Claiming victory over stage fright gave me the confidence to experience some of my life’s greatest moments with strangers.
By: Theo Franz
October 22, 2023
My interest in music is not private. I have public playlists; I sing while I shower; I blast songs with the windows down. I am constantly reminding the world of what I listen to.
Yet I prefer to go to concerts alone.
Maybe you think that’s weird, maybe you understand, but oddly enough, it’s what I wanted. I have found it to be the best way to build a community of music for myself and I had to work to make it happen.
The practice of attending concerts alone was born from my own performance anxiety. From eighth grade until my freshman year of college, I had intense stage fright. Being left alone in front of crowds felt like a nightmare.
My vision would blur and breathing became voluntary; I couldn’t tell if there was too much air in my lungs or not enough. I would overthink everything that I said, yet the most anxious thing to say was the next.
“Ten toes on the floor,” I would tell myself.
It was a supposed trick an old English teacher taught me to stay grounded while I spoke, but I continued to violently sway side to side. The only thing that would offer me enough light to escape the nightmare was another body next to me to take the blows from the eyes in the crowd.
I took a semester of public speaking class and, after hours of practicing in front of my reflection, I began to punch back. Months later, I had my first experience with my born-again confidence at the Fillmore Minneapolis.
The gates opened to an EarthGang concert at 7 p.m. I arrived at 6 p.m.
There were around 20 people in front of me. They were strangers, and I was alone. The anxiety started to breathe down my neck, but I kept my head high, my toes on the ground and reminded myself that we all had something in common. I patiently stood in silence, waiting to enter the venue until I heard someone behind me.
“Hey, I like your shirt,” the person said.
I looked down to remind myself of the shirt I was wearing. It was merchandise from Freddie Gibbs’s album Bandana.
We had two things in common.
“Thanks,” I replied.
The person introduced himself as Brownson Arebojie. He, along with his girlfriend, shared their love for live music. He told stories of the rap scene in the 90s, the chokehold 50 Cent had on radio stations throughout the 2000s, and the upcoming artists of today. Any sense of worry washed away the more we talked. I began to wish for the gates to stay closed.
It would be nearly a year later until the next time I attended a concert alone. I visited Bauhaus Brewery to see Shakey Graves, an artist who performs folk music, a genre of music that had recently grown on me.
The gates opened at 6 p.m. I arrived at 5 p.m.
I walked through, found an empty table and sat down. I refused to go on my phone so that I could take in my surroundings, watching people who were in line behind me enter the venue and join another line for drinks.
Good things come to those who wait, I guess.
As I enjoyed the scene of the environment growing, spots to sit became scarce. People would glance over at me, then at any other option to sit without a stranger, find one and take a seat.
It was not until a group of four 50-year-old women walked up and asked, “Is anyone sitting here?”
“Nope,” I replied.
They each sat down and introduced themselves. Two were sisters and the other two were their good friends. I opened the conversational floor up by asking who were their top three favorite artists. I can only remember five of their answers: Boston, Kendrick Lamar, John Denver, ABBA and Prince. I got through mentioning one artist, Joni Mitchell, before I was lauded with comments of “You listen to Joni Mitchell?” followed by “You know about Joni Mitchell?”
I was exchanging music tastes with adults twice my age and had similar interests. This is what I wanted. This is what I worked for.
I was experiencing moments with complete strangers, hearing stories from other lives and realizing that those other faces in the crowd share a lot more with me than knowing the next lyric.
Would I enjoy the show just as much if a friend was by my side? Maybe. But attaching yourself to someone comes with risks. The person may not like the artist as much as you or may want to leave a little early. Going solo means I can easily spend the entire night at that venue. My connection with music, and with whom I meet, isn’t tied to anyone else.
There may be a time down the road when I will share these moments with someone special, night after night. But for now, this is how I am living out my personal connection with music and the community around it. By opening the door for others, I’m gaining more insight into one more member of the fanbase: me.
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