Four years ago, I bought an extra ticket to my first concert without knowing who to take. A friend finally agreed to come, but she hated the show. I was elated for weeks.
I’ve been to many concerts since, and with each one there has always been someone, whether I knew them or not, who felt the same excitement I did. I’ve always gone for the music but have also found solace in the people. Going to a concert promises a crowd that cherishes the songs and loves the artists as much as I do. We’ve met in basements, in record stores, and on rooftops to scream and cry and dance together. Now, as performances continue via live stream during the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve spent more time thinking about those strangers — some of whom became friends, some I haven’t seen since a given show. But all are integral to the experience.
One recent Thursday evening I streamed a Phoenix concert from the band’s five-night residency at Brooklyn Steel in the summer of 2018. The setlist from the closing night — a paper airplane still intact from its flight into the pit — occasionally reminds me of the show, the band, and the friends I made that day, one of whom caught the plane and handed it to me.
From my bedroom, I’m transported back in time and space to that show. Frontman Thomas Mars delivers head bops and hip swings with his signature Parisian flair. When he isn’t dancing on stage he curls his body over the barricade, inching closer to the fans as they cluster around him. He leaps over and joins them during the encore.
The scene is anachronistic in the social distancing present. Mars comes in close for selfies as if he were a friend. Fans hold each other. The room whispers the lyrics to “Countdown.” Each voice is as gentle as a breath, but there is no silence.
The night ends with “Ti Amo,” the swanky title track off the band’s 2017 album. Mars walks over the crowd as outstretched arms vie for the chance to hoist him up. The task becomes a communal effort as one hand grabs one of his, two more grab each of his feet, and still others gather to offer support and lower him back down by the final chorus.
The band waves goodbye one last time; the pink glow of their heart-shaped logo continues to shine. I believe Mars when he says they’ll be back soon. The screen fades to dark, closing the show and ending the broadcast.
I had sat on my bed for almost two hours, engrossed by the performance through my laptop. Two years ago I was physically there, and I had just gone back. I remember the faces of the people on the barricade. My friend’s smile when the band played “Fences.” The heat of the summer that wouldn’t prevent us from lining up anyway, two fans among a thousand more.
Within the comments one person says the band was back in the studio as of last December. A skeptic asks for details, an article is posted in response. The chat ignites with exclamation points and smiley faces. For now they are usernames, but soon, we hope, will meet in real life. Maybe at the release of a new album, and surely with a newfound appreciation for the experience of sharing live music as one.
