Last night there was a bit of a fuss. Shaghyedh and Sami had tickets to see Panic! at the Disco at the Target Center, the arena where the Timberwolves play, and much of the extended family was at the Missaghi home eating dinner and conversing. Actually, it starts a bit earlier than that, about a week, as Shaghyedh found out that Bloc Party was no longer playing, Sami would later confirm that one of the drummer's lungs had collapsed, and would be replaced by the Plan White T's, who hail from Chicago and are pretty great guys. Regardless, they stood, shoes halfway across the threshold and back again, for over half an hour as various people shouted various things, over others talking about shopping, about what was happening in the house. They understood the issue, got the problem with leaving a family get-together just as they had arrived from shopping, but eighty dollars spent is eighty dollars wasted if they remained. Their faces shifted back and forth between near-defiance and near-exasperation. And there I was, sitting next to Shirin with a plate, laboring over two last pieces of leftover turkey, trying to drill my head into the side of Shirin's neck. I had basically spent the day with these two ladies, began to feel a connectedness that hadn't existed before, discussed shoes and pants in thumping and drowned out stores, and we had all, several times, referred to each other as brother and sisters. I felt the sister's-helper muscle tighten between my shoulder blades as they began pacing.
I asked Shaghyedh why they didn't just go. It wasn't every day that Sami is back in town from Boston and the two of them are able to spend private moments in public places. She whimpered loudly. Then explained that they had bought the three tickets well in advance and...I turned, grabbed my coat and told our parents that the girls and I were going to the show together. No problems anymore; apparently. Racing to the car to ensure that the conversation couldn't be furthered.
This, of course, was leading up to the concert. The concert - I'll call it, Act 'Huh?' - seemed like a forgone conclusion. We would enjoy ourselves. Me with my extra ticket that didn't cost the girls a cent and theirs which...uh...did.
The Target Center is large. It's quite large. If you're looking for a way to gauge its size, picture any large basketball/hockey arena and you've got the idea. The stage was adorned with red and yellow paint splashed tapestries and banners, the fan base (which I had no idea was possible) was expanding as we arrived right before Panic! at the Disco (the headliner?) graced the stage. [Now, I'd like to take a break here to explain some very quick things. A) I've heard this band not more than twice. B) I know very little about this band save the one single I heard and a few words of hearsay from various people. C) I do not like large venues; size is proportionate to easy of access, relaxability, aesthetic, and effort by the band; so-as-to-say, performers in a larger venue have strange expectations to not really care about the gig as they're going to be paid regardless of performance and have a variety of props or the like to buttress.] And Sami, Shaghyedh, and I sat, basically, behind a series of speakers, stage left surrounded by those who, and I'm about to do something I've never done before, were roughly half my age.
We three sat talking about the crowd's mean age, the music videos projected onto the screen above us, and how none of us would consider ourselves fans of the band we were about to invest time in seeing. We than began taking our investment seriously as the band was announced, carnival music played, and a curtained part of the stage was unveiled. Interest was peeked, at first, and then the dancers emerged.
From this point on, I can only describe our experience as…well, very simply an experience. The ‘dancers’ moved onto the stage during the first song; which exploded like teenage boys and girls pressed against one another, elation. Loud and fast right off the bat tends to do that to a crowd. Now, when I say ‘move’ I mean that. They graced the stage with a level of malaise that one would not associate with their costumes, most of the time leather. When they finally reached the front of the stage, all the while performing odd bends and tricks like a first year gymnast, they stopped to surround the singer and proceeded to jerk about like b-actors in a cheap horror movie. I laughed. The rest of the show, in the dancers regard, continued in the same vein: odd maneuvers and oddly choreographed scenes depicting love, lust, insanity, and a sense of foreboding actions that never completely came to light. The two gentleman dancers did flips a few times, and stood on stilts for whatever reason as I’m guessing it had something less to do with being carnival types than anything else but I could be wrong as the four woman, presented as royal strumpets, pranced about in tutus, and then underpants, and then as nurses and leather clad debaucherous strumpets again. I was half expecting Madonna to drop down from the ceiling in a cone bra, “HA! I tricked you! This is my concert!”
The band itself, who seemed relatively disinterested in the goings on of the dancers, played a pretty good show though. There was the odd issue of the amount of material, which they remedied by covering Queen and ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and an odd Stomp/Drumline segment which featured the multi-talented singer dueling the drummer on the snare drums, the bassist and guitarist manned the garbage cans, while the dancers and keyboardist played the bass drums and cymbals/trash cans. There was, of course, the odd placement of an Intermission to mop up some more time where the dancers could change costumes and the large screens on either side of the stage projected video of various ‘freakshow’ attractions without being too gross or weird. A perfect example of this was a black and white video of a woman who used her joined arms as jump rope.
The show came to a close with very little bantering by the singer to the crowd and a odd acceptance that there would be no encore. The crowd just up and left never calling into question that the last song would, in fact be the last song. The only lingering was in regard to finding friends or asking for a set list. It was a new experience in most regards as I’m used to kids mulling around, looking to talk at the band about how great the show was, and being asked to leave by overly aggressive security guards with their top two buttons undone. Condescendingly remarking that ‘you kids need to go find your rides’ or ‘your mom’s are outside waiting for you’.
The drive back was awash of impressed but confused eyebrows as we talked about past experiences – much like I’ve done above – at smaller, cozier venues with bands who interacted with the audience. But that didn’t seem to bother us, mostly, there were twangs in our voices occasionally and a more specific sigh whenever we mentioned small venues like the Fireside Bowl in Chicago (me) or a variety of bars and holes in the wall in Boston (Sami). Yet, the underlying issue, the one that recycled through our minds for the rest of the night without having to mention it was that of concern. Concern for the kids who cheered and screamed and danced in their seats and on the floor level. Those same kids who might be impacted by the freeness of sexuality and very public portrayals of private matters that they may not truly understand. This couldn’t be summed up better than by the young couple in the seats in front of us. A young girl with black hair and matching tank top and a young boy, whose boyish features mislead us at first to believe he was a she, who’s hands seemed familiar with the touch of her skin, tying her shirt behind her to expose the midriff, and whose hand remained, for the most part, in her back pocket. It was an odd vestige. A disturbing coup de grace that began by us comparing ourselves at that age to them. The past, now grown up, was just as confused and uncomfortable then as we were now watching the future unrestrained and unabashed.
