at the stage from every voice in the crowd. As the beat picked up, so did the audience. I found myself being pushed, shoved, kicked. The skanking was about to begin, if only the solid crowd would part for it. I knew it all very well. I wanted to get in there, show all those people that I wasn’t going to miss the most amazing skanking circle in the midst of one of the most amazing bands, but I couldn’t. What I naively thought would be a positive experience turned into the type of thing I hate. Rowdy men, stoned out of their minds, pushing small teenage girls and spilling drinks over those too close to escape in time.
I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy myself if I had to be on guard all night, so I quickly made my way into a safer spot, a short distance away from the stage and the right speaker. When I looked up from my new position in the crowd, I could see why I had become so uncomfortable so quickly. There were no more lights in the room, only a dim, color-changing fog that blanketed the entire building. I believe I made a purple haze joke then, but I knew my body wouldn’t react to the situation as humorously as I wished it would.
My female body had already begun a previous obligation, and as the music shook my tired, frail little exterior, I could feel myself becoming literally drained of energy. Song after song after song played into one another, and I lost myself. My body didn’t want to do anything but sway gently and quietly mumble the words to myself. Every muscle hurt; my hands shook and I couldn’t feel my fingers. It felt as if thick grey smoke was being pumped through my veins instead of oxygen-rich blood. My lungs were tight and I didn’t understand the throbbing in my head and chest. I remember looking up at a familiar face and mumbling, “My little body…is tired.”
But then a rift began, and my eyes perked open. Adrenaline replaced all of the fatigue I had acquired and I became brand new. I raised my arms into the air and began to sing with my new concert family,
“I don’t practice Santeria, I ain’t got no crystal ball…I had a million dollars but I, I spent it all…”
It was at this moment that I knew that I was in a room full of people that had come to this concert because this is what they wanted to be apart of. They had known it when it started in the 90’s, or they, like me, didn’t get to be apart of it back then, and had a unsatisfied craving to be apart of it now. We weren’t there to judge the 22 year old on stage singing his hero’s words. We were there because we wanted to pay tribute to the music that has surpassed generations and refuses to die. The music that we’ve all put on your lives’ soundtrack. We wanted to be apart of something much more vastly grand than a simple concert. We were all there to sing these songs, loose ourselves in them, and cheer like insane people when the speakers shouted, “Rest In Peace Bradley!”
People can wine and moan that Sublime with Rome isn’t actually Sublime, and Sublime without Bradley isn’t right, and Rome is no Bradley BLAH BLAH BLAH…
…but unless they were there to truly appreciate what was happening, appreciate the undeniable beauty that came with hundreds of people chanting,
“Ain’t got no quarrels with God….
Ain’t got no time to grow old,”
then you really have no right to make judgments about it. Rome isn’t a replacement, he’s a 22 year old Sublime fan who got the chance of a lifetime to pay tribute to his hero.
I decided that night that what I went through was completely worth it, because I was blessed with the opportunity to be apart of that night.
I’m going to end this post exactly how my battered and abused little body did, singing these last few words:
“Lord knows I’m weak…Won’t somebody get me off of this reef?”
After the exhausting late night practices outside in the cold weather and the soft tumble in the washer and dryer, the warm of body heat was a nice change. Anxiety and excitement was felt through every fiber. Toes curled in and out in anticipation, the nylon creating delicate friction in the soft canvas, where little holes were fraying from a rough night out on the concrete. Now how in the world did that tiny little lipstick smear get there? Oh! It's finally our turn!
