The old lightbulbs in the kitchen mixed with the chipped paint on the walls cast an orange glow. The smell of tomato sauce envelopes the room and the faint sound of bubbling water tickles my tiny ears. My dad’s fingers drumming against the countertop and his soft singing interrupt the quiet. He always sings when he makes spaghetti for dinner. I tug on his pants and he tells me to be careful by the stove. I ask what he’s singing and suddenly I’m learning about the history of rock bands at seven-years-old.
There was a soundtrack to my childhood. Music filled the house. Billy Joel practically rode in the car with us when my dad drove. My mom sang loudly at church every Sunday. They taught my siblings and I to feel it all. I covered my bedroom with band posters and kissed them good night. I begged my mom for concert tickets every year for my birthday. She quietly sat next to me while I jumped and screamed along to Ariana Grande, Troye Sivan and One Direction.
My first concert was a band my dad played for. He was the drummer, of course. My family lined up against the brick wall of an outdoor bar in Coney Island. He dedicated my mom’s favorite song to her. We nodded our heads to the sound of him hitting the bass drum mixed with the rumble of the Cyclone. The Christmas card that year was a photo of my siblings and I wearing shirts with his face on it.
“Dad, can I borrow a shirt?” I ask during spirit week at school. Eighties day. He hands me a crumpled Van Halen tour shirt from 2007, but assures me he saw them before then. Earlier, we argued about me buying tickets to see Harry Styles twice in one week. “It’s the same show,” he scolded me. My mom interrupted, gently reminding him of when he followed Kiss on tour. The argument abruptly ended.
I don’t expect him to understand the gravity of being a 17-year-old girl at a concert or why I have to go both nights. In “The Importance of Music to Girls,” Lavinia Greenlaw writes, “If I had not kissed anyone, or danced with anyone, or had a reason to cry, the music made me feel as if I had gone through all that anyway.” These feelings only intensify as I get older.
Getting ready for a concert is a kind of ritual. There are only four hours before the show. Sophia plays music from her phone. We already ate most of the snacks she plated for us. I brush the strawberry seeds out of my teeth. I braid Lauren’s hair after she tries and fails. Sophia gently pats blush onto my cheeks. I smear glitter on my eyelids and laugh.
The three of us met while in a queue. We were strangers in the line but we left the show as sisters. Music does that to a person. If we can hear lyrics and find meaning, we can love each other just as deeply.
Music brings me places I never thought I’d go. Twelve hours in Philadelphia. A long weekend in Boston. Trains to Toronto. I sit on sidewalks for hours just to hear the same songs I listen to every day, but it sounds different somehow. After I hear a song live, I need to brace myself to listen to it in my earbuds again.
At a concert, my friends and I act like it’s our last night on Earth. Sophia turns to me and grabs my shoulders, so I know she means it. She yells the words just stop your crying, have the time of your life. Lauren and I smile at each other until our cheeks hurt, just checking in. I feel the floor shaking underneath me. We dance, we sing, we cry and we touch like we never will again.
Concerts sometimes leave an ache behind. A scratchy throat. Tear-stained cheeks. The scar on my knee from when I fell at Webster Hall. Bluish circles under my eyes from the long nights traveling home. Even my memory takes a physical form. Photos that cost $12 to develop in Chinatown. Wristbands stuck in between pages of unfinished books. Ticket stubs. The old tour shirt my dad let me borrow. My family’s Christmas card. A sign of the times. A sign of life.
