We’d talked about going to the concert together for months. In August, when we learned that Panchiko was coming here on tour, she was elated. I’d seen them before, but I’d go again with her.
We were closer then. It didn’t feel like I needed to make an effort to reach out, because we were bound to see each other. But September and October slipped by; we’d see each other in class the days both of us went, or in our shared hall at odd hours of the day. It’s okay, I’d tell myself, because on November 12, things would go back to normal—we had Panchiko.
But she forgot. I texted her at 2 p.m., asking what time she wanted to leave. Then, I called her at 7 p.m. She apologized profusely, for making me go alone. She had an essay. She didn’t write down the date. Of course, it wasn’t a problem. “I’m so sorry. Take lots of pictures. I’m sorry.”
It’s not the first or last time I’ll go to a concert alone. I actually enjoy going to concerts by myself. Maybe I’m just more of a solitary person. I get easily irritated when standing for long periods of time. I go silent for the 40 minutes between the opener and the main act anyway. This way, I didn’t have to speak, to sing, to fill the silence. To ask how her life had been, what music she’d been listening to, what classes she’s taking next semester.
I show up around 8:30 p.m., after the opener ends. I walk into the pit, and it feels like high school. Mostly because it’s all teenagers surrounding me. Someone talks about a school dance, another is taking a selfie on a D.S. with a friend. God, they’re obnoxious. A group of boys stand in a circle, their dialogue limited to TikTok references. We would’ve side–eyed each other if she had been there. We’d laugh at them, then make our own, more sophisticated references.
There are a lot of couples around me, slow dancing to nothing. I have no choice but to watch them. I try to seek out the other loners in the crowd. But I won’t be the one to approach them. Do I want to be approached?
There’s someone beside me, and we eye each other carefully. One benefit of going to concerts alone is the prospect of making friends. It’s happened before, though our interaction never continued outside the venue. “Hi, I love your outfit!” “What’s your favorite song?” “Oh, what’s your name?” It’s nice. Besides the monthly large GBM, housewarmings, and Kelly Writers House barbecues, I have little opportunity to mingle, to meet Philadelphians my age. I stick with my three friends, and it works. I feel no need to expand my social circle, especially off campus.
I think about approaching her, the lone girl with the bangs holding a Coke next to me. But someone comes back to her, likely a friend or partner, and they start laughing. Maybe they didn’t know each other, and I just didn’t strike while the iron was hot. Probably not. I realized it was just me looking at her, unreciprocated, so I was just being creepy and lonely.
Usually, I’d try to push to the front. (Okay, we all do it.) But I don’t feel the need to have a good view this time. I’m behind a guy, over six feet tall, tall enough to block my view. He has a backward 76ers hat on.
A video game–sounding track starts playing, and the lights go down, only a wash of blue hitting the floor of the stage.
“Who wants to go to the Four Seasons,” I hear the teen guys next to me. Another group of friends in baggy pants and even baggier shirts mimics the sound of discordant sliding on an electric guitar.
I feel weird even just cheering. I often opt for the half–howl with my friends. It’s fun to be obnoxious with them.
With her, I would dance. We’d joke that I took her concert virginity. After her first concert, we sought out more shows together. We were designated concert buddies. We’d go to the virtually unknown Free at Noon shows at World Cafe Live. Surrounded by 50–somethings, we’d dance, jumping up and down, being the spirited two that everyone was envious, or annoyed, of. We’d laugh at the balding men who would say, "I saw you guys dancing, keep it up."
A band like Panchiko is a perfect concert to go alone to. Everyone’s kind of swaying, not many are singing, because no one listens for the lyrics. Shoegaze and its contemporaries are known for its wall of sound—its fuzziness, its slowness, its introspectiveness.
Lead vocalist and guitarist Owain Davies sings between three mics, two of which distort his voice.
I introduced her to Panchiko. She sent me a TikTok over the summer about listening to bands with weird names. “This is so you,” she said. When a Hinge match asked what niche bands she listens to, she said Panchiko. My fondness for the lost wave was rubbing off on her.
The band members are all wearing hats, which cast shadows over their eyes. They’re backlit, switching orange to blue lights hitting from behind. Engulfed by fog, it looks like they’re floating. It adds to their anonymity—the band that was unknowable, themselves not even knowing the impact of their music. It makes me feel less lonely. Since the lights aren’t in their eyes, I presume they can see us well. That makes me feel vulnerable. Can they see me, in the crowd?
Without the tether of a person that I need to tell where I’m going, I drift around. I never do that at concerts. Once you leave to go to the merch line or bathroom, it’s a guaranteed awkward and difficult game of forceful, half–apologetic pushing to get back to your friends.
