So I went to my first DMB concert a few weeks back. I had always kind of listened to him in the background, and had a lot of his music, but he was never really a priority for me, you know? I mean, I love “Everyday” and “Crush” and a few of his albums, but if you looked at my top artists on last.fm, Dave Matthews wouldn’t be even close to the top. The Weepies, Oasis, Patrick Park – yes. Dave Matthews, not so much.
Regardless (SIDE NOTE – Yes, I only use “irregardless” as a joke, as it serves as a mini-reference to Mean Girls. Not only do I know it’s not accepted by most people as a real word, I also know that its prevalence has made it practically admissible, if only nominally.), I knew I had to see them. They’re just one of those bands you should see live before you die, like The Flaming Lips (absolutely incredible) or Ryan Adams (phenomenal). So I bought myself a ticket, forgot about it for the most part, and moved on with my life.
What I expected from the concert.
Then the weekend actually got closer. I made plans with Hannah, the love of my life, and we grabbed some McDougall’s and a case of beer, planning to tailgate that shit. We realized quickly how intense everyone was being about it, so we rocked out about a mile from the venue then walked over. Well, a more accurate description is that she walked while I crutched, since I was still healing from the surgery. We finally get to the stadium, and they have all of like two entrances set up for over 25,000 people. It took us a bit to get in there, but once we finally made it through all the excessive security and total morons, we made our way towards our seats.
Well, let’s be honest here, I was on crutches. Did you seriously expect me to hunt down my actual seat? Of course not, I’m a prick, and I’m ridiculously lazy. We found our general area and just picked some seats. Except that they apparently belonged to same angry, obese lesbians. Who actually demanded that we leave. We moved to another row. A new couple made us leave.
Second side note – I’m sorry, I know I’m obnoxious and everything, and shouldn’t have taken their seats to begin with in this scenario, but come on. COME ON. I was on crutches. For the sixth straight week. Throw me a bone here, gayelles.
That’s when it really started to sink in. DMB fans are the biggest tools to ever exist. They wear shirts from the band to the concert. Seriously, people, this is just something you don’t do. It’s like wearing a Princeton shirt when you go on your Dartmouth tour. It’s a social faux paus of epic proportions. I looked around at the people in the stadium and realized that everyone was either a freshman in high school or pushing 45. Practically everyone had a ponytail, love handles, graying temples, and a Hawaiian shirt. It was shocking and appalling how lame everyone was in this stadium. Save for the puffs of weed smoke you could see emanating from the crowd on the field, everyone was basically the epitome of a tool.
At one point, they started playing some Crowded House. I kid you not, this guy behind me starts screaming the lyrics, then turns to his life partner. The words that came out of his mouth made me cringe. “This is the best shit ever! I love this shit!” I know I can’t capture the moment effectively through words alone, but suffice to say, this is the kind of guy who ate at the Olive Garden for prom.
Honestly, I’ve never been surrounded by so many shattered dreams in my life.
It was like this. But worse.