Pop Music Case
As a young child, I was enraptured in pop music. My favorite singer was JoJo, I loved David Archuleta, and boybands like The Jonas Brothers and One Direction still excite me to this day. When I got older, my taste for pop music fizzled and I was introduced to a realm of indie music like Craft Spells, Bombay Bicycle Club, and Two Door Cinema Club. If there was a nice beat and an awkward name to match, I loved it. So, when my father introduced me to one of his favorite bands called Film School, I was instantly hooked. Little did I know I was going to see them perform.
It was the evening of September 25, 2010. I was relaxing on this particular Saturday, with no plans to leave my bed. Listening to music as I read a book, my father came in my room with a loud “Get dressed. I’m taking you out tonight”. My father and I were partners in crime; at times, I felt like we were the same in age and we could joke around without a care in the world. I was excited to hang out with him and quickly got dressed, not knowing where we were headed.
It finally broke into darkness when we drove off. I asked him too many times about where we were going and he told me too many times to relax. Enjoy the ride. You’ll find out soon. Listen to that iPod of yours. I was nervous, though I didn’t mean to be. If only I didn’t watch Dateline NBC earlier that week! When we saw the city and drove into unknown territory, my father broke the silence and told me we were seeing Film School in concert. Film School. Live. In concert. I never screamed so hard in my mind.
The venue was surreal. Girls with plugs larger than my wrists smoked near the entrance. Men with more tattoos than bare skin guarded the bathrooms. Bands from the other floors were booming through the walls. In the haze of fog machines in overdrive and cigarette smoke, I was shocked into concert culture. I felt so out of place with my Gap jacket and Target blouse when the people around me were in ratty band tees they probably haven’t washed in months.
A half-hour before our concert began, a woman with stringy blonde hair sloppily tucked behind her ears was stringing white Christmas lights around the merchandise table. It was her. Lorelei Meetze, the beautiful bassist for Film School, was putting up lights. I looked at her, glanced at my dad, and looked at her again.
“Oh that’s your girl!” My dad said a little too loud. “Let’s go say hi.”
I shook my head quickly. “N-no!” I whined.
She wasn’t overly famous; if you were to see her walking in the grocery store, you wouldn’t drop a crate of eggs onto the floor for an autograph or even a wave hello. She was closer to being just like me than being an A-list celebrity. So why was I so scared to meet her?
My dad forced me to her, no matter how hard I tried to pull away. What if she is stuck up and doesn’t