A drunken heart–to–heart would ensue when I’d see her at a party I didn’t know she was going to be at. “I miss you so much!” “Let’s go to concerts together!” “I wanna dance with you!” I revere friendships more than any other relationship. A friendship is a promise—without the pressure of commitment. I want to hang out with you, I treasure our time together. We have no reason to make time for each other, but we do. A friendship is forever.
I guess that’s why it hurts even more, when friendships fizzle out. There’s no big fight, but suddenly we see each other less. I feel like I’m always the one holding onto the threads of something that has already unraveled.
I leave my imperfect view from behind the 76ers cap, and head to the side platform. I’ve committed to not being in the band’s eyeline. I palm my way to a wall in the dark, then slide down. There’s a lot of physical contact at concerts. Wanted, unwanted. I’m pressed against a friend I love on one side, touching an unknown body part of an unfamiliar person on the other. There isn't anyone sitting beside me, so I watch others, interlocked.
Someone makes a Hawk Tuah joke. Everyone boos, including me. It’s the first time my vocal chords are used the entire night. “Spit on that thang?” one of the band members repeats, earnestly. We laugh together.
I don’t love it when bands play new songs at concerts. I go to listen and sing along to old favorites. But here, by myself, I have newfound comfort in no one knowing the song, everyone’s breaths bated together in anticipation. Will we like it or not? They play a few songs from the new album, we all experience it together.
I feel someone plop down next to me.
“Are you okay?” someone asks me. I turn my head to a bearded man. I understand what’s about to ensue, and I don’t run. I open myself up to the experiment.
He’s anywhere from 20 to 30. His full beard is throwing me off. He has a vape in hand and a Hurley baseball cap on.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just sitting.” I’m not the same 17–year–old girl that would line up five hours before doors opened to get barricade, the one that memorized setlists three weeks in advance. My legs ache after ten minutes. Usually, I’m able to lean against friends.
Everyone laments the end of meet–cutes, the days when you could meet a romantic interest or a friend at a concert. But wrong concert, dude. I can’t hear anything he’s saying. I tell him that, and he apologizes.
“I have a speech impediment.”
“NO!” I exclaim, “I’m sorry. I just can’t hear because of the music.”
He pulls out his phone, and goes to Snapchat. (Okay what 30–year–old has Snapchat.) He takes a picture of nothing, then starts typing. We pass the phone back and forth. I have nothing better to do. He’s in Philly for a week, for work training. He’s an aircraft mechanic. He asks if I’m a sophomore (a sophomore in what? I say no, then he fist bumps me). He asks if I like the mountains or the beach better.
“Softer, her laughter,” Panchiko sings.
Fuck. “Stabilisers For Big Boys” starts playing. I was going to film this one, but he’s here, and she’s not.
“Do you want to hang out later this week? Before I leave?” I think of the excuses that I can. I don’t want to hang out with this guy, someone I don’t know. I already have such limited time to hang out with my friends. The time I don’t allot to them should be for forging back friendships that are escaping me. I don’t need to meet anyone new.
Between our weird back and forth, he yells out to the band: “Put those hands to work!” To which his friend, who’s been next to him this entire time, laughs. “You’ll get ‘em next time,” he’s reassured. I envy those who can heckle at concerts.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to keep bothering you,” he says. He’s about to leave early with his friend. They’re going to get dinner, and he asks if I want to join.
"I should get back to my friends," I type back. "They’re probably wondering where I am," I lie. He asks for my information. I give him my Instagram, just so I can stalk him later.
He leaves.
“Do you feel my worth?” The song ends. Hearing songs live changes them for me. A song I always used to skip can make its way into my regular rotation after a concert. A lot of Panchiko’s songs are from the perspective of an adolescent boy, singing about the manic pixie dream girl who entered and then left his life after a month or so. “She” transforms before me.
The bearded man comes back once more and says something. I can’t hear him, so I stand up, which he takes as a sign. He goes in for a hug. I stand stunned, before patting him twice on the back. He shakes my hand. “Thank you for your time.” Then he hugs me again.
The concert’s almost over. I stay standing.
They sing “D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L,” the crowned jewel of their discography. I’m transported to the pandemic when I first heard this song on the floor of my high school bedroom.
“Cause you’re holding onto someone who’s special,” I sing along.
The person in front of me didn’t hit record and is holding his phone up, filming nothing. I feel bad, but not enough to interrupt the song.
“Let it go,” Owain repeats. He’s belting on stage, much more forceful than the melancholy bridge of the recording. “Let it go.”
