Friends with the Wolf

The train rolled down the tracks along the Irish coast line. I sat alone at my window seat, watching the land skate by. Waves crashed against the rocks along the coast. People wandered the streets in their towns. A few people were muttering in the train car, seated away from me. This was another train trip that I took on my own. It was a choice to be alone, to not ask anyone to join me. Sometimes, my best companion was myself. I leaned my head against the window, watching.

In time, we arrived in Dublin. I wandered out of the station, threading my way through crowds of nameless faces. Streets that I had paced alone so often lead me through the city and across the bridge spanning the River Liffey. I could see my face in the water below, and the passing silhouettes of whoever’s life I happened to be passing through that moment.

I arrived somewhere I never thought I would be, never thought I would belong. On a back street, at a bar called the Academy, I formed in line with everyone else. I was there early, shivering a bit in the evening chill. The sun was still up, somewhere behind those grey clouds. The line wasn’t that long and I could tell that we were all excited. We were all here to see the same man, Andrew W.K.

I got my tickets from a guy behind a plastic window; I had to listen hard to get past his accent and all the noise. The hall was empty, nowhere near as many people as I thought would be there. Maybe Andrew wasn’t as popular over here. The thin crowd allowed me to find a nice spot on the main floor, right against a guard rail, out of the way of everyone else. And there I planned to stay for however long the concert took.

           

In time, the opening act came out on stage. They were some local Dublin band, trying to hit it big. Unfortunately for them, they were the skinny jean, denim vest, greasy hair kind and their act was as “Dead, dead, fucking dead” as their last song. And while their music sucked, the crowd seemed to enjoy themselves. People were already being lifted into the air and thrown toward the stage, and someone’s beer had already been spilled over my shoes.

           

After the lead singer finally stopped rolling on the floor and the band left, we had some down time. The crew was setting up the stage for the main act. As I waited, I watched the crowd around me. They were the types I had expected: baggy black pants, plenty of chains, dyed black hair or startlingly blonde, t-shirts for bands that I didn’t know, and piercings all around. They reminded me of the friends I had back in high school freshman year. As for me, I was dressed in my brown pants, hiking boots, military jacket and grey hat. Maybe I was hoping to blend into the background and go unnoticed.

            

More people started to stream in. All of them in various kinds of black or some clashing color. A crowd of uniqueness was gathering. And the beer was flowing more freely. I watched a few people make multiple trips to the bar, though they might have been going for friends. I was tempted to get my first drink at that very show, but my ignorance of what to ask for held me back; not really the place for me to look like a fool.

          
Soon enough, the place was packed. I was engulfed in a sea of the alternative and indie. The crowd was restless and even before the music began; people were practicing their mosh-pit body slams. I stayed leaned against my guard rail, watching.

            

The lights flickered and dimmed and they all started cheering. We knew what was coming next. First the drummer mounted the stage, then the bassist. With hair nearly as wild as the man we came to see, the guitarist and Cherie Lily, Andrews wife, jumped on stage to rev up the crowd. The already raucous crowd reached a kind of frenzy I didn’t think was possible.

           

We waited. We knew but didn’t know how long it would be. Finally, the guitarist grabbed the mic and yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen! ANDREW. W. K!” Everyone shouted as the man ran on stage, his white clothes bright in the crappy lighting and his long black hair flowing behind him. He bent down to hi-five as many people as he could before grabbing the mic and signaling to start the music.

           

 “It’s time to party!” He shouted and the crowd all sang along to the song of the same name. I leaned on my railing, bobbing my head with the music, not singing. The crowd was alive, the band was excited, the beer was flowing, and I observed.

            

The night continued on, the music was loud and the energy infectious. The guitar was wild and exciting. The keyboard was electric. And the drums kept the pulse of the show. It was metal, sure, but happy metal, the kind of ridiculously over the top music that could break glass and liven hearts. I couldn’t help myself. As the songs came and went I found myself pumping my fist in the air along with the rest of them. I was shouting the lyrics to every song along with the rest of them. I found myself absorbed into the mosh-pit and was throwing myself around with the rest of them.

           

 I became a part of them. Despite my best efforts I was drawn into the mass of humanity, literally and figuratively. Regardless of my desire to stay on the outskirts, to observe, they pulled me in. These people, they mattered to me, if only for a little while. As Andrew sang “She is Beautiful” I sang along, aiming the words at the girl in front of me. I truly didn’t think she was, but I felt compelled to tell her all the same. Those that I was being shoved into and shoving against weren’t a threat; they weren’t trying to hurt me, just as I wasn’t trying to hurt them. We were friends in that moment, showing affection.

          

 After what must have been three hours of jumping, shouting, and head banging, the concert came to a close. As Andrew and his band left the stage we cheered our hero and called for one last song. For nearly five minutes. He didn’t come back, not like so many other musicians where a few extra seconds of clapping get them back for an encore. We stayed and called, willing him to come back.

           

He did, finally. After what seemed like so long, Andrew W.K. came back to us for one last song. “We Want Fun” was our final anthem for the night, a call to all of us to find a little time and enjoy life. And Andrew gave us an example of that, jumping out into the crowd and letting us pass him along like he was floating on the tides. I got a hand on him to help him on his journey. Finally, after the amps were silenced, after the lights came back on, after bodies stopped barreling into each other, we left the Academy.

I drifted away from the rest of the crowd. On my way out I bought his signature white t-shirt with blood running down it, a memento of the night. In the night air I realized how hot it was in there, how sweaty I was now. In the middle of the street I peeled off the shirt I was wearing and donned Andrew’s.

Waking back to the train, I was stopped. A man in an orange dress and boa and his friend, a girl in an orange jersey, stopped me on the bridge over the River Liffy. They tried to talk to me, and it was then that I realized that I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The music had muted my hearing. The girl showed me her camera and said something. I tried to take it to take their picture but she shook her head. Her friend in the dress stood next to me and I realized they wanted my picture. I smiled, wearing my bloody shirt, as a man in an orange dress in a foreign country stood next to me, arms around each other’s shoulders.

I felt out of place as that night began. Concerts were never my scene and getting caught in a mosh pit was something that I figured was to be feared. Yet, in that chaos, in that mad house, amid all the drinking and shouting and bodies flying, I felt accepted. I’ll never see anyone from that night again, but for a little while there, we were friends.