A seemingly irresponsible decision has surprisingly fun consequences
An interactive performance makes a late night worth it
By: Colleen Curlee
Oh come on! You know you want to shake it like a bad girl in Harlem!
my animated roommate, Maggie, exclaims. She is attempting to convince me to go with her to a New Politics concert, in Atlanta, on a school night. Occasionally, she gets outlandish ideas of spontaneous activities for us to do but we had never seriously looked into executing any of these wild plans until now. I just knew it wouldn’t happen though. While we are both concert junkies, we are also dedicated students. In the incessant internal battle she and I face between doing what is responsible and what is fun, responsibility usually dominates. Besides, I only knew one song by the band and was painfully aware that I would have to be up for my nine o’clock class the next morning, then remain awake for the other three classes, then go to work until five…the list seemed to stretch on endlessly. There was simply no way I was going.
The word “NO” isn’t in my vocabulary
So, of course, on January 21, Maggie and I are rushing about our dorm in a hurried attempt to beat the Atlanta rush-hour traffic. Backpack stuffed with notebooks and textbooks, I am determined to study the entire car ride there and back as the anxiety that I won’t finish my work and won’t be able to make it through the next day for lack of sleep begins building. I strain to exude excitement but my ever-perceptive roommate sees right through my act and tries to reassure me that things are going to be fine. As we drive, we immerse ourselves in the upbeat, alternative style of New Politics and I listen as the Danish voices of David Boyd and Søren Hansen blend. It seems that all they ever sing about is European cities and one-night stands. As we drive on towards the city one thought keeps entering my mind.
What in the world have I gotten myself into?
“I think we are literally on the wrong side of the train tracks.” I nervously announce as we drive past not only the police station, with barbed wire fences and monitored parking lots, but also the animal control station, eerily similar in construction. We are lost in Atlanta. It turns out there is an enormous difference between typing in the word street and the word boulevard in a GPS system. Even with our late start and direction mix-up though, we arrive at Terminal West Atlanta a total of two hours before the event starts. The parking lot is empty and five desperate fans shiver, huddled by the door in the 36-degree weather, praying to be spared from the unforgiving gusts of wind tearing between the buildings.
I do not want to get out of the car. I want to stay in the warm body of Maggie’s Ford Focus and do statistical tests for my psychology class. Nonetheless, I push my desires aside and we shuffle to the door, joining the over-eager fans in their suffering. It is cold. It is the kind of bitter cold that sinks its teeth into exposed skin and icily draws the blood out of your extremities. Maggie and I take turns rubbing each other’s arms, depending on the friction to create heat once the wind completely permeates our clothing, and nervously laughing in an attempt to make the best of the situation. Finally, the doors open and we’re allowed to rush into the surprisingly small venue. The smells of alcohol and chicken fingers invade my nostrils while the blue and red lights become obscured by creeping fog. For another hour we stand and watch the crowd begin to pack in. As each crowd member joins I feel the anxiety rising in me again. What am I doing here? I need to be doing homework. I need to be doing projects for work. I need to be sleeping.
Suddenly, I lose all ability to think as the lights dim and the first band staggers onto the stage. Unimpressed and uninterested, I check my watch. The second band bounces on stage. They are better, and as the night grows, I slowly feel my apprehension dissolve. I’m front and center. I can’t help but yearn to release my inner fan girl and enjoy the moment. No matter how hard I try though, I am denied any connection to the band onstage. Hands reaching out barely graze over mine, drops of sweat fly and land on the girls next to and in front of me, and my and the lead singer’s eyes never revel in each other’s glory.
“Fall Into These Arms: It Becomes Worth It”
Then, at once, the entire crowd is enraptured as David Boyd, Søren Hansen, and Louis Vecchio of New Politics storm the stage, completing the entrance with charismatic smiles and backflips. The intensity skyrockets and my heart swells with joy as I am caught up in the emotion of this beautifully energizing moment. I know the contagious liveliness of their songs like “Harlem” and “Tonight Your Perfect” will carry me into the night and erase any traces of nervousness. Things are, quite literally, beginning to look up. In the second song, David pierces me with his dark, passionate eyes and the squeals from my roommate nearly cause me to go deaf. Then, the unthinkable happens. David takes a step back and excitedly gazes into the crowd. He removes his earpiece and yells, “Don’t drop me, ok?” Then, reaching out towards eager hands, he climbs onto the audience. I support his left foot; arm cramping and muscles straining for relief. But the immense joy and intensity of the moment is overwhelming and allows me the strength to keep holding and pushing upwards throughout the song.
As he comes down from his flight, I soar even higher on mine. Again our eyes lock, we clasp hands, and it becomes my sole responsibility to lower this incredible person safely to the ground. Hands, then arms, then torso, and finally David is standing directly in front of me. By now I’ve decided that all of my stress and worry would not be for nothing and that I need to take this chance. I open my arms and hold onto him tightly as the room sings the words “fall into these arms, and spend the night with a stranger, like me.” At that moment it was clear: the cold, the exhaustion, and the frustration had all became worth it.
Colleen Curlee 
