Live music is a drug to me. I anxiously await concerts by bands I love like a junkie awaits his next hit.
Growing up in Michigan meant that that hit was readily available. In Detroit, there were concerts of bands I liked at least once a week, and – to keep with the junkie metaphor – I would find a way get my hit even if it wasn’t financially responsible. When I moved to Alabama though, I realized I was relocating to what is generally considered a cultural wasteland.
But not until I got here did I understand just how bad it was. Every time a band I loved announced a national tour, I would check the schedule only to find the closest they would come to Alabama was Atlanta – a four hour drive away.
This spring, something amazing happened. A electronica band I enjoy, STRFKR, was making a stop in Birmingham. I immediately bought a ticket and tried to convince my friends to come with me (to no avail). As the date drew near, I started to get antsy. I was going to see live music again! One of the best feelings in the world is standing among strangers that share your love for the band on stage – the sweating, the touching, the singing, and the deep connection with people you don’t actually even know, and may not have anything else in common with.
The day of the concert, I went to work early so I could get out on time to drive down to Birmingham. I was useless as a worker that day, thanks to the excitement boiling inside me for the night’s events. I arrived at the concert early and consumed a beer while chatting with other attendees. As the band’s set time approached, it dawned on me that it was probably going to be a small concert. I wasn’t really concerned; small concerts are often even more frenetic and intimate large ones.
STRFKR took the stage and I began doing what I normally do at concerts: dancing. As they moved on to their third song however, I realized I was the only one. I was surrounded by people who were watching the same band as me, but instead of feeling strangely connected to them like I normally do, I just felt alone. Alone, surrounded by strangers.
When I went to concerts in Detroit, the band would always say that they loved playing Detroit, and that they couldn’t wait to come back, and that we were the best crowd ever. But I always thought that was just what bands say. After attending my first concert in Alabama, I understood that the crowds in Detroit are much better than the ones in Alabama. Instead of feeling satiated, as if I scored the hit I so desperately wanted, I felt depressed, and nostalgic for the feeling that I used to get at concerts in Detroit.
But I didn’t want to give up my search for a decent live music experience, at least not yet, so I continued to attend any concerts that came to Birmingham or Nashville, but at each of them I would get the same empty feeling of being alone in a room completely full of people.
In June however, my luck changed. I got invited to a house party where a local band and a band touring from New Orleans would be playing for gas money. The show took place in a cleared-out living room, but for two small bands playing in someone’s house, the crowd was quite large. As the first band began to play, everyone instantly started dancing and singing and sweating. We were all crowded into a small area, forced to smash against one another. But most importantly, the feeling was there. The people at this show had the same addiction as me.
At this tiny local show in a living room of someone I didn’t know, I found Alabama’s version of a concert in Detroit, and it taught me that if you look hard enough, you can find a little piece of home wherever you are.
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