First of all, neither Doomtree nor Self-Expression Music were of the nu-metal genre. Good. There are plenty of reasons to hate nu-metal, I won't go into that here. Doomtree was pretty rad, a group of five or so rappers and a DJ to spin them funkee beats, and I liked them, but it was disappointing that none of their members played an instrument. That's just my white-bread upbringing, I suppose. Though you're not technically a band if none of you play an instrument, you're a group, and semantics are as important as anything else.
Self-Expression Music was/is some... sort of... troubled youth program? Or at least, that's what we though. According to that link, it's like a conglomerate of rappers and "emcees" who... convey a... positive message? Um. Okay, moving on.
To say the least, my mom and I were vaguely bemused by the performance of Self-Expression Music, or SEM, as they abbreviate themselves. At first, we thought they were just a band (a real one) of misfits, thrown together by fate and circumstance. But as the various "emcees" spilled onto stage, my mom's guess at "troubled youth anti-drug program?" became more and more convincing. That's all I'll say about that.
When my mom and I got into the theater, we had the good fortune of getting to the front crowd quickly. We'd found a good spot, one where we could both see.
And then, the people in front of us saw their friend, motioned him over, AND HE WAS THIRTY FEET TALL.
Maybe it was that we were in a pretty perfect spot. Maybe it was the adrenaline of being at a show. Maybe it was the pent-up anger I'd felt from waiting in the will-call ticket line for twenty minutes, in the suicide sun. Or maybe it was just that I've spent my fifteen years of life being the little guy and being shit on. This thirty-foot-tall man stood directly in front of me, his many feet obstructing not part of the stage, but all of it, and I was overcome.
"NO FUCKING WAY." I said, over the din of rustling concert-goers. As it fell off of my lips I knew that it was louder than I'd meant it to be. And before I could turn to look away or even compose what was going on, the thirty-foot-man turned his thirty-foot-body and saw my mom and I, looking down from his mesospheric reach, and let us stand before him. I was totally stunned. One, because I didn't know I could say something loud enough, (or shout) that a man with his head in the most poorly understood layer of Earth's atmosphere could hear it. Two, because it actually did something good. Instead of this giant man turning and clocking me in the eyeball, he kindly stepped aside, understanding that his thirty feet of height allowed him greater visibility.
We thanked him, of course, though our voices probably sounded like those of mice as his ears were high up.
Because of this, we found ourselves behind another line of people, kids who'd gotten free tickets from a skatepark, somehow, and this was an okay place to be, albeit a Hollister-smelling one. I was behind a girl wearing a tank top and plenty of whatever perfume it is that Hollister wafts from its doors on hot days, next to a blonde boy maybe age twelve or thirteen, and in front of whom I suspect was a crackhead. He didn't touch me, though, so I suppose that's okay. Anyway, this blonde skater boy had a younger brother who was also blonde, and this little boy managed to finagle his way in front of me. I would have none of this!
So I waited, sometimes elbowing him or getting really, really, really close with my pungent-smelling arm held aloft, waving with the beat. If he couldn't smell the lack of deodorant on me, he couldn't smell anything.
As a side note, this concert hall was the most rank of concert halls. I say this having gone to Ministry, where absolutely everyone was drinking beer and smoking clove cigarettes. This concert was more rank than the goths and metalheads and their natural stink. This concert had in the air the wafting smell of teenage boys, white people, sweat, stuffy air constantly circulating out of one cheering person's mouth and into the nostrils of another, and then? Somebody lit up a joint.
Oh yes, the smoke curls caught in the kaleidoscope stage lights were produced by no smoke machine. Someone actually had the audacity (and I think it was more than one person, all in a group near the middle) to toke up in this tightly populated crowd. The crowd, which was about 50% minors. And this wasn't just cigarettes, I mean, cigarettes I don't care about, but seriously? You're going to go to a show sponsored by fucking The Truth About Tobacco, the anti-smoking drug lords, and you... Jesus. I say legalize marijuana so people won't do shit like that, all to feel rebellious. But whatever.
So anyway, this kid was standing in front of me and dancing OBNOXIOUSLY in such a way that it was actually making me uncomfortable. I can stand a lot of things. But this kid had an absence of rhythm and also was too short to be in my way, but not tall enough that I could genuinely be angry about him being there. I just had to wait for the opportune moment to take back my rightful place.
IN PART TWO, THE RECLAIMING, BRER RABBIT, AND A CAR GETS TOWED!
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