Dear peeps,
You didn’t ruin the concert for me. That would be impossible, when there was Bernard Fanning and pretty lights and I had pre-emptively dressed in thin layers so I didn’t get too hot, and with Anita’s witty analogy of “not having seen the Sex and the City movie yet is, for me, like forgetting to visit really good friends from overseas who’ve been in Australia for a week and even though they’re really good friends I just haven’t seen them; it’s just like that”.
But, peeps, despite the fact that the concert was totally awesome, you imbued our night with a sense of rage and frustration, peppered with a sticky glaze of pretending to be civil to each other, despite the fact that inside our head we were going “DIE BITCH, DIE!!!!!!”
Let me start from the beginning.
You know those nerds who get to concerts early? We were part of that group. We left my house at 6.30 and drove, swearing, around the back streets of Enmore to find a park, and talked about British comedy shows, and tried to touch-park unsuccessfully once and then successfully once, though that motorbike was wearing his welcome pretty thin.
We got into the Enmore at 7.00 and took our place on ‘Dancefloor 2’, also known as ‘If you guys were real fans you would’ve camped out overnight for tickets and been given a spot in Dancefloor 1, where the cool peeps and moshers are, not Dancefloor 2 where there are aggressive drunk guys wearing bucket hats’. There was a big metal frame thingy separating us from The Hoity Toits, and so we flocked to the front of the barricade, hoping to rest our chins adorably on the cold, cold surface until we won over Bernard’s heart, a bit like a homeless puppy who you don’t realise has worms, or the neighbour’s cute cat which slashes your neck open with its claws. We found a bit of space on the right…a space big enough for four people distributed somewhat confusingly between two very grumpy looking women.
After ten minutes of unsuccessful edging forward, I put on my winner’s smile.
“Excuse me, do you mind if my friend and I squish in next to you?”
“We’re saving this for a friend”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s OK…it’s just…we’d like to stand there and your friend isn’t here and the support act is about to come on”.
“She’s coming.”
“It’s just…”
Uncomfortable silence as we stare each other down and neither of us backs down.
So that was that. I decided if we couldn’t take the spot alongside them, I’d smoke them out of their warren of bitchiness by standing as close behind them as possible and whooping gustily into their ears whenever Powderfinger rocked out particularly hard (HINT: DID NOT HAVE TO WAIT LONG). They then, in revenge, tried this new thing of putting their bags in front of them and leaning over them with their feet further back TO TAKE UP EVEN MORE OF MY PERSONAL SPACE. This was uncool and I made them feel it by dancing giddily against them and singing along tunelessly to every song. Eventually, their friend came; she didn’t even seem such a good friend of theirs, and she stood with them for a while until she decided that it maybe wasn’t fair for her to DESERT HER DATE BECAUSE SHE HAD A BETTER SPOT RESERVED so she disappeared. Heartless beast.
And suddenly…this free space, suddenly vacated, disappeared again. These women managed to engulf it using only a sense of rage and their own black hole of unhappiness. They still managed to huff about how crowded they were, and how “this is weird to get used to…I haven’t been to a concert since Yr 11 when I saw Alanis Morisette”.
And there it was. That explained it all. IT HAD BEEN SO LONG SINCE THAT CONCERT IN YEAR 11, AS THEY WERE CLEARLY IMPOSSIBLY OLD AND UNTRENDY, THAT THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND HOW TO HAVE FUN AT CONCERTS. They were watching the music joylessly, with sour puckered mouths, playing listlessly with their hair, frowning at Bernard’s LOL-worthy jokes about Queensland sportsmen being better than New South Wales sportsmen. For some reason, these women who were not entirely invested in the band, in the concert, in moving and singing and having fun, had decided they needed to be in the spot CLOSEST TO THE STAGE AS POSSIBLE ALBEIT STILL IN DANCEFLOOR ‘THE LAME ONE’ 2. They felt this and they felt so strongly about it; about saving spots and squishing people out and stretching their legs all the time so they squashed my toes, they felt like this even though they WERE NOT ACTIVELY PARTICIPATING IN THE MERRINESS OF THE CONCERT (and yes, I know those of you who’ve been to concerts with me know that I have a particular definition of ‘actively participating’, mainly involving shaking my head, arms and feet around like I just don’t care).
But I was unimpressed and I told them so as I hurried off after the concert, clutching my bag and lasering demon-stares into their masculine plaid-encased backs. I told them so visually…while smiling politely at them…and saying ‘sorry I think I bumped into you’…but I’m so sure they TOTALLY FELT IT.
I just remembered this was supposed to be an open letter. It isn’t really one anymore. I hope you’ve learnt something about disappointment, Enmore-hags.
The end.
