I’m the Worst Person to be a Groupie

A friend invited a bunch of us to watch his friend’s indie band in a gig. Hanging out in a bar with beer-guzzling rockers on a Saturday night sounded cooler than doing laundry or watching Planet Earth DVDs for the fifth time so I went.

The band we were supposed to be rooting for was set to play last so we had to sit through seven other bands with non sequiturian names like Martian Pancakes or Crickets on Stilts. (Okay, I just made those up because I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. But seriously, what is up with having band names that don’t make any sense? I am a simple-minded person. Don’t mess my mind up with amorphous metaphors.)

Quick observation: they were loud. They seemed to have a thing for amplifiers. It also didn’t help that the venue was an enclosed 30-square-meter room and we were seated next to a huge speaker. On the upside, it felt like a four-hour session of rigorous ear cleaning. I could feel my earwax getting cleared out as decibels comparable to that of a supersonic jet assaulted my ears.

I know, I sound like a cranky geezer as I write this. I may have the maturity of a 12-year-old and the attention span of a five-year-old but in terms of noise tolerance, I’m 26 going on 80. In my defense, I really don’t see anything wrong with going easy on those amplifiers. There are about 15 people in the audience and we were two feet away from each other. I’m pretty sure we could hear them just fine without having those electric guitars cranked up like they were trying to blow the roof off.

Another thing I don’t get is why these vocalists sing like they’re eating the microphone. I’m not sure if this is normal but I feel the need to recognize the actual words in a song to appreciate it. It’s impossible to understand the lyrics of what they’re singing if their mouths are so close to the mic they’re practically making out with it.

It was almost midnight and it felt like there were 40 more bands to go. I was zoning out and I wasn’t even drunk. Thought process went something like this:

Hey look, cassette tapes on the wall. I’m going to count them. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve… 48 cassette tapes on the wall.

Guys in skinny jeans look weird. Like that guy.

I want a cheeseburger.

That guy’s hair looks like Liam Gallagher’s circa 1990s. Oasis fan? My brother had hair like that back then. He looked like an idiot but I didn’t have the heart to tell him because he was so engrossed in the delusion that he looked cool.

God, I’m such an asshole. I shouldn’t be judging people like this. I should be nice to everyone and learn to appreciate musical artistry.

God, they’re loud. I’m too old for this.

I’m out of Zonrox. I should buy Zonrox. I should be doing laundry.

Hey look, cassette tapes on the wall. I’m going to count them. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve… 48 cassette tapes on the wall.

I need beer. An entire barrel of it. I need to be drunk in order to get through this. No wonder people here are on a mission to pour as many Red Horse down their throats as possible.

So yeah, Zonrox. I should buy Zonrox.

By the time my friend’s friend’s indie band got around to their set, I was in a catatonic state with a moronic half-smile plastered on my face. I managed to do some listless clapping at the end but that was as close to being a groupie as I got.

I would love to be in the cool crowd hanging out with beer-guzzling rockers on a Saturday night. Unfortunately, my poor eardrums can’t keep up with that kind of lifestyle, I’ll forever be confused with non sequiturian band names, and I’d always find it disturbing to watch people making out with microphones. So excuse me while I step out to buy Zonrox. I need to do my laundry.

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