I’m nobody! Who are you?

I received a special invitation to attend a concert in Atlanta last Sunday night, when the Continuum Tour, featuring John Mayer and opening acts James Morrison and Ben Folds, hit the Phillips Arena downtown.

It was a fantastic show, and may well be the most memorable one I've attended in decades, albeit for an unexpected reason (which we'll get to in a moment). As I drove home from the concert, my giddy mind raced through all of the concerts I could remember attending, searching unsuccessfully for one that I recalled being as special as that night's. During my jaunt down memory lane and up the Connector, I discovered that my attitude towards concerts has really changed through the years, and not always for the better . . .

15-20

At this age, for some of us, concerts were the focal point of our existence, barring other teenage distractions (like hormones). Every available dollar was spent on tickets and merchandise. We camped out for hours, sometimes days, to be the first in line at the Turtle's record store so we could cast our lots for the coveted front row seats. We were early to the show, usually because someone else drove; sometimes that someone was a parent. We dressed fashionably, often in the same style as the musician or band. We were prone to lose things at concerts: a wallet, a bracelet, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. We could smoke at concerts then. And we didn't give a hoot about the comfort of the people around us as we became lost in the music and lights, paying homage to the musical demi-gods that we correctly believed would shape the rest of our lives. Their music spoke to us.

20-25

Music began to change when our demi-gods abandoned us. Ticket prices started to go up. Concerts became more about merchandising and pyrotechnics as the tour managers attempted to distract us from less substantive music and more expensive tickets. Our cigarette smoke started to be replaced by smoke from a machine. We no longer attended because we loved the music; it was all about being seen. The coveted front row seat was replaced by the elusive VIP backstage pass, which was just as well, because when TicketMaster was introduced, it drove the Turtle's record store out of business. We began driving to other states to catch what we thought might be worthwhile shows. Though not a groupie by any stretch of the imagination, I had my share of VIP passes, green rooms, and after parties.

25-30

As a young professional, I traded TicketMaster for ticket brokers. It was worth the money to let someone else track down the better seats at the shows I wanted to attend. Concert attire became a little more relaxed. We began to understand that we didn't have to buy a t-shirt for every concert we attended. We started showing up a little late to the show. VIP passes didn't mean so much anymore. Smoking was no longer permitted inside, and the use of smog machines was on the decline. I became hyper-critical of teenagers who thought nothing of ruining the show for me by standing and dancing around me, or bouncing the back of my chair. We felt we had paid so much for our tickets we had the right to enjoy the show in peace, and were quick to vocalize our displeasure with other audience members. When alcohol was thrown into the mix, hateful words and fisticuffs were not uncommon.

30-35

We didn't have time for concerts. Actually, we did, but few of us could justify paying the exorbitant ticket prices charged by the ancient demi-god groups from our youth and the up-and-coming musicians trying to secure their fortunes before the fickle audience abandoned them. We still really liked the music, but between concerts and the Napster debacle, we felt a bit exploited by the music industry. When we were able to attend, attire became even more casual, since we really didn't care who saw us; we were there once again for the music. We were not as willing to travel to see our favorite band. And while we still became really annoyed with the inconsideration demonstrated by other members of the audience, we weren't as vocal about it as we used to be, as we reluctantly remembered a time when we were young and silly.

35-40

Which brings us to last weekend.

I met my friends at their hotel downtown. K escorted me up to their room on the 25th floor, where C and I finished getting ready for the show. My attire was understated, at best: I wore a sleeveless black hoodie, jeans, my hair pulled loosely back, a few stretchy bracelets, and a pair of 4 ½ inch tall summer heels. C was über-cute with her long blonde hair, a strapless cream-colored top, jeans, and her own pair of really tall shoes. Side by side, we were blonde Amazon and brunette Amazon; I was Yin to her Yang, a cool moon to her warm sun. We were a formidable pair.

C and I left K at the hotel and took a quick cab ride to the Will Call window at Phillips, where we picked up our tickets and slapped our VIP stickers on our jeans. The bright orange sticker made me miss the old school lanyard-style passes, but once you got past people surreptitiously looking in the general area of your groin, it wasn't a big deal.

We made our way to our reserved seats on the floor of the Arena. It was dark, as James Morrison's session had just recently started. Fabulous talent that young man had, and I hope to hear more from him. Ben Folds was as engaging and animated as ever, and we enjoyed his session a great deal, as well.

During the two intermissions, C and I walked around the Arena to kill time and entertain ourselves. We ventured backstage to get our bearings for later in the evening. Once back in the Arena, people cleared a swath and allowed us to pass without crowding us. Many were fascinated by the strange orange stickers we were wearing, branding us as VIPs. Throughout the evening, a handful of people foolishly asked us how we obtained the passes; we were mum, but by the fourth or fifth one, it was all we could do not to say, "You know, we had to sleep with every member of all three bands to get these. We were naked for days. We're simply exhausted." Concert etiquette dictates that such a question is asked in extremely poor taste; there may actually be someone out there that did exactly that to earn their pass, but who would want to admit such a thing? Thank goodness we were actually expected backstage.

K met us at the stage and gave us a tour, introducing us to many members of the bands and staff. Everyone was so very nice, and I realized that I was seeing these entertainers in a new light – as professionals, doing their job and doing it very well. Their passion for their craft permeated the space around them, and it felt warm and colorful to me. I've always interacted well with celebrities, mostly because I don't gush and fawn. I don't objectify them. I just treat them as human beings. I recall C and I having a lovely conversation with one of Morrison's band members about how sad the state of tea (both the drink and the event) is in America versus England.

I settled in the stage right wing where I could observe Mayer, his band, and some of the audience members. I would occasionally glance up to the risers above us, only to make eye contact with a curious fan, and I would volley their smile. I observed that there were only a precious few of us backstage, and I fully appreciated the exclusivity of my magic sticker. We didn't clap with the audience, because, well, it's just not something one does while backstage. Visible in the ambient haze cast by the spotlights and stage lights, but still somewhat stealth in my darkened wing, I felt anonymous yet exotic. I was both somebody and nobody. I found myself, for the first time in a very long time, embracing the thought of being special, even if just for a few hours. And that was nice.

There was a playlist posted directly in front of us, and I informed C that the breaks in the list indicated the encore sequence. Already knowing that the bands had to be in Tampa, Florida the next day, we didn't anticipate there would be an after party; therefore, we elected to exit backstage halfway through the next to the last song. We unhurriedly said our goodbyes and departed the Arena amidst many wondering (and wandering) eyes. We easily found a cab and went back to the hotel, where we had a nightcap and a couple of hours' conversation of exceptionally high quality. A gentle bonding between the girlfriend and the best friend, still feeling Yin and Yang. And this is where you came in.

So, what made the night so memorable? Anyone who knows me well appreciates that I don't like attending large events any more. I don't enjoy noise disguised as music, and I don't enjoy throngs of inconsiderate and selfish people. I particularly don't enjoy said people invading my personal space, and worse, I despise mashers. I have an impossibly high standard of how I believe people should act in public places, and understandably, I'm always disappointed. I have very little patience for idiocy and silliness. It's just easier not to go.

But somehow, by some inexplicable and unexpected measure, I wasn't disappointed that night. I didn't get mad, or upset, or irritated, or even mildly annoyed. Not even once. This observation impacted me more than my budding friendship with C, the VIP pass and recalling the VIP days of my youth, and even my brief window of special-ness. Something's changing, but this change is good. I don't know when or how it happened (a la one of T's recent blogs) and I don't really care. All I know is that I had . . . dare I say it?

I had . . . fun.

K and C, I can't thank you enough for that.