The Reeling

Recently, I found myself at a Passion Pit show in Boston at the House of Blues. My friends and I managed to find a relatively close and uncrowded spot to the left of the stage, where we could see pretty clearly, sing loudly, and dance around like the idiots that we are. It was an awesome show.

What surprised me most was that a large part of the Passion Pit fan base was made up of - let me just put on my white wig, prepare yourself for judgment - jockish, meathead, fist-pumping, Ed Hardy wearing douches. Yeah. I said it.

And, anther large part of their fan base was made up of the kind of chicks one would assume jockish, meathead, fist-pumping, Ed Hardy wearing douches would be into.

Then there was the other third of the crowd that was made up of try-hard hipsters, with skinny jeans that undoubtedly cut off some circulation to someplace relatively vital (boys, I'm talkin' about you here... is that really comfortable?!) and lots and lots of hair and flannel.

This portion of the crowd I had anticipated. I did not anticipate the other two-thirds: The bros and hos.

So, from our location to the upper left-hand side of the stage, and up on a higher level than the floor itself, I could see a lot of the crowd. It was kind of surreal... watching a wave of people moving, singing, chanting... fist pumping.

Part of what I love about seeing a show is screaming every word to a song and feeling the energy of every single person singing that exact same song with the exact same force behind their voice. The force of believing, of near-worship, of adoration.

At one point during the show, during the song "The Reeling," I looked out over the crowd, moving, throbbing like a heart beat, and realized that every single person - Ed Hardy wearing douches, half-clothed hotties trying to make out with the Ed Hardy wearing douches, and skinny jeaned, flannel-clad androgynous hipsters - was singing along to the words with an emphasis that awed me. The sound of the crowd was louder than during any other song. Mouths moved in unison, hands waved, grabbed, pumped - reaching, begging for the stage. Together, we sang:

Look at me oh look at me is this the way I'll always be
Oh no, oh no
Now I pray that somebody will quickly come and kidnap me
Oh no, oh no
Everyday I lie awake and pray to god today's the day
Oh no, oh no Here I am oh here I am oh when will someone understand?
Oh no, oh no

In that moment, it was more than just singing along to a song; it was a lesson. We all feel misunderstood. All of us. Even the people who wear their confidence on their sleeves, literally. I'm not judging them on their attire by accident; they're asking me to.

But, at that moment, at that show, it became a little more clear to me that really it's just the clothes. We're all the same - confused, unsure, and trying to find our identities through whatever form of self-expression we can muster - music, clothes, and general camaraderie with people who understand exactly that.