I spent many nights in my childhood bedroom staring at the ceiling with headphones pumping music into my ears. I was a voracious listener. I needed to hear everything to prove how much music meant to me. Any free time was spent thumbing through my mom's garish blue CD holder.
My mom fostered my love of music from the beginning when she decided to raise me on '80s hair bands and hip-hop. Every summer car ride was a concert. We would pop in one of her many CDs and perform "Rappers Delight" by Sugarhill Gang (yes, all 14 minutes of it) on nearly every road trip and blast Guns N' Roses with the windows down, letting in the warm summer air as we belted "Paradise City" and "Sweet Child O' Mine."
She'd often recall her first concert, Def Leppard and Quiet Riot in 1983, with a tender smile on her face and eyes aglow with nostalgia.
When she took me to my first concert at the Knitting Factory (back when it was the Big Easy), I was 9 years old. I stared up at my current favorite musical artists, Aly & AJ and The Jonas Brothers, and that was it for me — I was hooked on live music.
Every year once school was out, we went to concerts whenever we could. When we traveled to California, Texas and Florida, all of it was centered around a favorite artist's performance.
Once I was able to make my own money and drive wherever I desired, I couldn't be stopped. Since then, summers in adulthood have been filled with weeknight concerts, traveling cross-state for those pesky bands that only stop in Seattle, flying across the county for those pesky bands that only stop on the East Coast (and lots of foam earplugs).
Of course I attend concerts throughout the entire year, but summer concerts are unmatched in energy and vibes. There's nothing quite like the car ride to the venue with the AC blasting while listening to the opener's songs, cramming their lyrics an hour before showtime. Or waiting in line for hours in the July heat to ensure my spot in the front row. The buzz of anticipation when my hand finally grips the barricade. Making friends out of strangers while waiting for the show to start. This is what summer is all about.
My summers spent standing on melting asphalt at the Gorge and crammed in tiny local bars on a weeknight are the ones I'll look back on with the same tender smile my mom bears when recalling her 1980s summer concert escapades. I may regret the sunburns, but I won't regret the memories any time soon. ♦
