The Great Gig.

A Story by Nelly the Kid

This is about a kid who goes to the concert of his life. I've tried to render the adolescent musical experience the best I could.

Pulling on my shoes, I look at my reflection once again in the bathroom mirror. My cleanest-looking brand new checkered shirt, some jeans and plain sneakers. I look good enough, and ordinary enough at the same time. I don't want to give the impression that I already think I'm the s**t. I comb my wet hair and head into the loft I've made into my room.

My moist hands are starting to shiver, I sweep up the concert ticket off my desk. It's floppy around the edges because of all the times I've toyed with it, held it between my fingers and just imagined all the hundreds of possible outcomes of this night - the impossible ones as well.

'Tonight's the night', I say to myself.

While I jog down the stairs, my parent's house feels different, almost stranger-like, like a kindergarten friend you see at a party. I step out of it and jam my hands into my pockets; partly because of the biting cold and partly to stop them from shaking. Streetlights illuminate the wet pavement and color it in a dirty shade of orange. It's completely silent in the outskirts of town. It's only seven, but my footsteps echo acutely on the ground and into the darkness.

The car's door handle is freezing cold - and inside it's even colder. The motor rumbles as I start it and make my way out the lane. Turning on the radio, I expect to be relieved as Turner's voice fills the air, but it's just making me edgier, and my jittery nerves press me to click the button back again. The radio turns off.

My spine eases back against the seat and I think back to the first time I'd heard them. I believe I was in the ninth grade at the time. The drum'd kicked me in the gut, and I'd sat down on my bed not quite believing what the hell I was hearing. It was sensational, it was monstrous, it was... Indescribable. Metallic cymbals meshed with raw chords, that furious rhythm and the leading voice that seemed to grasp exactly what I hadn't known I was feeling. I'd sat there, flabbergasted, and went through the first album; and when the electricity crawling up my legs began to feel like more than I could handle, I'd ran down the stairs, then back up again, then down to the kitchen, I made me a sandwich, ate it tapping my foot, looked around, absurdly opened a window. The moon was crudely bright outside. It was a musical revelation. I started playing bass two days later.

The red light turns green and jolt me back to the present. My anticipation grows as the tires roll soundlessly into the city; Denver seems to stretch out and tighten, reducing the skyline to a square above my head, and I fervently pray I'm not setting myself up for disappointment.

'Hey, watch out, you jackass!'

Chatter and drunken conversations get louder as I round the corner to Ogden Theatre. Fleetingly, I wish I'd brought a friend along, then quickly dismiss the idea. This is a private enterprise. And I don't want everybody to know if I failed.

I park the car and join the fans snaking towards the entrance. People are talking louder than usual; I light a f*g and let the bitter smell comfort me. Inch by inch, yard by yard we are entering the theatre. A brown-haired girl is standing next to me in a raincoat that looks like it belongs to her dad, she's waiting for a friend apparently. I start a conversation and after a few minutes we're standing next to each other in the pit. I buy her a beer with my fake ID, we keep talking excitedly, the alcohol somehow transforms our nerves into something more glorious, something like expectancy.

Finally, the lights start to dim. Guitars slung across their shoulders, they step on stage. Helders sits at the drums, Turner makes his way to the mike, and the pandemonium commences. What feels like hours of glorious edges and mad sounds follows; my chants fuse with those of the nameless, black and blue crowd, it's fast and it's slow and it's sensational and I wonder how much longer they're gonna be, and suddenly they're saying goodbye. And suddenly they're gone. Surprised, I take the girl's number (good or bad omen, I don't know) and start heading where I know will be backstage. The blueprint of Ogden Theatre is carved into my brain and my footsteps are automatic as I approach the goal; my body nonetheless rebels, blood pounding numbly into my ears, legs shaking as if to force me to turn back. In my head, I rehearse the sentence I will pronounce at what could be a crucial instant of my life.

“I'm a huge fan of yours.”