The only downside I’ve ever encountered to being spontaneous is that I’m often times ill prepared for whatever adventure I embark on at a moment’s notice. This happened last Friday when I found myself at the Orpheum in Ybor for a metal show. My younger sister invited me last minute, so after veering off I-4 in a relatively unsafe manner, I made my way to one of my favorite local music venues. Even if the show sucked (it was ok, check out Stick to Your Guns here) I could definitely use a beer.
I was met with overwhelming disdain as I made my way through a crowd of metal hipsters to the bar in search of a delicious PBR. I looked ridiculously out of place wearing plaid shorts, a basic red tee and flip flops. Fucking flip flops. At a hardcore show. I know better, but that spontaneous thing rendered me closed-toed-shoeless. Whatever. As if everyone received a memo that I somehow missed, the majority of the crowd looked a certain way. Gauges. Tattoos of sparrows and anchors and skulls. I-fought-with-a-lawn-mower-and-lost haircuts. Scowls. A perpetual look of malcontent and aristocratic judgment for the posers like me who showed up in goddamn flip flops. I’m sure they felt like individuals, but to me, they looked like lost middle class suburban kids who bought a prepackaged identity from the mall. Good for you, assholes. I’m sure you wear black because it’s polyester, like your soul.
I sipped my PBR and wondered why and how the music scene had changed so much. I remember when the scene was about music and not making a fashion statement. I remember having fun at shows, not standing there with my arms crossed, barely acknowledging the band I paid to see. I remember when mosh pits had rules: if someone fell, you picked them up instead of trampling them. I remember when… “Oh fuck,” I thought to myself. “It’s happened. I’ve crossed over to the other side. The side that doesn’t understand kids these days.” I promptly ordered another beer.
The first thing I noticed about her was the glint of the stage light reflecting off the industrial ear piercing that peaked out of the untamed waves of hair falling over her shoulders. Her head dipped in time to the music, her eyes set on the lead singer thrashing around the stage. She swayed easily to the side as a kid twice her size crashed into her and went reeling back into the sea of bodies tumbling into each other. Her eyes held no pretentious judgment for those around her, just appreciation for the music. I watched her lips mouth the lyrics while her clenched fist punched the air in sync with the staccato guitar chords that pounded out of the speaker next to her. She was calm in the midst of chaos. She was unaffected by flying beer cans and assholes jumping from the stage. She didn't fit it, but she belonged. She didn't have pink streaks in her hair or a tattoo of brass knuckles. She wasn't even scowling, she was smiling! Imagine that, a sweaty, singing, happy girl caught up in a good show. She was beautiful. I could be biased. She’s my sister.
When the song ended I pushed through the crowd to stand next to her. We hugged and waved hello, then turned our attention to the stage. I finished my beer as the set ended, so we went back to the bar where she explained the band’s unusual blend of blues and punk influences, spun together with tinges of metal. I couldn’t have been more proud.
And then I realized how similar we truly are – guess who else wore open toed shoes?
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