By TRINA SEVERSON
Guest Columnist
Editor’s note: Columnist Scott Saalman invited his friend Trina Severson of Tell City, Ind., to fill in for him this week.
I’ve been a fan of live music since high school – since the ‘80s when heavy metal hair bands exploded into my living room on MTV and filled the venues in my hometown.
Every Friday of my eighth-grade year, I’d rush home from St. Bernadette Catholic School and begin the two-hour process of transforming myself from plain parochial-school introvert to heavy metal headbanger. There was nothing like the energy and camaraderie of a live show.
My city’s ice rink hosted local bands each weekend that kept us satisfied through winter. In summer, we turned to outdoor shows. It was a challenge keeping our black clothing, makeup, and giant, ratted hair looking 100 percent in 90-degree weather, but we were dedicated. We never left the house without a ratting comb. “Is my hair flat?” we’d ask each other, panic in our eyes. “Oh, no, no!” we’d answer reassuringly. “It’s really high, way up there.” We’d nod, relieved.
Trina (right) with daughter Emma at Dave Matthews Band in Cincinnati. (Photo provided by Trina Severson)
In college in the ‘90s, I moved on to folk-rock, jam, and grunge bands. I traded Aqua Net for my dad’s old flannel work shirts, which actually proved handy when I moved to the Minnesota Northwoods.
My roommate, Mark, was a Dead Head. He’d been to countless Grateful Dead shows and had hundreds of carefully labeled cassette tapes. Most any night of the week, other Dead Heads would come by our place with their tapes of live shows to share with Mark, and in turn they’d record some of his shows. That community around the band – the friendships formed – and the taping-and-trading sub-culture fascinated me. On my birthday Mark gave me a Grateful Dead ticket stub. I understood what a gift that was, and what it meant for him to part with it. Paper tickets were treasured memorabilia. Back then, the ticket-buying process itself was a fun, exciting experience. Overnight campouts outside of ticket counters made for new friends and great memories.
It was in Duluth, Minn., in 1994 when I last waited in a physical line for concert tickets. Neil Young’s Harvest Moon tour. Ahead of me, two middle-aged women waited. One turned to me and pointed to my Pearl Jam shirt. “You know,” she said in a thick Minnesota accent, “Neil really is the grandfather of grunge.” “Oh, yup, yup, he sure is. You betcha,” her friend agreed.
Trina will see Dave Matthews Band three days in a row at The Gorge in Washington state next weekend. (Photo provided by Trina Severson)
Now I’m the middle-aged woman in line for tickets. But today it’s an isolated experience. In a virtual line. I miss camping out overnight in the old chaise lounge chair dragged from the garage, spider webs and all. I miss chatting with other fans around me, watching the sun rise and listening for the click of the merchant’s door unlocking. Fortunately, the concerts themselves – that fantastic live music experience – hasn’t changed much, at least not for me. And today I can share the experience with my own kids.
Several years ago, I took my daughter to see Dave Matthews Band at an outdoor amphitheater. At the gate, we chatted with a young couple beside us. It was their first show. They were excited. My daughter was excited. It made me feel young again, if only for a moment. When I said I’d first seen the band live back in 1998, the girl’s eyes brightened. “I was born in 1998!” she said.
“Lawn seats?” I asked them. No, of course not. They were up front, in the pit. Right near the band. Where I’d stood a few decades earlier. I envied them only briefly. These days, I pass on the pit. But I’m still there, in the camaraderie of the crowd. Still singing and dancing along. Look for me on the lawn with my blanket and chair, near the Port-o-Johns and the $16 cups of beer.
Dave Matthews Band at Ruoff this summer. (Photo provided by Trina Severson)