I’d hoped to write a moving post about the concert that I attended last night because the concert truly was moving. May be I’m just tired or too far into this day of ordinary to summon the right words. May be the right words for those precious moments just don’t exist outside of rock songs and poetry and I am neither a rocker nor poet.
Either way, I’m left to say in the simplest words that I experienced something quite special last night in what I would have thought, an unlikely place. A rock concert at the DAR Constitution Hall.
The weather was sleeting and cold and the city emptied as we came to fill it. People of all ages appeared and I wondered what they were thinking while overly-tall couples made out and women of 70+ years stood drinking wine and tagging each other on Facebook during what was clearly a younger people’s rock concert.
We metro-ed in with enough time to stop for a hot pumpkin latte at Cosi, then joined the parade of people walking to the hall and found our seats. It was a long walk for a girl with POTS, but she handled it well. We people watched through the first act and then awaited the darling Irish band that we’d come to see.
The Script is a band of three with a couple more in the background. They really are a modern day U2 with brilliant hard-hitting song-writing that delivers depth and thought. They love people and it shows opting to play at smaller venues that allow for more crowd interaction.
As the night began, Danny burst onto the stage and then jumped into the crowd walking down the aisle and letting people sing into the mike. We had good seats, but not phenomenally good. Ours were a bit back, row T, and we had three people standing between us and the aisle so we missed this one… and the next. He had no fear though, mingling with the masses and when he wasn’t mingling, he was talking, singing, and pointing the mike out toward the audience who obliged by singing along.
Tiara sang too. I looked over several times nearly tearing up to see her so happy there. Smiling wide and singing every word to most of the songs they played and songs that spoke to her.
I leaned over to Tiara when Danny was in the audience the second time and girls were running up the aisles to see him.
“Would you do that, if you could?”
“Yes. If I were with friends and if I could.” We don’t talk about this thing much, this illness that’s become the thing unspoken. It could become consuming, but we won’t let it and life goes on and we move along with it. But it’s these little things that pain me as her mom, watching and knowing that only “if,” it would be different. It made those visions of her singing that much more precious – to see that relaxed smile, the real, natural, beautiful smile that lights up her whole face. It’s one of those happy moments that we embrace, but it’s bittersweet, because it reminds me too of what could be… if.
It was a long concert. The lyrics haunting. The band fun and sweet, a mix of compassion and boyhood silliness. Danny sung one entire song into the phone of an audience member who he’d asked to dial a friend. Some lucky friend had a personal call from The Script and heard the entire audience cheer.
A bit later the stage went dark and Danny ran off and for a moment. I thought the show was over, but then his voice began again, the lights turned, and there he was behind us just a couple feet away. It was then that my “mom” instincts took over and I think I sort of forgot my manners for just a minute apologizing profusely while pushing Tiara past the three people next to us in a frantic move to get to the aisle and reach Danny. We may have spilled a few ill-placed drinks in the process, but we got there. Tiara was a couple inches of this adorable Irish singer and while she’s not one to scream and go crazy, I think she enjoyed that moment. We followed him in the crowd as he sung all the way back to the stage. Yeah, I’m just the mom, but it was spontaneous and fun and she got close. We stood on the side just a couple rows back. The bouncers kept the aisles clear, but allowed us to stand to the side.
It was another moment. One that was fun and random and just a bit crazy. I pushed and pulled and got her there, but we were there together, standing and singing along a little. A moment that seemed so normal that anything else fell away.
We ended singing. As the band exited the stage, the last member stopped on the darkening stage and continued the chorus to the song that we’d been singing. The music had stopped and his lone voice carried on. We held that moment a bit longer repeating the chorus as he walked off.
“Oh these times are hard,
Yeah they’re making us crazy
Don’t give up on me baby”
There is power in music and moments and on special nights like this, they somehow collide. We left singing lyrics that resonate with us. It has been hard. It is crazy. But my girl isn’t giving up. Exhausted, she walked back to the Metro and willed herself to stand when we had to wait for the last train home. I didn’t even know how bad she felt until today.
Now we’re singing a new song. Hall of Fame is another anthem to moving forward when it’s hard and faith in yourself. It’s a good thing.