by Georgina Gamble ’29 on October 1, 2026
Opinion
You’re queued up at 4 p.m. You’re sitting on hard concrete in your miniest mini skirt and shoes you already regret wearing. Not to mention, you decided that you “didn’t need a jacket” before you left the house, so now you’re shivering. You try to distract yourself by checking your makeup and reapplying your lip gloss. Your phone is quickly losing battery, so you study the incredibly elaborate outfits of the people around you. You wonder if yours is too boring. You check the time—doors aren’t open until seven. The show (hopefully) starts at nine.
You begin to question your life choices.
Your goosebumps quickly turn into sweat the minute you walk into the venue, packed like sardines in the pit. Your decision not to bring a jacket seemed unwise, until now. By some miracle, and with lots of patience, you are in the front row. You gaze up at the stage, imagining how your favorite artist will look up there. Where will they walk around? Will they see you? The fog machines and blueish lights disorient your vision, but still, you try to peer backstage, looking for any signs of life. The pre-show playlist is bumping, and there are some songs that everyone sings along to. You feel the entire crowd hold their breath as a guy doing soundcheck appears from behind the curtain, thinking it was finally time. Some people cheer him on. You ask your friend, “Did the lights just get dimmer, or was that just me?” or, “Don’t you think this song is playing louder than the last one?” You feel like you are going insane.
Then, it happens when you least expect it. You are mid-conversation, when suddenly the whole venue goes dark. Everyone cheers. You hear a familiar opening note, and the fog machines start cranking. The colorful lights come back on, and suddenly, the artist standing not even 10 feet in front of you feels more real than ever before. They start to sing, and the whole place goes wild.
In that moment, everything makes sense. The time, the money, the pain your feet will feel tomorrow—everything is worth it.
I have developed a strong adoration for concerts over the past couple of years. While some people would call me a “crazy fan” or tell me to “get a job,” when I line up for a general admission concert three hours early, I see it as beautiful dedication. It is an art form in its own way.
From crafting your outfit a week prior to planning your train into the city and finally getting in line, every step in the concert process is crucial to making it an unforgettable night. There are very few things that beat the indescribable feeling of walking out of the venue and into the cold night air, wearing your brand-new oversized hoodie, your ears ringing from the bass, and dreaming of the shower you’re going to take as soon as you get home.
You and your friends stumble into the closest fast-food restaurant that’s open, and you take your first sip of water in who-knows how long. It tastes amazing. Over french fries and a round of Diet Cokes, you unpack every minute of the night. Your phones are overheating, and severely losing battery, from taking so many videos. “She definitely made eye contact with me,” one of them says, zooming into her video and analyzing it as if it were a piece of criminal evidence.
To me, concerts provide a sense of adrenaline unlike any other serotonin booster on the market. The energy at any show I’ve been to is unbeatable, and I think it is because you are squished into a small room with hundreds of people who are all there for the exact same reason: the fun of it all. I love my concert craze, and I will continue to put the majority of my money toward $50 polyester (cotton, if I’m lucky) tour T-shirts and lifelong memories of my favorite singers.