Feet hurting. Being shoved around. Sweating profusely. Ears ringing.
Now open your eyes. Where are you?
Hell? No! Don’t be silly. You’re at the bar, kid — the place where dreams, and barfing on your bathroom floor at 3 a.m., are made!
Listen, I will be the first to admit that the bar isn’t always the place to be. Sometimes it’s too empty, sometimes it’s too full. Sometimes the drinks are too expensive, sometimes they’re too strong — wait, who am I kidding? The latter would be a dream! I wish I could be so lucky!
Nevertheless, the bar can be the move. I am here to declare that the time the bar certainly is the move is when there is a live band involved.
It is guaranteed fun. It is more fun than The Eras Tour, the Super Bowl — you name it. Why? Because a cover band plus a bar full of drunkards equals the true root of human connection.
It isn’t pretty — It’s gritty, it’s filthy, it’s just as God intended.
There are some special characteristics of a bar while a live band is playing that are key players in this fun-hole.
For example, there’s a group of college girls (my friends and I) begging the band members (who are not taking requests) to play “Semi-Charmed Life.” There are people being forced to dance by the ebbing and flowing of a mosh pit that just can’t seem to catch on.
There’s a man in a fedora and tracksuit singing lyrics to a song — definitely not the song that is being played but totally okay. Why is it okay? Because it’s not the night for NOT being okay. If there is one thing we all are, it is okay!
Just listen to the lady whose friends are asking her if she needs to go home! She’s fine! She’s okay!
A live band makes you do things you’d never do and create bonds with people you’d usually ignore for the sake of comfortability and routine. Well, screw routine, all bets are off. It’s a microcosm for your senior year of high school or a speed date or playing bingo at an old folks home next to some squawky woman named Betsy — you find allies.
You make finger guns at a random elderly lady during the chorus of “Trap Queen.” You make memories. It’s rebellious and invigorating. It is a “Yes Night.”
What’s a “Yes Night” you ask? It’s one of those nights where everything falls into place and every opportunity that comes your way you just want to say “yes!”
Some examples are as follows:
Do I ask this random man if I can borrow his dollar-sign-shaped sunglasses real quick? Yes.
Do I pay $30 for one glass of whatever the hell? Yes, again.
We are multigenerational on this dance floor; we are united by the strangest set list in the world. We are mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, singing “Sweet Child of Mine.” We are confidants singing “Paper Planes.” We are dreamers singing “Fireflies.”
A moment for “Fireflies” by Owl City — this song is perfect to me. Anytime it plays I feel like I have entered a dream-like state and reached a higher sense of self. I especially like the part when he says “I’m weird ‘cause I hate goodbyes.” I hate goodbyes, too. Thank you for putting something so hard to articulate into lyrics.
Anyways, back to the point: Maybe it’s true that you’ll never see these people again. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow morning and barely remember anything at all – questions racing through your mind like, “did I really need that last shot?” And “was that guy seriously wearing a fedora and a tracksuit?”
But when the morning recap ends and the hangxiety from yelling “are we doing this?!” and then trying out the worm — for the first time — on that sticky floor subsides, you’ll realize that it was all real. It was the realest thing you’ve ever experienced. And those people might be gone — a memory far away — but they’re no longer strangers.
They felt the bass pounding in their hearts right alongside you. They came together to find your friend’s missing hoop earring. They smelt your tequila burp. No one can ever take that away from any of us. We are bound forever by a night in a dingy bar that ended too early (I mean, come on Boston, don’t play “Closing Time” at 1 a.m. The party is just getting started! Open back up! Play “Opening Time”!).
Blame it on the night.
Blame it on the stars aligning to bring all these beautiful souls together.
Blame it on good old fashioned friendship.
But, most importantly, blame it on the tequila. Tequila makes me crazy. I’m sorry about that burp.
