17 Forever: What Going To Gigs Has Taught Me About Life

I remember my dad dropped me off about three hours early, because that’s what you did. My best friend and I had woken up early to bag the tickets months before (if only viagogo had been there to save this exhaustion and stress) and now we were up early again, picking outfits for the show. When I was 17, this became the routine as the world of live music was revealed to me like a wonderland and I wanted to dance at the front of every little adventure.

It never really mattered what the music was. I was just as excited and screamed just as loud at a battle of the bands in a community hall as when I was at a big show in my closest city. As I queued up outside any local venue I could get into, about to enter shows that could come to define my teenhood and give me enduring tracks in the soundtrack of my life, I’d talk to the other girls that were there early, too. I’d turn them into friends through a smile as we held onto cold metal barriers at the front, and then offer to take the photo later as we queued again, outside the stage door to meet the music makers. In thinking about it, the majority of my closest friends were born out of music, either forged in these cold lines or made even stronger by a mutual artist or a great night at a great show.

I thought about 17 a lot when I hit 23. I don’t remember when it all changed but if my teen self lives on in my brain as a dancing thing, 23 was still. After graduation, I moved between cities trying to figure it out before landing in London. The musical history of the place felt so exciting. You can feel it in the streets as Soho sings Britpop, Brixton sings songs of glam rock legends and every small pub and venue sings the potential of whatever new artist could be next. But without the friends I’d previously made through my love of music, the prospect of heading out to hear it felt lonely.

I’d still buy tickets to shows but I watched them from the back, stuck stagnant to a boyfriend who wouldn’t dance or would leave me to stand all alone and sing along quietly while he went to the bar as my idols played their biggest hits. The young me inside wanted to scream and jump, but I settled for a toe tap or a little head nod. I remembered a study, commissioned by viagogo, which said that 58% of women would prefer to take a friend over a partner to their dream gig. I wasn’t surprised.

I felt shy and awkward of myself in a space that had always made me feel vibrant and even beautiful before. I always felt at my best when the lights went down and I let my voice raise in a collective cheer and body sway in whatever way it wanted, dropping all critique or worry about my teen self for an hour or so of utter freedom. But at 23, without someone to dance with, the voice in my head felt louder than the sound system.

In moments when your life changes, you rarely notice it. When something big happens to shake things up, it never felts monumental, it usually just feels horrible or scary or sad. As the boyfriend left when I was 24 and heartbreak took hold, I never clocked that my life was opening up to new opportunities — I just felt lonelier. I thought this was a heartbreak story, not realising it was one of new loves and old loves coming to life again. It was that loneliness that made me reach out as I had two tickets to a show and no one to go with. I had easily resold spare tickets before on viagogo, but this time it felt a bit different — like a final nail in the coffin of my enthusiasm if I let this night go.

I dropped a desperate message to a new work acquaintance who was new to London too. She replied with enthusiasm and I didn’t register that the quick text engage might have made everything brighter. Incidentally, it was the spring time and the hibernation began to end the second she said, “Should we try and push more to the front?”

In the summer, we went to a festival that I like to joke changed my life. There’s a video sitting on my phone that I rewatch all the time, captured on my new friend’s camcorder as we attempted to document the weekend. I see myself in the corner, tossing my hair back and forth before turning to her, “I love this song so much!” Her isolated voice from behind the camera calls back, “Let’s go in,” and I remember us clutching hands and pushing our way forward. By this point, the video is just muffled darkness as we weave through the bodies heading for the front. And then there’s the bright beams of a pink spotlight for a few seconds before the clip becomes a dizzying mess of camera work utterly compromised for the sake of fun.

All you hear is the band, and her singing along and me laughing. When the song ends, we scream so loud that the microphone gives in. By the time we left the tent, I could’ve sworn I was 17 again and have been since.

The recipe that made me friends as a teenager, through sharing songs or going to shows, is still golden. After opening myself up to life again, not only did a love of live music come back but all the friendship and fun and confidence those spaces are built to bring you. Catching my breath in that festival tent, I think I remembered the point of it all. Live music is made for fun. I found it in those venues as a teenager and it still lives there.

So I made more friends, went to new venues and found new bands on spontaneous nights. Now when a someone texts me a viagogo link and says simply, “Fancy this?”, the answer is always yes. When we bag last-minute resale tickets to tours we thought we’d missed, we celebrate like kids. When the lights go down and the music comes up, you’ll find me at the front, dancing.

Visit viagogo to buy or sell tickets, and make your own live music memories.