Dawn goes to a 'kick ass' show

There are not too many occasions that I hit up a live show in Fayetteville – or anywhere else for that matter. It’s not for lack of good shows, but more because I’m not really sure what to do with myself at one. Most of the time, I’m familiar with the music but not intimate enough to know the words or identify with the feelings the each song represents to a number of the fans attending a show. Music doesn’t hit me like it does everyone else, apparently. Yep, I’m that lame, socially awkward, out of place chick at THAT show. So, I end up tapping my foot and staring at everyone else like I’m the normal one when it’s really me that’s weird.



My boyfriend LOVES the Deftones. Back in July, I found out they were playing at the Rock Shop here in Fayetteville. I’ve never seen him get so excited about anything. He was so excited that he didn’t even mind that the show was postponed for a month after the original date of the ticket. There’s not much that my boyfriend gets visibly excited about and I realized just before the concert that I had really never seen him so … so … well, excited. Well, except for playing golf and watching Michigan kick Ohio State’s ass in football.



So, there I was, standing in the middle of the Rock Shop and my boyfriend is rocking out to the first song by the Deftones, a band I admit I know pretty much next to nothing about. Mid-fist-pump he decides to take off to the ‘pit’ at the front of the stage, dragging me behind him. Everyone is jumping around, taking shots with their cam-phones and dancing. Yes, you can dance to rock music. If you’re not a ‘dancer’ you should be a ‘watcher.’ Watch out for flying fists, elbows and the occasional foot as people get passed around over the crowd. I was almost clocked in the eyeballs several times because I was not a good enough watcher and my boyfriend forgot I was standing next to him. That was our first trip to the pit. It wasn’t long, wasn’t that bad and I was pretty much inhaling bass from the speakers while my ears got numb from the sound. Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty cool by the time we rejoined our other friends outside the pit. I was even tapping my foot and bobbing and weaving my head like a pro.



Our next trip to the pit was later into the concert. By that time, it was evident that the A/C wasn’t cooling anything down. As I scanned the venue, I noticed that everyone was covered in sweat, either their own or someone else’s. Chicks who had clearly spent time on their face and hair gave up trying to preserve their look as make-up was smeared and hair was reacting to the elements and environment. Even mine. As my boyfriend once again pulled me to the pit, I was dragged across sweaty bodies and sprayed with beverages fist pumping to yet another song I didn’t really know. Then, above all the other noise, I heard my boyfriend’s voice chanting, “Play Cherry Waves.”



Let me interject a lesson here: I learned a long time ago to never make eye contact with a drunk person in a place that’s too loud to hear anything. They will insist on explaining themselves to you until they are sure you understand. If you know the person, it’s just a mild irritant. If you don’t know them, the smell of alcohol will burn your eyes.



My boyfriend kept yelling in my already deaf ear that “Cherry Waves” was the most awesome song in the history of the Deftones album career. Maybe it was and I did care, but I really wanted him to stop yelling in my ear. He did stop yelling in my ear, but kept shouting for the “Cherry Waves” song as we made our way out of the pit again. When we made it back to our spot, I smelled like I bathed in a mix of a 12 year old’s body odor after playing outside in the hot sun and sweaty cologne. My boyfriend, though, never stopped yelling for “Cherry Waves.” It was to the point that I wanted to find someone in charge of operations and tell them to please have the band play the damn “Cherry Waves” song so my boyfriend would just stop yelling for it, I was afraid his fist was gonna connect with either my head or someone else’s and I wasn't ready for that.



But I kept my cool and assumed my place as THAT girl while my boyfriend and his friend continued to yell for a song that woouldn’t get played and talk about how awesome the band was when they saw them on the West Coast. In between, my boyfriend would remember I was there and affectionately squeeze my ass and then put me in a headlock to kiss my forehead. Why? Because he promised to pay more attention to his body language when we were out so that it looked like we were together.



By the time we left the show, we were covered in sweat, ours or someone else’s or both, the guys were pretty tanked on PBR and it was raining outside as we made our way back to my car with my boyfriend wondering why the Deftones didn't play "Cherry Waves." But it wasn’t a miserable time. As a matter of fact, it was one of the best I’ve had going out in Fayetteville. I was smelly and wet and in charge of two grown men who weren’t capable of being in charge of themselves thanks to the beer chick and an ATM inside, but the show was awesome. I got to see a few friends I never see otherwise and got hit on at least once, assuming a high five and a “you’re beautiful” counts. You know what? I’m making that count. The night didn't before Taco Bell, chicken wings and a black marker played a huge part in the shenanigans of the following hour. What was I doing? Making sure I couldn't be blamed for any of it.