The institution that is the concert has changed greatly in the past few decades, particularly when the target audience is beneath the age of stereotypical ideas of sophistication, or, in Layman's terms, teenagers. In the past, I have always regarded myself as much too dignified to be subjected to this form of fangirl torture, but I knew that I could only hold out for so long. I gave into peer pressure, I am sorry to say, and attended not one, no, but two concerts. At sixteen years of age, I finally caught the high school illness that is sweeping through the nation-- or, at least, teenage girls: concertism, a word I just made up.
In my defense, I did commence my new addiction with an almost dignified starting place: a mainly acoustic, small venue band. As the months progressed, however, it has grown worse.
This new behavior can mainly be attributed to one of my best friends, Becca. It is probable that she caught a rather severe case of concertism prenatally, and it has grown no better to this day. She has been to concerts in every major venue all across New England, and last I checked, has no intention to stop. Her concertism has only brought great benefit to our friend group as a whole, and as much as we tease her for it, all of us agree that it does add something. For Becca, there is nothing quite as fun as talking about Taylor Swift. For the rest of my friends and me, there is nothing more fun than making fun of Taylor Swift. It is a symbiotic relationship that seems to be endless, a prognosis that all of us are able to embrace.
Over the years, it has become increasingly obvious that Becca has developed a secret plan: to infect us all with concertism. Some have succumbed to it without much of a fight. But, one by one, we all began to fall. I, as a sarcastic cynicist, held out for the longest amount of time, if I do say so myself, taking measures to ensure that I would not be infected. Slowly, however, I too began to notice symptoms: humming country music around my house, having an opinion on Miley Cyrus--even a negative one is a sign--and, most importantly, an increase in interest for concerts.
My concert career, as of this point, culminated in my attendance at a Hunter Hayes concert. Hunter Hayes, for those of you who are not aware, is a country singer. I know what you’re thinking, but his lyrics never used the term “ice cold beer,” and used the term “truck” only once. For a country singer, this is practically unheard of.
As Becca and I entered the arena, I immediately took notice of the rest of the audience. Girls, mainly twelve to fifteen, stood in a preemptive awe at the foot of the strange, even though their deity was not scheduled to arrive for nearly another hour. Behind us sat three thirteen-year-olds, clad in cowboy hats, speaking in voices that resembled that of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Now, as a person, I try my best not to be judgemental. It becomes increasingly difficult, however, when I am subjected to the yelping of three teens who had gained a new obsession with taking pictures of themselves. As it turned out, pictures that one took of oneself, or “selfies” for the younger crowd, could be broadcasted on the jumbotrons at the front of the arena for all to see.
“Let’s take, like, fifteen pictures and see if they come up.” Alvin said, her iPhone rising to her face, tilted to the right. Her lips puckered, the customary form of any self-respecting teenage girl.
“Wait! Let me get in with you!” said Simon, leaning over into Alvin’s seat.
“Guys! I don’t have my lipstick on yet!” shouted Theodore, literally whipping her red lipstick out of her purse in true chick flick fashion.
“Okay, girls,” said Alvin, “On the count of three, say HUNTER.”
“One, two, three, HUNTERRRRR!"
Alvin and the Chipmunks let out a squeal that rivaled the decibels of a jet engine, and I knew that something had to be done. I would not let Alvin have the last laugh.
“Hey, Becca. Let’s take the worst picture we can possibly muster, and see if it gets on the big screen. I’m sick of all these selfies.” I said, jokingly.
Becca and I took the picture. I stuck my neck out as far as possible, crossing my eyes and exposing my teeth.
It wasn’t coming up, thank goodness. There were hundreds of pictures, of course, and it became clear that ours had been filtered out, as we obviously made a mockery of the selfie.
A half hour passed, and Becca and I had moved on. Simon and Theodore were taking a round of selfies while Alvin had retired to the restroom, and I was looking down into the crowd. They talked and screamed, a sea of cowboy hats and neon colors waiting in anticipation.
Suddenly, the talking stopped. A hush fell over the crowd. Becca and I looked up to see what was the matter--was Hunter on?--and that was when I heard Theodore whisper into Simon's ear something that I dreaded:
“Hey! It’s those two girls! They look so stupid!”
There, on two twenty by thirty foot screens, was my face. The picture, taken horizontally, had been cropped, leaving the tip of Becca’s eyes and nose, and the entirety of the ugliest mug I could muster, facing 6,000 people.
Obviously, in the silence, I started laughing. It seemed to bounce of the walls, directing everyone’s attention to Becca and me.
“She takes, like, the worst selfie.” said Alvin, who had just arrived back from the restroom.
I couldn’t believe it. Alvin didn’t even get the joke. Her face was sour, her nose scrunched as if she had just bit into an underripe lemon.
The picture showed up two more times, and each time Becca and I laughed harder. To no avail on behalf of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore, none of their four-hundred-seventy-three pictures showed up. Not even once. Take that. And though Hunter Hayes was great, I believe that I kept my dignity through the rebellion of conventional picture taking methods. Which, to many teens, are much less trivial than they sound. Thanks, Becca, for not making me take life too seriously. I’ve never been very good at selfies, anyway.
Sure, I may have concertism, but I conclude that it is a minor case. Any more, though, and I may need medication. Or, at least, more ugly faces.
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