For the music snob, the first concert occupies a sacred space. Whether awful or amazing, we remember that first show, be it grooving to New Kids on the Block or sitting with your parents, suffering through a James Taylor set. I lost my auditory virginity to Bush. While the emotional scars may be hard to see, the physical ones still remain as this show also marked my first cigarette burn -- she was 40 and drunk, and she mistook my arm for an ashtray. But I just let the pain fuel my seventh grade angst. Licking my wound as I watched Gavin Rossdale emote, I quickly realized that it's "the little things that kill."
Now I'm almost 22 and I've been stuck in this grunge groove for the past six months. What began as a desire to dust off some CD's and relive middle school evolved into my lame little secret. From Better Than Ezra to the Breeders, I'm all distortion pedals and flannels, banging my head as I sing along with all their pithy statements, mixing up lyrics as I let everyone know that, "I won't tell 'em your name 'cause it was good, livin' with you, but I don't want to take what you can't give 'cause I'm the last splash." The next time that you see someone in the gym working out while humming along to "Everything Zen," don't laugh: it's me.
